#(yes its as annoying and painful as you might think)

[mikhaelwrites]

Dog-sitting Duty | Thunderbolts x Superman 2025 headcanons

Might be some spoilers for Superman 2025! I don't mention any plot stuff but I can't remember how much Krypto was talked about / shown in the trailer or teasers. i dont think any major spoilers. but definitely spoilers for thunderbolts*. obviously.

For some reason or another, Thunderbolts have to watch Krypto

Is this a good idea? No, not at all. But Krypto is basically indestructible so at least they can't kill him--the same can't be said for the Thunderbolts themselves of course

Alexei is actually the one that volunteers them to watch Krypto. he has no interest in actually taking care of the dog, he just thinks Krypto is adorable and he's fun to wrestle with.

he gets his ass kicked repeatedly by the dog and, even though sometimes it takes him a while to get back up, when he does he swears this will be the time he wins (spoiler: nope)

(and maybe, secretly. he offers the Thunderbolts up for babysitting duty because he's honored. honored that someone such as Superman would recognize them. that he, a washed up russian super soldier, was somehow on Superman's radar. even for just a second. maybe it makes him feel important, noticed, appreciated. Superman's thank you so earnest and true it felt like a touch from heaven)

Walker hates all of this, annoyed and scoffing, "Well, don't expect me to help take care of him."

yeah. well. yk that meme where someone brings home a cat or a dog and the dad is like, im not taking care of it >:( and then proceeds to fall in love with the animal and do literally everything in their power to take care of it?

John proceeds to set out water bowls, leaves all the doors open so Krypto can wander, makes Krypto some quality dog food, puts on the TV so Krypto isn't bored during downtime, uses his shield as a frisbee for Krypto to catch (he has to make a new one anyways, might as well find some use for it, right?)

John won't say it out loud--but this is the first time in a long time he's been able to take care of something, and he's trying to prove something to himself.

out in the desert, he told Ava and Yelena that the key to a happy family was to "keep going at it, every day" and he was right about that, even if he'd actually failed to do it

he isn't ready to get back to his family, to be the father his kid needs. he isn't there yet. he isn't ready to keep going at it every day.

but maybe… maybe if he can take care of one stupid dog, just for a few days, then maybe he can prove to himself that he can do it

Ava does not like the dog. He's too loud, too overstimulating, too violent, poorly trained.

She avoids the dog at all costs

Until one day, exhausted and in pain, she falls asleep with her door open.

When she wakes up, she feels… warm. And the pain isn't gone but its certainly not as terrible as she was expecting

she opens her eyes and there he is, Krypto. wagging his tail as he lays across her chest.

"hi" she says, bringing her hand hesitantly up to scratch at his ears. she's worried that the wrong move will send Krypto bounding around the room, using her chest as a fucked up trampoline.

instead, he just licks at her arm and then plops his head right back down and lays there.

she's still in pain, that wont change, but Krypto's warmth, his weight, makes the sharp edges of that pain dull.

Yelena is… neutral about Krypto. he's sweet. adorable, really. poorly trained, sure, but aren't they all?

she simply doesn't know what to do with him whenever he pops up

she'll chat with him, as she passes by, or whenever he comes into wherever she is

it starts simply, really. just a few passing comments, "hello Krypto," or "is that a yummy shoe, dog?" or simple reactionary comments, "i know, how boring is that?" "i dont like it either, Krypto"

then she ends up alone with Krypto a lot more than she meant to, and those comments turn into conversation

"i dont see the appeal in Sitcoms, this might just be a me thing" "yes, exactly, Krypto. they're all very childish"

simple, silly things at first.

then.

"i had a dog once," she strokes from the top of his head to the end of his back. scratching at the point where his tail starts, "she didnt live for very long. she wasnt supposed to. she wasn't really mine, she was theirs. she didn't have a name, besides a number. i called her [insert russian dog name]. she's dead now"

evolving into,

Yelena tries to keep the watery tone out of her voice, "i've killed a lot of people, i've caused a lot of pain. so much. how--my dad wants me to forgive myself, how am i meant to do that if i can't even? say it? say their names? describe their faces? say how they died, how i killed them?"

Krypto turns into her way of confession. a way to look into the eyes of something living, something breathing, and tell them what exactly she has done

there will always be a weight on her chest, always a fine layer of guilt and regret and shame, but something unravels, uncoils itself from her chest as she tells stories upon stories of her deeds.

its not perfect. but it works. and thats what matters

Bucky didn't wanna deal with this dog from the start. he prefers the calmness that comes with his cat, Alpine. dogs were never really his thing

so, he ignores Krypto completely. avoids rooms that he's in, ignores the nudging of a wet nose against his hand as he walks by, doesn't blink when Krypto yelps and barks and woofs for attention

Krypto must take offense because, as soon as he possibly can, he snatches Bucky's metal arm

thankfully, no one else is around to see what happens next

"god damnit stupid fucking dog" he pants as he runs around the tower chasing after Krypto, "why did i ever let you in? shoulda fucken told Alexei to watch you somewhere other than here if he wanted you so damn badly"

eventually, he gets the arm back

but it keeps happening

not just the arm, either. anything. anything bucky's holding or using or messing around with. Kyrpto will snatch it up and run away, leaving Bucky to chase after the unruly thing

Bucky hates to admit it, but at some point, he stops being annoyed and starts feeling… fulfilled.

when he became Congressman, he did it because he wanted to do some good. but it left him feeling… antsy. unused. washed up.

everyone kept telling him that he was finally free, that he could settle down, that he never had to see another day of combat in his life. Bucky would always be grateful to be free, to no longer be forced to harm people, made into someone--something--else.

but dear god, did he miss it. he was trained to do so much. he was capable of so much and he didn't want to stop now. Bucky didn't want to stop moving, didn't want to settle down.

he spent too much time as the Winter Soldier, using his trained skills for evil. but now he wanted to use it for something good--or, even… just something simple. something useless. something silly. something just for himself. something with no stakes.

like chasing a superpowered dog around.

he did want to settle down, some. he wanted to help, he wanted to use his abilities, these bloodied hands, for something good. but most of all he wanted to reckon with everything he'd become, allow Winter Soldier and Bucky Barnes to become one. for so long there had been a dissonance, the Winter Soldier a towering shadow at his back.

now, as he scaled walks and leaped from spot to stop, he felt as though he was finally whole again. the constant itching under his skin, the shadow on his back, the weight of guilt on his shoulders, gone

maybe Krypto wasn't all that bad.

Bob and Krypto are immediately best friends as soon as Krypto realizes that Bob is just as indestructible as his owner is

literally the exact scene of Supergirl getting slammed into the ground repeatedly by Krypto but Bob is COMPLETELY sober

pets are good for mental health so Krypto actually helps quite a lot to support Bob---so much so that Superman offers to drop Krypto off every once and a while for Krypto and Bob to hang out (in one part because he always wants to help, the other part being that he's just happy to get this insane dog out of his hands)

the team, though they love Krypto, immediately go "NO" and then, "We'll bring Bob to you…….. (please god do not leave us with this dog again)"

teeny bit of sentryagent because im a whore for this pairing

bob insisting on spoiling the dog with whatever food/treats John has made for Krypto and John going, "no, the dogs already poorly trained enough as it is." and bob just :( and John folds Immediately

john, despite how wild and unruly Krypto is, always takes a sort of gentle tone with the dog whenever he thinks no one is watching. this dog could probably break him in half but john treats Krypto, almost… like a baby. bob definitely does NOT feel some type of way about that… not at all…

very silly but imagine. accidental flying lessons. bob latches onto krypto as he starts flying around, and krypto escapes the tower. john proceeds to be the only one able to keep up with them (via using his super serum strength to hop buildings) as Krypto and Bob fly around the city

maybe…. bob is still getting a grasp on his powers atp but then, out of the corner of his eye, he sees john slip and plummet towards the ground. out of instinct, almost, he's there. holding john midair, "woah! okay! maybe we stay on solid ground from now on, okay, big guy?"

john does not swoon. definitely not. (insert him screaming into his pillow later that night and giggling and kicking his feet)

[crunchyapple33]

i wish there were more stories about peoples realities or fun little posts like "what i eat in a day in my . . . italian reality" (IDK) like YESSS we know how to shift . everybody stop asking How it's been in us all along . can we have fun now

like it feels like we're all in class taking a test . im finished with my test and am waiting for everyone else to be so we can chat and have fun but EVERYONES STILL ANSWERING QUESTIONSSSS

this post was inspired by a post i saw that says like "stop scrolling ur overconsuming info u already know how to shift" like . i Want to keep scrolling :( i want to know about everyones realities

[nuggetpool-hi]

Thank you, old men, for making a 5 hour wait possible

ANYWAY got some of the headcanons I have for em in there BUT some extra ones areee

- They're living in the woods! In a lil cabin, Wade still works as a merc for fun and Logan works with wood for fun but they dont really need much money anymore. They living a nice simple life yes!

- Laura, Mary and Al do live with em but I never draw them and might not ever so there's that

- I like to imagine Logan gained weight because he's happier and more comfortable BUT ALSO BECAUSE!! his metal skeleton requires extra fat and muscle for support!! So a lot of his joint pain has been eased bc he's got more strength to hold it

- Logan's got that autistic rizz, also PTSD obv BUT its getting easier with therapy ☝️

- Wade OH Wade.. ADHD, schizophrenia, PTSD, probably bipolar?? Not even god knows whats happening in that head

- Wade is very much afraid of water bc torture so he uses lil clean wipes or wet towels to clean himself up ☝️ (Logan helps him sometimes)

- Logan ADORES looong hot showers since in the military he never had all that much time to bathe nice. Wade watches sometimes because he worries...

- Logan is like a furnace and Wade's a lil icecube so they regulate each other's temperature

- Logan is in fact feral sometimes and enjoys hunting for them meals

- Their love language isn't as violent anymore, Logan's much calmer and Wade still likes to annoy him but not to provoke him to attack

- Logan can't really break the 4th wall but since seems so vital to Wade he chooses to pretend its real and sometimes it makes him a bit paranoid but he ain't telling

- Wade gets called hairball as a name (bc of the time Logan threw him up)

- Wade loves cooking but can't always eat, Logan loves watching him and eating whatever he makes yuhh (also getting the ingredients)

I'll add more if I think of anything augh

[just-some-random-blogger]

Tormented Spirit | 9

Part 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10

"Is it such a sin to stand up for yourself?" you mutter as tears blur your vision. The way he reacted was visceral, instinctive even. "You never have to stand up for yourself ever again," says Daemon, reaching a hand to you, "come."

Daemon Targaryen x Hightower!Reader | 4k+ | cw: fem!reader, reader has brown hair, wife!reader, twin!Gwayne, arranged/forced marriage, canon divergence, alternate universe, slow burn, DD:DNE, panic/anxiety attacks, daddy issues/child abuse/family problems, mentions/depictions of mental/physical/psychosomatic illness, ye old misogyny, angst, typos, etc.

A/N: GUYS ITS STILL TOO FUCKING LONG I HAD TO CUT IT AGAIN. T_T canon stuff/medieval health care might not be accurate so ROLLLL with it ok. please consider leaving comments/reblogs because they really help me with the fic. | cross posted on ao3

@arabellasleopardcoat @prettybiching @myllovellybones

Daemon takes you to the dining room, and upon entering, you are met with Rhaenyra and Alicent, who were in the middle of eating lunch. For a split second, you are happy to see them both, but then you remember the horrible news regarding the princess's mother.

Daemon is taken off-guard by how you pull away from him. He knits his brows, following after you as you head towards his niece, deeply annoyed by how easily you disregard him. But upon hearing the words you speak, he freezes.

"My deepest condolences, my princess," you curtsy at Rhaenyra before placing a hand on her shoulder.

She is dejected and her eyes are sullen as she turns to you.

"She was in active labor last I saw her..." you shake your head, finding the words to say, "it is terrible to be without a mother," you turn to your sister, placing a hand on her shoulder as well, "the pain never quite leaves you. My sister and I know it well."

Rhaenyra turns back to her food, "how good to know."

You frown and crouch down beside her, "darling."

Rhaenyra slowly turns back to you, tears now falling from her eyes.

"Pain is difficult... but I've come to realize," you swipe her cheek, "it makes peace all the more precious." You chuckle under your breath when your own eyes begin to water, "I would know."

Alicent frowns, quickly feeling her own eyes well up at the display.

The same happens to Daemon. He watches three girls weep and his face hardens as he comes to Rhaenyra's side, "bisa tolī kessa rēbagon, ñuha riña." This too shall pass, my girl.

Rhaenyra turns to her uncle as he grabs her hand, heavy tears stream down her face, "ziry ōdragon." It hurts.

Daemon is supposed to say something, but then he notices Alicent begin to fuss over you. You softly brush her off as you come to stand. Alicent is quick to stand with you, and she is glad to have done so, because you nearly topple back.

Rhaenyra's hand is quickly dropped when Daemon comes to your side, calling out your name. You sheepishly turn to him, apologizing over and back as he escorts you to a seat.

Rhaenyra stares at you as her uncle sits you in the chair across her She watches how Daemon treats you, thinking she's never seen him treat anyone like this before, much less a lady. It makes her sorrow all the more sour.

He brushes your back but only calms after your food is served and he's seen you eat a few bites. He takes a goblet of wine but his eyes remain fixed on you, "better?"

You turn to him, sheepish, still, "I am. Thank you, darling."

Alicent's eyes widen at the sound of the pet name. Rhaenyra rolls her eyes with a huff. It is precisely that sound that makes you realize what you've said. You were used to referring to Alicent and Rhaenyra that, it came so naturally this moment, "I- I mean-"

"Where is your father?" Daemon turns to Rhaenyra, seemingly not noticing your slip up. He did notice, but why wouldn't you call him darling?

Rhaenyra clenches her jaw as she shakes her head, "mourning his lost heir."

Both you and your husband's face fall. You turn from the princess to the prince, reaching for his hand. Daemon clutches your hand as his brows constrict, "your brother is dead?"

"Just last night," Rhaenyra absentmindedly stirs her food, "his and my mother's funereal will be held in a few hours."

Your heart hurts for her, "my deepest sympathies for your losses, princess."

There is a thick silence for a moment. You all find it quite hard to eat, but you do so regardless. You force feed yourself through the unpleasant churn in your belly. After a while, you look across the room, finding that it looked everyone was experiencing the same thing. You break the silence, turning to your sister, "perhaps Alicent can accompany you to the temple to pray. It did always help me."

Alicent turns to Rhaenyra, but she does not react.

Your sister looks back at you and you give her a nod of encouragment. Alicent thinks for a moment, "a walk there would be good for you as well."

You smile at the red haired girl.

"My prayers are terrible," Rhaenyra mumbles.

You huff and frown at the thought, "it is impossible. No prayer is terrible, especially not one spoken in earnest."

Rhaenyra remembers how her septa would use you as an example for praying. She sniffles, "would you join us, aunt?"

You perk and immediately nod, "I would love t-"

"No," Daemon quips, placing his silverware down, "I do not want to be subjected to tolling bells and incense."

You all turn to him as Daemon turns to you. You slowly shake your head, "if... that is the case, you do not have to come."

Daemon's eyes widen ever so slightly in offense.

"Perhaps you can wa-"

"Kesan daor mītepagon ao ñuha ābrazȳrys," I will not lend you my wife, says Daemon to Rhaenyra.

You turn from your husband to his niece. Rhaenyra looks back at you, "he says he will not lend you to me."

Your lips part, giving him a look, "Daemon."

"She has your sister," he turns to you, "if they need another companion, lend her your ward."

A long silence passes.

Rhaenyra stares at her half-empty plate and decides that's as much as she'll ever get to eat in this moment. She pushes her chair back and stands, "I'm quite finished," she looks between the table. Alicent takes a final spoonful before standing as well.

"Raqagon aōha ābrazȳrys, kepa," enjoy your wife, uncle, Rhaenyra says as she walks off. Alicent follows after her, and both girls look at you as you stand to greet them goodbye. Daemon simply looks at his niece.

Rhaenyra, though she always harbored a special affection towards her uncle, could not find it in her to project her ire out on you, for you were nothing but kind to her, and after all, you were her closest friend's older sister. She nods at you as she leaves, "princess."

"Princess," you nod back and do the same for Alicent, "sister. Take care of each other."

Once they are gone, you sit back down and glare at Daemon.

It takes a moment for him to realize it. When he catches your look, his brows contort. You immediately quip, "would it very hard for you to stomach the ambience of the temple for an hour?"

Daemon turns back to his plate. He thinks of the night he came to you at the temple, "just because I came for you does not mean I wish to do the same for Rhaenyra."

You knit your brows deeply, not having a clue on what he's saying, "what?"

The image of sorrowful wailing still haunts him, and your prayer for death is not something he wishes to hear ever again. You cannot pray such prayers if you are not in that fucking place, "I forbid you from going to the temple."

"You forbid me?" you ask, flabbergasted.

"It is my prerogative where I go, and-" he turns back to you, "where my wife does."

You stare at him for a moment. You feel frustration bubble in your belly, "Daemon."

Anger bubbles in his belly.

You reach for his hand and gaze upon him in confusion, "the child's mother is dead."

He looks at your hand before his away, "I knew her mother longer than she has."

You chuckle in disbelief, pulling your head back. He looks at you, jaw set and eyes glassy. You shake your head slowly, "that's not fair."

"Isn't it?" Daemon laughs, hurt by your sentiment.

"Her mother is dead," you shake your head rapidly, "she who taught her everything she kno-"

Daemon stands abruptly, jaw and fists clenched tightly, making you flinch. He stares at you for a long moment and you feel your breath begin to grow heavy. You slowly reach for his hand, half expecting him to rip his arm away. When he does not, you come to a stand, "Dae-"

"You impress me with your commitment to understand everyone else but I."

His words stab you like a spear through the chest. Your eyes begin to water, "is that what you think I'm do-"

"Then what?!" he snaps, tears threatening to fall down his cheeks.

You begin to sob and you take his cheeks, "I'm trying to make you understand what I am thinking, why I want to go with Rhaenyra, because I know what it fee-"

"Do I not mourn?" Daemon swats your hand away from him. He quickly turns away when his tears begin to fall. He does not get to notice how you twitch at his action, nor how instantly your heart begins to race.

He walks off to the door, stopping for a moment, waiting for you to come after him. You do not.

More accurately, you cannot. You clutch your chest and try to calm yourself before you slip into a full blown attack. You force yourself to take five deep breaths, and thankfully, you do not feel light headed.

Daemon, too wrapped up in his self-suffering, does not even think to look at you and storms out of the dining room.

By the time the doors slam shut, you are able to bring yourself to go after your husband. You move as quickly as you can, convincing yourself sprinting was worth it if you managed to catch up to Daemon. The thing was, you were still a terrible runner, and it if wasn't hard enough to catch your breath, you were screaming out the prince's name as you did, making it doubly hard.

Daemon, on the other hand, did not have to try to walk as fast as he did. He is walking so fast, if anyone were to crash into him, they would shoot off and hurt themselves.

It doesn't take long for you to lose your breath, and though you didn't want to, your body to forces you to stop. You were so close. You managed to catch a whiff of Daemon's silver hair, but now everything was turning silver... then black. You reach to the side to lean against the wall, but you miscalculate your reach and shift your weight, only to slip and crash roughly onto the ground.

You're so out of breath, no sound comes out of you when you crash. The pain is immense, yet you are rendered mute. Your ribs throb at the impact of colliding against the stone floor. You do not know it, but your nose it bleeding too.

It's a wonder that you did not pass out. Or perhaps it was the gods' will for you to feel fibre of your body strangle itself from how your lungs struggled, as punishment for being unkind to your husband.

You do know know it, but two Gold Cloaks find you on the floor. They are quick to bring you to the maester's ward. You hear them explain to the measter how they found you, and you muster up your remaining energy to say, "Daemon... please."

The two Gold Cloaks understand and leave with the intent of sending your husband to you. They will not manage to find him till much later for he went off on dragonback.

You lie on one of the cots in the maester's ward, staring at the ceiling you've come to know all too well. You know your maester can do little to help you in this moment, but you are grateful for his care nonetheless.

"You mustn't strain yourself in your condition, your grace," the old man says, "you are carrying a child within you."

You tense at his words. Your sit up and straighten your back, rapidly shaking your head, "b-but, maester, how can that be? It cannot be."

He offers you a solemn look, "your father, Lord Hand, has made us monitor you-"

"He does not finish inside me," you quip and frantically motion, "he- he... he spills on my skin. How then can I be with child?"

The maester is taken aback by your confession. He does not give himself away though and calmly explains, "it is still possible for... the seed take root from premature ejaculation."

You are floored by this information. You shake your head in disagreement, "but— he will not believe me."

"He does not have to. It does not ch-"

"He will do everything to villainize me. He will accuse me of infidelity."

He frowns, "I can explain it to-"

"No!" you grab his arms, "you must not tell him! You must not tell a soul."

He pulls his head back, "your grace..." he brings your hands slowly off him, "you can only hide such a thing for so long."

You shake your head and bring yourself to stand, "it is a worry for another time."

"Wait- you cannot leave-"

"I cannot miss the queen's funeral."

The maester does his best to prevent you from leaving. He calmly tries to lead you back to bed and explain that no one would fault you for being unable to attend. You are persistent however and managed to get out of the room. Two other maesters come and try to reel you back in, and it is the same time your wards come running in.

News of you fainting had spread like wildfire, and both their faces were marked with avid worry. "Princess!" they call in unison.

"Make them release me!" you wail in exhaustion as you fight off the maesters.

"She cannot go," your maester says, "she is far too weak."

"Unhand her this instant!" Erryk barks, ready to forcefully shove the old men away from you.

The maesters pull away in shock and confusion as Erryk imposes upon them. Arryk is the one to keep you upright, and he is horrified by the state you are in. You lean into his armour, lulled by his hard steel as you sigh in exhaustion.

"You would subdue her in such a state?" Arryk snaps.

"She is hysterical," the maester says, "she is not strong enough to-"

"Aye, but she's strong enough to fight off 3 grown men?" Arryk grits his teeth as he keeps you upright, "have you not given her medication?"

He sighs, "there is no medication fo-"

"Then what business has she here?" Erryk raises his brows, "you'd keep her to rot?"

The man scoffs, "I am offended, ser, that you think you know better than I when it comes to the health of the princess."

"I do know better," Erryk snaps, "you will not treat her like a prisoner if she asks to leave again."

"Ha!" the maester snaps, "fine! I'm sure the days you've spent gutting men has made you learned in the ways to heal them, ser."

With that, the maesters leave and you feel a weight lifted off your shoulders. You sigh as Erryk turns to you, seeing the hardness of his face soften in real time. You frown, "you should not have done that."

"My duty?" he narrows his eyes, "they had you surrounded like a criminal."

Arryk nods, "I fear they might have bruised you."

You sigh, fighting back tears. You steel yourself away and shake your head, "I should prepare for the funeral."

You do just that and Erryk and Arryk escort you to the funeral. You immediately spot Daemon, but he was stood beside his brother and niece, so you did not think it proper to interlope. You find Alicent standing just a few paces from Rhaenyra and debate to join her, but then you see the Lord Hand farther behind her, and you feel the need to cry.

"Papa," you mumble to yourself as you go to him.

Your father is quick to recognize your distress once you come to him, and quickly takes you under his arm. It is so instinctive, the Cargyll twins are shocked by it. They were supposed to keep close watch on you, but they decided to give you and your father privacy.

Otto had long decided physical affections were no use to you, and yet in this moment, he pulls you into him, securing one arm your shoulders. You press your cheek into his chest as you steal a glance at the king. Viserys stands before two lifeless bodies, and the sight mirrored that of the day your mother died.

You wrap your arms around your father.

He sighs, eyes throwing daggers at the Rogue fucking prince, "did he take the news badly?"

You shake your head, "I have not told him."

Otto sighs again, agitated and disappointed. His face is crestfallen as calls out your name, "what happened then?"

"I am terrified."

Your father tenses and clenches his jaw. He strokes your hair, doing his best to ignore the awful sounds you were making. "The gods with strengthen you, daughter." he turns to Alicent, "I will take care of it, my girl."

After the funeral, once Otto made sure you are taken care off, he goes to his other daughter and asks about the princess. Alicent is quick to explain to him that Rhaenyra is so much like you when your mother died, "I have not seen Rhaenyra in such a state."

Otto offers Alicent a soft smile, placing a hand on her cheek, "you are ever empathetic, daughter, to both the princess and your sister."

"Sister did not look well at the funeral either. I should check up on her."

"That won't be necessary," her father raises a hand, "I've seen to her already. She needs only to rest now."

Alicent slowly nods.

"You ought to offer some empathy to the king however."

The girl tenses at the thought.

"Unlike your princesses, the king does not have people to go to at this time. Even now, he's secluded himself in his chambers. It would be good of you to go to him from time to time, if only to express how you keep him in your prayers."

Alicent tries to make sense of it. She clenches her jaw, "wouldn't it be more appropriate for you to do this, father?"

He chuckles lowly, "how much sadder would he be if a widower offer another widower his bitter prayers?"

She stills at the thought and understands. Or so she thinks.

Otto smiles and places a hand on her shoulder, "it might be best if you keep private your visits to him. You need not explain your concern to Rhaenyra to further distress her."

She nods in understanding. In truth, she does not understand the true intentions of her father, and will not until it is far too late.

As this was happening, you were trying to get ahold of Daemon. You could not for he was quick to leave the funeral right after it concluded. He had seen you crying to your father and wanted to wash his eyes with alcohol, unwanting to behold such a gruesome sight. It stung far too much that you sought comfort in that cunt face. Why didn't you cry to him instead?

Daemon washes alcohol down his throat instead with members of his City Watch at his favorite brothel. Mysaria is there to keep him company and though her touch and words are gentle, he cannot find solace in them like he once did.

The two guards who had found you on the floor earlier today hear about the gathering and go to the prince to tell him what had happened to you.

"Your grace."

Daemon sulks as he stares at a cup of wine. Mysaria, who was stood behind his chair, looks at the men then to the silver haired man, "my prince. These men want to speak to you."

"Wha-what for?" he snaps through a hiccup.

"Your wife, my prince," one says.

Mysaria stiffens, lips parting. She was not a stranger to Daemon's foul moods and prided herself in easily defusing them. It changed when he married the Hightower girl. Though it was evident most of his frustrations stemmed from you, you were too much of a touchy subject, which is why she says, "I do not think he wants to talk about her."

"A whore should not meddle with concerns she cannot understand."

Mysaria scoffs, thinking about how Daemon fucked her once and called out his bride's name. When she brought it up after, he screamed, telling her he doesn't pay her to ask questions. She steps back and crosses her arms, "be my guest then."

One of the two guards lean forward in an attempt to gain the attention of the distracted man, "prince Daemon. We wished to report something regarding your wife."

Daemon ticks. He had been gazing into space, but now he has the wits to pours himself a drink, "is she dead now too?"

The two are taken aback. Mysaria steps back a few paces.

"N-no, your grace. But she-"

"Then do not FUCKING mention her to me!" Daemon snaps, jolting from his seat. His scream was loud enough to cause the noise to cease. He grabs his cup and downs his drink in one go. He then pushes past the two guards and begins to monologue.

"The gods give as the gods take," he says, voice horse and eyes misty. "Try as they may, I am not so easily replaced."

The room is solemn as they look upon the prince. He is clearly distraught and wholly drunk.

He stares at his cup, "wine does not taste sweeter with tears. Tonight, we drink to the Heir For A Day..." he burps, "perhaps he would have liked wine."

Back in the keep, as Alicent leaves her father's quarters, you go to them, which is why you cross paths. She is concerned by how you lean into ser Cargyll's arm as you walk, and immediately comes to your side, "sister?"

"Alicent," you smile, immediately perking up.

"Lady Hightower," the knight greets her.

"It's ser Erryk," you playfully whisper with a smile.

Alicent turns to you and offershim as soft smile, "ser Erryk."

"You spoke to father, surely," you take her hand, making her look back at you, "is his mood grim?"

She shakes her head, "no. He is... relatively placid, I think."

"Good," you break away from Erryk. He assures you are firmly planted on your feet before releasing you, "I can talk to him then."

"Shouldn't you rather be resting?" she asks in concern.

"It is urgent. I-" you shake your head, "I cannot delay any further."

Alicent realizes then that your hair was fully undone and slightly messy now. You were also in your thick velvet robe, and it only causes her further concern. "I know I am not Gwayne, but if there is anything you wish to speak of," she squeezes your hands, "I am hear to lend an ear."

Your lips wobble, but you steel yourself away. You crush your sister into your arms and pepper her cheeks with kisses, "my sweet girl. I am five years your senior. I must lend you my ear." You pull away and cup her cheeks. You frown when you see her glassy eyes, "do not worry for me."

She chuckles rather sadly, "we help but worry always for those we love."

Erryk heart pinches at the solemn exchange of the two sisters. He is glad to know that at least one more person in your family loved you with gentleness. He makes mental note to encourage you to write to your brother.

When Alicent leaves, you take a breath before knocking on the Hand's door.

"Enter."

You walk in and find your father busy at his desk.

"Father."

Otto looks up at you, immediately coming to stand, "what's wrong?"

You close the door behind him, catching Erryk's encouraging gaze. He nods before you shut the door. You turn to you father, finding he was already walking towards you.

He takes your hand, inspecting you. He speaks your name carefully, and it softens your frigid demeanor, "what has happened?"

You smile sadly, "I cannot sleep."

He sighs, partially relieved it is nothing so severe. He walks towards the door, "I will have one of the maids send you warm milk and honey."

"There is something I must tell you," you say, making him stop.

He turns back you, antsy over your serious tone, "if it is regarding Daemon. Do not worry. I have designs to keep him on a leash."

You release his hand and turn to your feet.

His expression hardens. He knows whatever you have to say is grave because you can no longer look at him. He steps forward and takes your cheeks, "daughter."

You look up at him, face stained with tears.

"Go to bed," he wipes your cheeks, "you'll muster the nerve to tell your husband the news soon en-"

"He does not finish inside me, father."

"..."

"I've-" you choke on your breath, "I've spoken about it to the maesters and he's explained it is possible for the seed to take root from premature ejaculation but-"

"Have you strayed?" Otto tightens his hold a fraction.

You are aghast by his statement and rapidly shake your head, "father, I wou-"

"Then there is nothing to fear," he cuts you off, brows tensing, "your child will be born with silver hair and violet eyes, and-"

"Only I inherited your hair color," you mumble, beginning to tremble, "if my child looks too much like me—" you rapidly shake your head, "he will-"

"Enough," he snaps, shaking you slightly.

You chest begins to tighten.

Otto notices and brushes your hair out of your face. He recites the common prayer you used to pray with your mother, "Seven, hear me. Father, strengthen me. Mother, protect me. Warrior, d—"

"Defend me," you sigh, joining in, "Smith, mend me."

"Mend my daughter," Otto mumbles softly.

"Maiden, beautify me," you say together, "Crone, enlighten me. Stranger, guide me."

Otto nods and strokes your hair, "now breathe."

It takes a few deep breaths, but you are calm now. He leads you to the door and opens it. "Oh, good," he says, once spotting your ward, "you're not entirely useless."

Erryk walks over to you, ignoring your father completely as he takes you by the arm.

"Take her to bed and have some warm milk and honey served to her."

"Yes, my lord," he says, though not sparing the lord a glance.

You, however, do, looking back with a soft smile, "good night, father."

He is about to reply, but then comes a servant boy, holding a plate of crackers and cheese, who freezes at the sight of the crowded entry. He thinks he's made a mistake, so he turns to leave, but Otto raises a hand and beckons the boy over, "come."

The boy walks past you, mumble a soft, "milady."

You smile and nod, "good evening."

Erryk eyes him suspiciously as he enters the room but refocuses on walking you back.

Otto closes the door and the boy places the crackers on the table. The man circles 'round to his desk and sits down, "what news do you bring me today?"

"Prince Daemon at the brothel, milord," the boy says, rolling back and forth on his heels.

The Lord Hand's face twists in contempt. He pulls his desk open and procures a cold coin.

The boy gleefully takes it and begins to explain the events that take place.

[toorumlk]

the importance of art and safety.

(in this period of descent into fascism)

If you're a liberal/left-leaning person like me, you have been voraciously keeping up with local, provincial/state and federal politics, and with the world news, using all avenues available to you to try and make sense of the tumultuous time were living through. And thus, with each passing day, you've probably been inundated with the F-word more and more from the news/political commentators you follow, from the images attached in the articles you read, and the academics and journalists you trust. Fascism. With the recent ruling from the UK Supreme Court saying that the legal definition of a woman is solely going to be rooted in biology and seeing the jubilant celebration surrounding it, I can’t help but feel like we just took one more monumental step in the global death march towards fascism.

I’m scared and very worried.

Of course, this isn’t really about my own personal feelings of fear because overall, I will be quite alright. I’m a bisexual, leftist woman and arts and culture person living in Canada, in a dependably liberal-to-progressive riding and city. Yes, my country has a federal election coming up and there is a chance we might (strong emphasis on ‘might’) elect a right-wing reactionary buffoon of our own in the form of Pierre Poilievre, but center and left-of-center Canadians were given a hail Mary in the new liberal party leader Mark Carney, who’s performing better in the early polls everyday. So, we might not have to worry that much at all. Yes, the cost of living is still abysmal (as my friends and I keep saying: girl, the tariffs), and going through life’s very human struggles is still excruciating but ultimately, bearable. Spring, the best season, is well on its way and the days are getting longer and you see that your neighbour’s tulip bulbs are peaking out from the soil and you’re able to go home and give your cat a big kiss on the cheek as they reward you with an annoyed and disgruntled meow.

And so you feel emotionally regulated enough to then go on your daily news binge and find that another university student in the US got black-bagged for expressing pro-Palestine views, you see images of the destruction of Gaza and the concentration prison/camps in El Salvador, and then that the boomer British lady who authored the books that have been bringing so much joy and fulfillment to your art practice donated 70 000 euros to a feminist organization that was the plaintiff fighting to disenfranchise an already marginalized minority group. And you’re left feeling quite… dirty and doom-ridden and powerless while standing in the middle of the cushy imperial core.

Your cat who was annoyed you picked them up earlier has forgiven you now, though, and is headbutting you for some catnip.

But this isn’t about me, not in the slightest. I/we know how these things go. I’m not a history buff by any means (though I really want to be) but I have a basic enough understanding of world history to know we’re already in the throes of fascism: with the targeting and scapegoating of vulnerable minorities like the trans community or the complete hatred and want for disposal of migrants – I feel a deep and suffocating grief for my fellow comrades.

This pain, I believe, is all our duties as human beings with the gift and responsibility of empathy, to feel.

I’m also hyperaware that with the downward fall into fascism comes the defunding and eventual erasure and censorship of art. Now I’m not saying my art is worthy or important enough to be censored. But I am saying we need art; we need as much of it as there can be for our emotional needs which is imperative for our survival. I don’t mean to say this in a hyperproduction/hyper consuming way, of course, we just need human artists, humane art (whatever that means to you) now more than ever.

I’m a political person, and my leftist and feminist principles and values I think show up quite plainly in my work but again, I don’t think I’m making anything radical here – my art I think is just one small piece in a greater human need to make and experience art. Therefore, I’d be remiss to say it wasn’t important. I know my work is important in that I know it means something to people. This community here for instance, or on twitter/x, Instagram or tiktok, which I feel like the luckiest person alive to have somehow conjured, that means something to me, and I’d be glaringly obtuse if I didn’t acknowledge it. So, I sincerely want you to know my art exists not only as the physical manifestation of this vocation of mine, but also as a source of safety and comfort for your senses, if you need it to be.

As much as I want to be, I’m not an activist, I’m just an artist. And my art is the one (I hope) iron-clad thing I can give to the world and the beautiful, worthy of lives of dignity, people within it. Joy and comfort aren’t a solid political program on its own and I know art consumption alone is not going to lead us to liberation, self-determination and lives of dignity. But, my god, do we still need joy, comfort and safety in the form of art to get through each day.

To my nonbinary and trans friends and siblings, I am so, so fucking sorry powers greater than us are using you as pawns for political theatre, and that so many restless people are using you as political punching bags. The world we’re living through is incredibly unfair and unjust at the moment. Your pain is our pain, none of us are free until all of us are free. So, I want you to know that my little pictures and I are here, fighting alongside you.

I know Harry Potter, the IP and the storyworld with its characters, isn’t what’s causing our dissent into fascism. And I know, realistically, I’m not the devil’s spawn for still liking it, for making cute artwork of the titular main character’s best friends for its fandom. I can’t explain in words why I feel such an affinity to this story, this very entry-level story about fighting fascism, with its anti-social megalomaniac villain and its painfully liberal/reformist politics. My pull towards it is deep, abstract, and almost spiritual, and if I could succinctly put these feelings and magnetism into words, I probably wouldn’t be making this much art like my life depended on it. And the awful truth of it is, I’ve never been more artistically fulfilled. I’m so happy while making this work and my cup becomes fuller after each drawing, I selfishly don’t want to stop. Does that make me awful?

A lot of my peers, fellow fanartists, have been considering leaving the fandom altogether and it’s left me feeling a kind of panic because, quite frankly, I don’t want to. Not until the creative reserve (which is rooted in my love and other abstract feelings for the story) within me has run dry, which it hasn’t. And after I realized this, I felt a little ashamed that I wasn’t feeling what others are also feeling, but I think the knee-jerk reaction to leave and disavow this community because of the cartoonishly mean-spirited author (who ironically made this story about love, friendship and fighting fascism) also feels hasty and reactionary. I understand the impulse, I really do. I recognize I have a vested interest in saying this, but I sincerely think we need art now more than ever, if any of my peers are reading this: your art. Thoughtful art, art that is an exercise in empathy. I’m also saying this because I feel a deep sense of responsibility to my friends (majority of whom are also queer and trans) I’ve made through our shared love of this story, to fellow fans and the people I’ve been privileged enough to have touched with my art.

This discomfort of still harboring love for this flawed but ultimately lovable and beloved story during this time of political unrest and chaos, and continuing to express my love for it by creating artwork for it… is something I will just have to live with until it’s run its course. I don’t think this is a righteous grief by any means – I think the mundanity of it is what’s making it especially annoying.

Quivering in the face of good art is I think one of the best feelings in the world, and though I sincerely believe the HP story to be good and adequate in its political and class commentary, this squirming isn’t exactly that. I’m immensely (and selfishly) resentful to JKR for being the mean-spirited bully/troll that she is, not only do I wish she weren’t a right-wing reactionary, I wish her tomfoolery didn’t make me squirm uncomfortably (the word I’m looking for here is ‘cringe’) while still genuinely enjoying this work. Nonetheless, I’m confident in my ability to engage with this story intelligently and I hope to continue to share my thoughts and love for this narrative through posts and meta/cultural analyses and many, many drawings of Ron and Hermione kissing. I am also steadfast in my political convictions, which are so much older than the just-over-a-year-old love I have for these books. My political convictions which have always been and will always continue to be pro-trans, feminist, anticapitalist and grounded in my love and empathy for people.

I don’t have all the answers to how and why we are so drawn to certain stories and characters and tribes (because fandom in a fundamental way acts like a tribe), and why we so profoundly need to keep making and keep experiencing art. Or how to even best live with the contradictions that exist within and outside of us. I’m just a young artist, still in the infancy of my career in many ways, but something in my bones is telling me this is important work, and I should keep doing it – with all its squirming discomfort, and its wonderful, beautiful fulfillment.

Again, we are living through incredibly difficult times, but we must make it through, and we will. I will keep making work that I hope is thoughtful and politically principled, and I hope you’re able to find some joy and comfort in them as I do while making them.

- nus :)

[musicallisto]

hello beloved I hope your shoulder surgery goes well!!! as a little distraction can I please ask for a franco colapinto x driver!reader, enemies to lovers? love u and thinking of u always xoxo

· · · · ♡ BOOM, CRASH! (fc43)

… starring franco colapinto x f!driver!reader ... 2.4k words ... in which you get into a nasty crash, and the first person to visit you in the hospital is the last guy you'd ever imagined being worried about you. ... warnings for crash, hospital, injuries, blood, nothing too graphic i think! reader is a bit of a bully tbhh but it is a cutthroat sport 😌 ... if you haven't noticed already, these are all very self-indulgent for me, and this is no exception.

Ironically, the last words you remember telling Franco Colapinto before you barrel into the wall at turn 12 were “Don't crash it.”

“What?”

“Don't crash it,” you repeat pointedly. “Logan wasn't exactly irreproachable in that regard. Budget cap's drawing closer.”

Your smile is wide but dulcet, not quite reaching your eyes, and your teeth are sharp and gritted. To any inopportune cameras that would be pointed at you right now, you only look like a well-meaning driver giving your rookie teammate advice before his second-ever F1 race... but neither you nor Franco miss the electricity crackling in the hallway outside the driver rooms.

“What makes you think I'm gonna crash it?" the Argentinian bites back, all fluttering eyelashes and wolfish smile. Unfazed, as always. Grinds your gears like little else can. "If anything, you be careful to not crash into me. Since I'm starting ahead on the grid and all.”

“Right, I forget it's your first time in Baku. You'll see what I mean soon enough, anyway.”

Your steps lead you down the hallway and to the garages mechanically, a path you've taken dozens of times, wearing different colored suits, following behind different teammates in stride. And this year's Williams blue would've suited you perfectly... if it didn't come attached with the pretentious goofball traipsing behind you.

You don't even bother looking back when you speak again. You raise your chin and brace yourself for the artificial lights of the pitlane.

“Good luck, or whatever.”

“It wouldn't kill you to be nice, you know?”

“Wouldn't kill you to know your place.”

The door handle creaks beneath your gloved hand, drowning out whatever it is Franco mutters in Spanish on the other end of the hall—”re amargada la piba esta” he mumbles to no one but himself—, and at last you are safe, at peace in the nervous bustle of a garage entirely devoted to you.

Sure, getting a new teammate midseason is a tough predicament to find oneself in: a whole new dynamic to establish, a whole routine to fall into. And newbies always get the chance to make good first impressions; not the girl who’s been sitting in the car for two years. You’d told yourself you wouldn’t mind it—Carlos Sainz will be snatching your first driver privileges next year anyway—but it would be easier to comply if the aforementioned new teammate wasn’t an annoying pain in the ass, flirting and laughing his way through the paddock with that detached nonchalance that believes everyone must be wrapped around his finger, and then having the gall to outqualify you on one of your favorite circuits. On his first-ever time there!

So yes, maybe it’s your ego taking up too much space in the tight cockpit of your Williams, obscuring your vision. Maybe it’s the disastrous grip you’ve reported twice now on the radio—Okay, Y/N, we heard that and we’ll get back to you.

Whatever it is, somewhere around lap 20, your car oversteers into a wide spin right as you enter the rapid turn. The steering wheel snaps out of your hands, and it’s like a giant strangles you with all its might for a blink of an eye, barely even a second.

You only know you’ve hit the wall—hard—from the ringing in your ears and soreness of your jaw. What used to be your front right tire lies in front of your smashed wing, rubber and carbon scattered pitifully. Your finger shakes when you lift it and press the radio button.

“I’m OK… I think.”

A flash of red catches the corner of your eye. You’re not sure if it’s from the flag being waved outside of track limits, a Haas zooming past in the corner, or… it’s hot, and viscous on your eyebrow, dripping into your eyes. You bring your hand to your forehead, where your helmet is crushed inward, just above your left eye. Smashed into your forehead.

Then everything kind of blurs together. You vaguely feel someone helping you out of the wreckage, their distant yapping about concussion symptoms not helping your light-headedness at all. You think you slip out of consciousness for the first time then, on the track still, because your next memory is of an ambulance—or what you assume to be an ambulance, you’ve never ridden in one before, and you even think to yourself this new procedure is pretty excessive from the FIA, the medical car was quite sufficient—and then it’s back to nothingness until you wake up for good on a stretcher, hooked to some sort of medical tube—perfusion?—as you’re being ushered into a quiet hospital room.

The nurse who visits you is sweet, filling in the blanks in slow, accented English. The gash to your forehead is pretty deep, but nothing the surgeon doesn’t see at least once a week! (At that, you lift a groggy hand above your brow bone, where you feel a thick bandage.) A few stitches later and you’re good as new, though the blood loss and concussion combined left you pretty weak, and justify keeping you in observation for the night. It’s just protocol, you’re probably used to hospital visits in that line of work of yours, she jokes—and you know you’ve recovered almost all your mental acuity because you get offended at that. No, you don’t usually crash. In fact, you haven’t all season…

And it had to be today of all days, in Baku… after you told Franco to not crash it.

When the nurse leaves the room with the promise she’ll be back in an hour, you let out a long, dreary sigh. Fernando Alonso’s grainy voice over the radio comes to mind. ¡Karma!

Night falls quickly outside your window with nothing to kill time but your phone. After catching up on the race results—somehow you’re too exhausted to feel irritated at Colapinto’s points finish—and posting a reassuring Instagram story for your followers, you’re left to the mercy of your ruminating thoughts. Sleep is impossible to catch; the adrenaline of the race hasn’t worn off yet, and you’ve been knocked out so long now you’re desperate to leave this stretcher.

You’ve just about decided to call the nurse for an early discharge when a shadow appears behind the door’s little windowpane, hesitates for a second, and then knocks. Medical personnel wouldn’t bother; it’s probably your family, or maybe even Vowles, or…

“Hey, how… che, estás hecha mierda.”

You tense immediately when you catch the brown waves of hair and unmistakable accent as Franco walks into your hospital room. He looks genuinely stumped, like he hadn’t expected to see you in such bad condition, so much so he forgets to shut the door behind him.

For some reason, the sight endears you. Makes you want to take him in your arms, feel his realness in this hallucinatory evening. What a ridiculous thought!

“Stop it with the Spanish,” you protest, devoid of your usual fire however. “Maybe it works on your fangirls, but not on me.”

“I said you look like shit.”

“Oh.” You look him straight in the eye, the silliness of the situation dawning on you, and against all odds you start to laugh. A real laugh, more than a chuckle, one that sends phantom pains stabbing through your sore abdomen. “Well if that’s all you’re gonna say, you can stick to Spanish! I don’t want to hear it.”

What did the nurse say about the anesthesia’s side effects? Do they include feeling a little glad and relieved to see your detested teammate? To know he’s the first person to check up on you?

Whatever the reason, you’re laughing, absurdly, and so is Franco, chuckling to himself as he closes the door and drags a chair closer to your bed. His eyes crinkle like a little kid’s, and that’s when you notice his disheveled appearance. Cheeks a little flushed, hair tousled like he’s just run a marathon, he’s wearing a crumpled-up Williams shirt, no doubt the first thing he could get his hands on after the race. It hits you then that he’s probably just off media duties, and the fact he’s alone, with no team delegation in tow, indicates he left early. Just to get to you. To make sure you were alright.

You are a competitor, but you aren’t a monster. The idea Franco couldn’t be bothered to wait for James, or anyone else, tugs at your heartstrings.

“Thank God you told me not to crash it, huh?” he teases between chuckles.

“Shut up.”

“Careful, Y/N, the budget cap is coming for you,” he wiggles his fingers over your face like a looming ghost.

You turn your head away to face the wall, huffing in exasperation, but a throbbing pain traverses your skull, and you wince. Franco’s eyes darken, smile fading into a grave expression.

You rarely see him like this outside of the helmet. It’s novel, but it’s welcome. Almost attractive, in a way.

“Are you okay?”

“Yeah, I… My helmet smashed into my forehead. I was bleeding pretty bad, apparently, they had to stitch me up. I got concussed too. Aren’t helmets supposed to absorb these hits?”

“Concussed?” he repeats, and holds out his hand in a peace sign. “How many fingers?”

You stick out your tongue at the Argentinian, flipping him the bird.

“And now?”

“Ah, come on, don’t be so mean,” Franco chuckles, scooting a little closer to your stretcher with his chair. Unfazed, as always. But this time it doesn’t peeve you; you’re rather thankful for his cheeky banter, actually. For a moment, in the blur of cold white lights and carbon fiber debris, you’d started to fear you could lose it for good. “We were just starting to become friends!”

“That’s because I’m concussed. I don’t want to be friends with you, we’re rivals.”

“Well the whole rivals thing isn’t working very well for you lately. Maybe you’re better off being friends with me.”

You roll your eyes, but the gnawing anxiety that roars in your stomach whenever someone pits you against the rookie stays quiet for once. Perhaps you’re still under the influence of the tranquilizers… or perhaps those brown eyes holding you in their light, tender in a way you’ve never seen them before, make it harder to get mad at him.

“I’ll consider it.”

And you don’t mean it just yet, but you don’t don’t mean it. What do you even hate Franco Colapinto for? Stealing the spotlight from you just two weeks into his career? Flirting with every living being on the paddock except you? Or forcing you to up your game and face your fears?

A stabbing pain crushes your skull all of a sudden, and you shut your eyes, teeth gritted and muscles taut, to try and breathe it out… to no avail. When you open your eyes, Franco is staring at you, brows furrowed in that same serious, concerned expression that sends a wholly different type of pins and needles through your body.

“Everything alright?”

“No… The painkillers. I need another ketoprofen,” you whine, squinting your eyes against the harsh hospital lightning.

“Should I call the nurse?”

“No, they’re on the table over there,” you gesture blindly. “There’s a glass too.”

Only sounds inform you of what’s going on once you close your eyes, faint lights and colors barely piercing through your eyelids. The rustling of fabric, then someone fumbling with cardboard and pills, your sink opening, and then cautious footsteps stopping at the edge of your bed.

“Here.”

You take the pill between weak fingers and fight with all your might to sit up straight in the bed without moving your head… but the soreness and exhaustion from the race and surgery overpower you. So much for neck strength.

“I can’t,” you huff out in defeat. “I can’t tilt my head.”

“It’s okay. Take the pill,” Franco orders softly, and you put the drug on your tongue, too tired to raise the outrage of him bossing you around.

Slowly, carefully, Franco brings the rim of the glass to your lips, and you drink all that you can, training your attention on the medication going down your throat—and not on your teammate’s intense gaze fixed on your mouth, nor the proximity of your bodies or his slightly ragged breath.

“Thank you,” you exhale when you’re done.

Luckily for him, he has his back turned to you when you speak, setting the empty glass down on the table, so you don’t notice his bashful smile. He’s never heard you so docile, affable, even, and though he likes it when you bite back… it feels great, too, to know there is a way to pierce that armor of yours.

“Franco,” you call out to him, neither of you missing how this is one of the first times you’ve called him by his first name. “Do you mind… staying? Just until James or someone else gets here. It gets so boring.”

He spins on his heels in disbelief, scrutinizing you in search of mockery, or irony, or your usual callousness… but all he reads is earnest and the slightest hint of embarrassment, all he sees is your outstretched hand. So he brushes it with his, not daring to hold it purposefully just yet. Like he doesn’t want to overstay his welcome into your bubble.

“Yeah, sure. But only so you won’t get bored.”

“Of course,” you smile faintly as he sits back down on his chair. Your eyes meet in newfound amusement, maybe even temporary fondness. “Don’t go around thinking I like you.”

“Me? I would never. We’re rivals.”

You give a small appreciative nod, and after some instants of silence, clear your throat and ask him to recount the end of the race. Just as you expected, his storytelling is dramatic and entertaining, interspersed with words he doesn’t remember how to say in English and the unmissable zest of grid gossip Franco always brings to his tales. You chuckle, gasp, and pester even, as much as you can with your aching skull and limbs… and barely notice the minutes ticking by, or how you wish the rest of your team would never show up, your distaste for Franco slaking.

Maybe you can be persuaded into liking his presence, after all. So long as he stays out of the car, though… and remains your personal nurse.

… f1 taglist; @retvenkos @giuseppe-yuki (want to be added? send me an ask!)

[tj-is-down]

Save a Horse, Ride a Cowboy (Tyler Owens x Reader)

Back again with another random fic for y'all. This is not proofread, so don't hate me!

Summary: Tyler and the reader have been on and off "together" for years now, keeping it secret. Until, suddenly, one of them decides they might want more.

Word count: ~2.1k

Warnings: None except some swearing, and reader is described femininely in this one.

Here’s the thing about Humble Creek: everybody knows everybody. A small town made up of just under five thousand, there was nothing that anybody could do in secret, because if one person knew, then it was just as if they’d taken a bullhorn and announced it to the entire town.

Which made Y/N’s life all the harder. See, she did have a secret, and although it hadn’t gotten out yet, its secrecy was held in the hands of a monster. A tyrant, a tool, a pain-in-the-ass douchebag with a cowboy hat and a Texas accent.

Tyler Owens.

Y/N had known he was trouble since they were kids. Growing up on rival ranches, they were destined to be enemies, and even more so, to blur the lines. Y/N had never trusted him. Not because their families were constantly fighting, as she believed everybody deserved their own chance to prove themself, but because he had fucked his up, royally. 

In elementary school, middle school, high school, Tyler was always the talk of the town. Always with a girl on his arm, Tyler was confident, and everybody else was just putty in his hands. Y/N told herself she didn’t understand what people saw in him. 

She lied.

It started in eighth grade, when Tyler showed up in a too-big tux and a bouquet of flowers he’d handpicked from his family’s garden.

“You wanna go to the dance?” He asked, grinning cockily. Even then he knew how to charm, before he even knew what charm was.

Y/N’s dad had said no, absolutely no way, but Y/N was in her rebellious phase and so this only pushed her to say yes. She went out right then, in her mud-stained t-shirt and jeans, and they’d walked to the school together at seven p.m. and walked home together at nine. He’d kissed her cheek goodnight and she’d wiped it off, embarrassed.

“You’re annoying, Owens.”

“And you’re pretty, L/N.”

On the next Monday he came to school with Cherry Lee.

Y/N tried to be mad. She tried to hate Tyler, to swear that she’d never talk to him or think about him or even look at him ever again. But two months later, when Tyler and Cherry broke up, he’d knocked on her door when he knew her parents weren’t home and, against her better judgment, she’d let him inside.

They’d been on-and-off “together” ever since.

Now, Tyler wasn’t single for long intervals, usually just a couple of weeks here and there, and he would never cheat, nor would Y/N let herself become a homewrecker (no matter how fragile the relationship), but when Tyler showed up on her doorstep, bouquet in hands and that look in his eyes, she knew she couldn’t say no. 

She was an adult now, but still, she couldn’t resist those eyes. Tyler had been single since before leaving for college, and when he came back it was like he’d never left. Sure, now he had a truck, a big name, a crew, and a YouTube channel, but he still had those eyes, and his family still had a garden with a never-ending supply of flowers.

He showed up on her door one morning, after her parents had left for church.

“Can I help you?” She asked, opening the door. As always, a t-shirt and jeans, dirty from the morning’s work on the farm.

“You’re not at church?”

“You knew I wouldn’t be.”

“Well, maybe the two and I can practice praying on our own? I think the first step is kneeling down; you wanna start?”

Y/N went to close the door, but Tyler’s hand reached out to prop it open.

“Come on, Darlin’,” he said, laying the accent on thick. “You want to go for a drive? I’ll buy you a coffee.”

“Hold the coffee,” she said, walking past him. “I’d rather not have anyone see us together.”

He grabbed her waist and stood behind her, kissing her neck. “We’ve been doing this for years, babe. No one’s gonna find out, I promise.”

She leaned her head towards him, breathing in the scent of firewood mixed with his cologne. He pressed a kiss to her forehead.

“You gettin’ sappy on me?” He asked. Though his voice was soft, she could feel his smirk.

“Nope.” She pulled out of his grasp and got into the passenger seat of his truck. “We going, or are you just gonna stand there looking all doe-eyed?”

“For you, I’d stand here all day, sweetheart.”

“Just get in the car, Romeo.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

*** 

They drove for a while, to the outskirts of town, when Tyler stopped the truck and leaned over. He kissed her lips, hard and slow, putting his hand on the back of her neck to pull her closer. She reciprocated, holding his bicep, moving her mouth in tandem with his and letting herself fall into him.

“Why are you being so love-y today?” She asked after they separated.

“I can’t show my girl some love?”

“Is that what I am? ‘Your girl’?”

He shrugged. “Is that so bad?”

“You’re annoying, Owens.” She pushed his shoulder.

He mock-pushed her back as he said, “You’re pretty, L/N.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “Seriously, though, there is something I wanted to talk to you about—”

Y/N scoffed. “Are you about to ask me out?”

“Well, no, but—”

“Okay, good.”

“Would that be so bad of me?”

“Kinda.” Y/N breathed a laugh, but when she saw Tyler’s face, serious and a little upset, she stopped. “I mean, it’s not like we have the best thing going on here anyways, and I just don’t want to be—” She paused, about to say heartbroken, or used, or a placeholder for when you find someone better, but Tyler cut her off.

“Yeah, you’re right.” He started the truck, engine roaring to life. “It was dumb, nevermind. I’ll take you home.”

“Tyler, you know what I meant—”

“Yeah, yeah. We’re just messing around, right? That’s all this is, just messing around.”

He didn’t say another word on the ride home. 

He dropped her off, barely waiting for her to shut the truck door before he drove away.

***

Tyler didn’t answer any of Y/N’s calls or texts for the next few days. Y/N was upset, barely leaving her room checking her phone obsessively for any sign of Tyler Owens. She even started watching his YouTube channel, but there hadn’t been any uploads for over a month. Nothing on Instagram or Facebook, either.

Her mother yelled up the stairs to her one night, calling her down.

“That’s what you’re wearing?” Her mom said upon seeing Y/N.

“This is what I always wear. Why?” Y/N was suddenly self conscious, confused as to why her parents cared what she wore in the house.

“Tonight’s the fair,” her mother responded, attempting to jog her memory.

“You’re helping us run our booth?” Her father tried.

“Ah, shit,” Y/N mumbled, remembering. “Do I have to go? I totally forgot.”

“Of course you have to go!” Her father said. “We need the three of us there; it’s a family ranch, remember?”

“Besides,” her mother added. “The Owens’s will be there. We can’t let them get a leg up on us! If you’re not there, Tyler will be running the show for sure.”

“Well, maybe not,” her father said. “He’s doing the kissing booth, remember?”

“The what?” Y/N said. “Tyler’s doing a kissing booth?”

Her father nodded. “To raise funds for his family’s ranch. He and his whole ‘team’ will be there, whatever they’re called.”

Y/N paused for a moment, trying to wrap her head around it all. Was that what Tyler was trying to talk to her about the other day? The kissing booth? But why would it matter what Y/N thought about it?

Her mother ushered her up the stairs. “For Pete’s sake, change into something nice, and quickly!”

Oh, shit.

***

The Humble Creek Fair was bustling with energy. People from nearby towns came to see what it was all about, and it was always the most popular time of year.

Y/N sat at her family’s booth, eyes peeled for Tyler. She kept checking her phone to see if he’d answered, but when she didn’t get any notifications she decided to take matters into her own hands.

“I’m going for a walk,” she said to her parents.

They both nodded, and her father added, “Make sure to see how the Owens’ booth is doing. I want to make sure we’ll still be in business next year.”

Y/N looked around for the kissing booth, and when she saw a long line of women, she followed it to the front. She walked around to the back of the attraction, but didn’t see Tyler anywhere. It wasn’t until she’d nearly given up entirely when she heard a voice behind her.

“What are you wearing?”

She whisked around, coming face-to-face with Tyler, who was holding some sort of weird meat on a stick.

“What are you eating?”

“Pork leg, fried and marinated in pickle juice,” he said, shrugging. “I’m hoping it’ll make my breath smell bad so less people come up. Now, back to you.”

“What about me?”

“You’re wearing a dress. You never wear dresses. ‘Jeans and a t-shirt, that’s me,’” he says, doing a poor impression of her.

“I don’t sound like that.”

“Yes you do, but that’s besides the point. What’s your deal?”

Y/N shrugged uncomfortably. “I wanted to, I guess.”

Tyler looked at her dead-on. “You look nice, Y/N.”

She rolled her eyes. “I’ve been texting you for days. No response. But now that I’m here, all I get is, ‘I look nice’?” 

“What else do you want from me?”

“An answer, Tyler. What’s your deal? Why didn’t you tell me about the kissing booth?”

“I tried to, but then you came at me with all that ‘this is a bad idea’ crap, and I figured you didn’t want me to tell you. Or you didn’t care if I told you or not.”

“Okay, so—”

“Wait.” He stops her. “Do you care?”

Y/N kicks the ground. “If I did?”

“If you did,” he said, stepping closer to her. “I’d drop the pork leg and kiss you.”

“And if I don’t?”

“I’d eat the pork leg, and I’d kiss a bunch of people who aren’t you, and I’d feel like shit about it.” He took another step closer to her, nearly closing the gap between them. “Please say you care.”

“Ugh,” she scoffed. “You’re gonna make me say it? You can’t just, like, infer from the situation?”

“I’m really bad at inferring things,” he said, a cocky grin on his face. “So, I’m gonna need to hear you say it.”

“You’re annoying, Owens.”

“You’re pretty, L/N. Like, so pretty. But I do need to hear you say it, and I’m also gonna need you to—”

“I care, Tyler. Now shut up and kiss me, or I’m gonna take it back.”

“Can’t take it back, babe. It’s set in stone.”

In one fluid motion, he dropped the pork leg, grabbed Y/N by the waist with his other hand, and pulled her into a kiss. It was deep and passionate, not like any of the other times they’ve kissed. They kept it going for as long as they can, holding their breath until they couldn’t anymore, and then they pulled apart, gasping for air with their foreheads touching.

“Will you go out with me?” He asked her, still struggling for air. “Like, on a real date, not just driving in the truck?”

“I guess,” Y/N said, teasingly. “If I have to.”

“I mean, you don’t have to. But if you do, I’m gonna need you to wear this again.” He grabbed her and pulled her closer to him, if that’s even possible. “Because, if I’m being honest, L/N, this is the hottest I’ve ever seen you. Like, I didn’t think you could get hotter, but here we are. Speaking of, can we go? I really want to go somewhere with you. Like, privately.” He winked at her, and she scoffed, rolling her eyes again.

“Don’t you need to raise money for your farm?” She asked him, gesturing to the booth behind them.

“Fuck the farm,” he said. “Save a horse, ride a cowboy, yeah?”

“Fuck off,” she said, pulling him into another kiss.

“Seriously though, can we go?”

[kaiserposting]

Michael Kaiser — BETRAYAL

PAIRING: Michael Kaiser/Reader WORD COUNT: 1.2k TYPE: Humor, Established Relationship WARNING: Kaiser 😰

You wake up to someone shaking your shoulders. This is immediately alarming, but what’s even worse is that once your eyes flutter open, the obnoxious lights blind you. Your eyes shut close again, but you’re confused — for one you did not see the perpetrator, which means there might be an intruder in your house or something, and the other thing is, you recall turning off the lights before going to bed. So maybe it’s a poltergeist or something.

No need to fret for long. Soon enough you hear a familiar voice speak, his tone demanding and intonation annoying (as usual). “What have you done?”

You rub at your eyes some more and try to blink them open. It still hurts, but finally your brain processes that Kaiser has come back. Though the last time you spoke to him about his arrangements after the away game, he claimed he’d come back on Monday in the morning. Instead he’s already home two days earlier at an odd hour.

Did he lie to you? Well, you don’t have enough time to mull on this matter because Kaiser continues.

“How could you do this to me?!”

“Wha… What did I do?”

Nothing noteworthy you could’ve done comes to mind. There is a large amount of drool in the corner of your mouth, so you wipe it with the back of your hand as your awareness stirs more, warding off your drowsiness. While you’re glad it’s no longer painful to merely look at things, it also means you’ll have trouble falling asleep again because of Kaiser’s histrionics rousing you too much.

He’s very much still in his airport clothes and his suitcase seems to have been dumped in front of your side of the bed, placed in such a position which has been undoubtedly calculated with a high chance of your tripping on it in the morning in mind. You open your mouth to scold him about it and to order him to put his shit someplace else, but instead Kaiser keeps making a scene,

“I go out of my way to surprise you by returning at such an inhumane part of the day-”

You roll your eyes while Kaiser gesticulates. Your lack of amusement isn’t a deterrent to him at all, this fact made clear by the way he ignores what you did to go on with his charade.

“-and what greets me when I first step into our bedroom? YOU. Lying in OUR bed. With ANOTHER MAN.”

…

…

…?

“What?” you ask. “What man?”

“He’s right there. Do you think I’m stupid? You think you can gaslight your way out of this one?” Kaiser is still yelling. In fact he’s yelling so much, you’re really considering maybe some man materialized under your sheets because otherwise it makes no sense why Kaiser would be so convincingly angry. And yet you know there is no one else besides you inside of the property, so you can’t muster a response more appropriate than a scratch of your head. “How could you do this to me? After everything we’ve been through together. Answer me!”

“What the fuck are you talking about?”

“I’m talking about the man in your arms!”

“You’re driving me crazy,” you say, both bewildered and stunned by your own perplexity. “There’s no man in my arms!” You’re not even sure why you’re treating this as if you’re giving it any sort of weight when Kaiser is clearly making stuff up for attention and a grand entrance.

“Yes there is. He’s right here.” With unnecessary aggression, Kaiser wrenches something out of your grip and then holds it up in the air, eyebrows furrowed like he just dug in trash instead of take a belonging of yours. With that belonging being the forty centimeter Michael Kaiser plushie you sleep with when he’s gone (its usual residence being the side of the closet he doesn’t use), filling the void on his side of the bed.

Yes, you’re crazy like that, but it’s besides the point. Not to mention you kind of forgot you were cuddling with it, since you were so preoccupied with Kaiser’s strange behavior and unexpected appearance back in the house.

After a moment your stupor wears off. “Are you serious?! You woke me up in the middle of the night to play some stupid joke on me?”

Kaiser smirks at you and lets out an evil and, might you add, effeminate giggle. Then he moves the plush back and forth in front of your face with an expression so smug, you feel a compulsive urge to punch him. “Look at him. His face is so smarmy and he’s just disgusting. Not to mention the way he stares at people is fucking creepy and perverted with that soulless smile. Even his eyes don’t sparkle. Unlike mine, of course.”

You let out a sound of frustration, you can’t hold it in. Why is Kaiser tormenting you with his merch design critiques at a time that can be considered both morning and late at night simultaneously? “Wh- he’s not sentient, how are his eyes supposed to sparkle? And why are you acting like he’s alive?”

Kaiser continues to smile at you. His expression remains smug and serene. It’s obvious he’s not guilty about waking you up at all. If anything he seems refreshed — maybe causing drama with such swiftness has a rejuvenating effect on him.

“Well, he’s modeled after you, anyway,” you say, bringing his attention to where the faults in the form may originate from.

“Honestly I don’t know how you can feel fine sleeping at night next to that thing and not scream in terror when you wake up to it staring at you in the morning,” snarks Kaiser, disregarding everything you brought up.

“Ugh, whatever.” You pluck Michael Kaiser the Stuffed… — animal? Human? No, stuffed human sounds unsettling. You need more rest. — back into your hold and roll over, pulling the blanket over yourself. “I’m going back to bed. Don’t interrupt me with any more of your bullshit.”

Taking satisfaction in making you unhappy, Kaiser snickers at your grumbling. You hear some rustling as he presumably changes, then he turns the light off and pads out of the room to wash his face and brush his teeth. You pray you’ll be able to doze off again.

Another weight joins you and the mattress dips under it while it moves behind you in an ominous manner. Kaiser settles down behind you and pulls you closer. You try to hold off, but end up giving in and turning around to reciprocate his embrace while he tucks you into his chest, Michael Kaiser the Stuffed Animal going forgotten and abandoned once you turn your back on him.

Normally, you would’ve ignored Kaiser and favored the plushie he detests so much over him just to spite him for his stunt, but you’re tired and his body is warm and inviting (not his personality though).

Kaiser moves his arm to reach behind you while you drift in and out of consciousness. There is some movement and then you hear a soft thump as if he smacked something off the bed and it landed on the floor after.

Once the enemy has been pushed out of the premises, Kaiser’s fingers find their way back to you.

___

Who up watching dandruff videos

[summer-oil]

FOOLISH SPRING WINDS, BLOW MY WAY ; SATORU GOJO

summary; a snippet of the spring you share with a certain satoru gojo — who seems intent on making your high school life as difficult as possible.

word count; 5.4k

contents; satoru gojo/reader, gn!reader, enemies to friends (..but the ’enemy’ part is kinda one-sided), fluffy n sweet overall, satoru doesn’t know how to make friends + thinks lighthearted bullying constitutes as a bonding activity, he’s a little shit but he means well, switching povs, lots of gojo slander (but reader sees the light eventually), big shoujo vibes, they’re both tsunderes <33

a/n; i ended up scrapping the series i wrote this fic for originally, so i thought i’d rewrite it and repost it on its own!! teentoru is such a grumpy little kitten i need to squish his paws

satoru gojo is annoying.

it might seem blunt, but after many weeks of careful thinking, you’ve decided no description could possibly fit him better. 

when you first met him, on that first day of school, you had no idea what to think. no real expressions or tonal shifts to clue you in on who he was, how he felt — nothing but the slightest peek of a terrifying blue to set your nerves on edge. 

in hindsight, you’re almost certain it was intentional. he wanted to appear unreadable. purposefully hiding his personality and mannerisms, to gain the upper hand — observing you, dissecting you inside his mind, while revealing nothing about himself apart from his surname. 

it’s a kind of power; a safety measure.

… but evidently, holding back isn’t exactly gojo’s forte. the very next morning, he was already beginning to loosen up, after getting more accustomed to the new environment and classmates. showing you his true colours; just a little hint of cerulean, a single dip of paint on the blank canvas of his soul.

and with the revelation of his genuine personality — your unease around him festered even more.

where could you even begin to describe him? for one, he’s childish. and cocky. and loud. arrogant, selfish and flamboyant — just generally an asshole? you could go on and on. none of the traits are particularly flattering, and you know he couldn’t care less.

gojo is annoying, plain and simple. almost constantly up to something, eager to push someone’s buttons, to get attention. like a bratty toddler. uninterested in manners, or even common courtesy; he says what he feels, regardless of how other people take it. 

to put it simply, he has no regard for the people around him. his self-interest is limitless. 

as if that wasn’t annoying enough — you have no choice but to admit that he does have a certain presence to him. a kind of charisma, or what you think could become charisma, if he’d just get off that high horse already. he won’t, though. you know he won’t. he revels in it, in looking down on everything and everyone, annoyingly boisterous and irritatingly tall. freaky, long limbs. like a noodle and an alien had a baby.

but, more than anything — above all else — what frustrates you most is the fact that his unbridled confidence isn’t exactly unwarranted.

as much as it pains you to say it… gojo is maybe just a little bit incredible. a natural-born genius. he’s intelligent, and observant, and awfully pretty, with those baby blues eyes and those snowy locks of hair. and he has no issue getting what he wants. 

absolutely zero. 

there’s something admirable about it, in a twisted way. like he doesn’t even need to try. he’s good at anything, if he just gives it a single chance. you can only assume he’s never given much thought to the prospect of being a decent guy, because that’s the only thing he sucks at.

effortlessly perfect, in the most imperfect of ways. that’s probably how you’d describe him.

… annoying is still the most fitting word, though. or maybe obnoxious. he’s got this spoiled rich kid vibe that irks you, gets under your skin. you doubt he’s ever had to empathize with anyone, in his entire life. 

and, yes — maybe you’re being a little harsh to him. but why should you bother being jovial when he won’t return the favour?

gojo is annoying; and when you say that, you mean annoying to basically everyone. as a basis for existing. always teasing and taunting, looking down from that high horse of his. you’re no exception to this rule, of course. but you’re almost certain that he has it out for you specifically.

you know he looks down on you, from behind those tacky sunglasses. you’re sure of it.

compared to geto or shoko, you aren’t very self-assured — and you think he must have sensed it the moment he laid eyes on you. sensed that you’re a little meek, a bit of a doormat, easy to push around and get a rise out of. maybe he also noticed your apprehension towards him, your apparent unease. 

you’re easy prey, to put it simply.

evidently, he’s developed a fondness for getting under your skin. it started as soon as introductions were over, and it still hasn’t gotten better. he loves catching you off guard, throwing you an unneeded comment or two, just to see what reaction you’ll give him next. almost like he’s solving an equation — said equation being you, the limit of your patience. and you keep giving him what he wants; a scoff, a roll of your eyes, an earnest fuck right off. you can never seem to successfully ignore him. he’s just far, far too good at being insufferable.

… and, more than anything, he’s far too out of reach. even when you try to get along with him, it backfires. you don’t have a single thing in common. you don’t understand him at all. 

(and that suits you just fine.)

a heavy sigh slips from your parted lips, as you examine your blurry reflection in the surface of the mirror. fatigue clings to your skin like a layer of sweat, your mind muddled, stuffed with anxious thoughts and discomforting feelings.

you’re exhausted. completely and utterly spent, even though the day’s barely begun — running on three pitiful hours of sleep, all broken up and jumbled by nightmares that wouldn’t stop spooking you. not a single wink of proper rest. 

and it’s painfully obvious. in your face, your posture, the dark crescents beneath your eyes; in the way you can’t help but drag your legs as you walk, your hair disheveled, little sighs and grumbles slipping from your lips for every step you take. all you can do is sluggishly blink the exhaustion away.

you just feel so tired.

it could be worse, though. you don’t have any classes today, no real reason to get out of your comfy bed, leave the safety of your cozy little dorm room. but you need breakfast, right now, or else you’ll literally explode — so you still get up on shaky legs and try to mimic the appearance of someone… even moderately well-rested.

it doesn’t work, but that’s besides the point. 

so you make your way to the dormitory’s shared kitchen. walking idly — clumsily — enjoying the sight of fleeting, fluttering cherry blossoms through the windows you pass. little pink butterflies.

once you’ve crossed the threshold, you’re relieved to find the open space entirely devoid of people. no shoko, no geto, not even a mischievous gojo. running into the first two wouldn’t be the end of the world — but it still wouldn’t be ideal. you don’t want anyone seeing you like this, tired and meek, a little vulnerable.

(least of all gojo. you shiver at the bare thought.)

with laboured, groggy movements, you waltz around the kitchen, getting cups and plates and turning on the coffee machine. enjoying the soothing melody of the pan sizzling, singing along to the purring of espresso being made. it’s nice and pleasant to your sensitive ears, as you blink under the rays of sunlight shining in, throwing together a lazy breakfast. 

you waste no time in taking a seat by one of the tables once you’re finished. eager to soak in the peace and quiet, wolf down a sandwich and copious amounts of caffeine.

but, as always — the world seems to have it out for you specifically.

”oh? well, look who it is. and here i thought you had left too.”

you stiffen. ever so slightly, barely noticeable, but still enough that you physically feel the dread envelop every single cell of your body. the voice that echoes out across the open air is a chipper one, a familiar one. a voice you were desperately hoping not to hear today. 

all you can do is continue to sip from your cup of coffee, inwardly wincing, silently going through all five stages of grief simultaneously — before accepting your unfortunate predicament. 

(that’s just your luck, isn’t it?)

finally, you raise your weary head, knowing exactly what sight you’ll be met with once you do. 

and, lo and behold — there he is.

gojo looks the same as always. grinning brightly, a little woflish, wearing those ugly sunglasses and making his way across the room like he owns it. a trait you can’t help but admire, envy, hate and worship at the same time. he plops down next to you like it’s nothing, a little too close for comfort, unconcerned about your concept of personal space.

”whatcha up to?” he chirps, in that sugar sweet tone, layered over with a boyish kind of excitement. there’s a teasing tilt to it, too — the one that always accompanies his voice when he’s speaking to you.

under normal circumstances, you’d flip him off. maybe even just glare at him, silently, or raise a brow in challenge.

but you’re far, far too tired to. too anxious. too in need of sleep, in need of a peaceful breakfast that he oh so cruelly ripped from you. all you can muster is the energy to glance his way.

for just a second, your eyes meet. not like you can actually see them, from behind his glasses — but you know they’re there. menacing and uncanny, bright and excited. too much to handle, right now.

”… morning.”

as soon as the mutter has left your lips, you take a tentative bite of your sandwich. gaze trailing sluggishly back to your plate.

gojo blinks.

he immediately notes that your voice sounds meek. even more so than usual. he expected you to give him a scoff, or even just a timid huff — but no such luck. 

you’re just sitting there, quiet, curling into yourself.

after a moment’s consideration, gojo opts to look at you. to really look at you, study your face, the way those twitchy fingers move to curl around the ceramic handle of the cup you’re drinking out of. the way your eyes shift from place to place, unfocused, your eyelids flicking shut every couple seconds. slow.

he’s always been observant — but it doesn’t take a genius to see that you’re tired. 

gojo is silent, for no more than a mere moment; contemplating his next course of action. he’s never seen you like this, before. did something happen?

…

(— well, it doesn’t matter. not his problem.)

”you look like a zombie,” he grins, a little teasing, showing off the white of his teeth. even though you look out of it, he can’t help himself — despite his own intuition telling him to let you be. 

you’re just too fun to tease. suguru and shoko only ever raise their eyebrows at him, or stare him down like a misbehaving dog, but you always have a good reaction to give. something to entertain him when he’s bored, distract him when his mind is too full of noise. 

so he can’t help but tease you, a little. hoping it’ll soothe the restlessness inside his chest.

but for once, what gojo expects isn’t what he gets. 

what he expects is for you to glare at him. tell him to leave you alone, or even just sigh in exasperation — either one would be fine. it’s just mindless enjoyment, to him, a little fun to lighten up his day. 

especially now, when suguru is away on some day trip he wasn’t privy to. that traitor. shoko is nowhere to be seen, either, probably off smoking in some random alleyway. or hanging out with one of the kyoto losers.

… the whole dorm is so eerily quiet.

(gojo would never admit it, not in a thousand years… but maybe he’d feel just a little bit lonely without any of you around.)

for a while after waking up, he assumed he’d have to spend the whole day alone. no one to talk to, no one to look at. he was practically dying of boredom. but then he entered the kitchen — and saw his saving grace. his dear little irritable classmate. 

he was so relieved. content in the knowledge that he’d get to push your buttons to his heart’s desire, bask in your playful banter and cold, joking little looks until suguru finally comes home.

only this time — you don’t react at all. 

you don’t give him what he expects, don’t indulge his little antics, in the way he’s grown so accustomed to. you just keep eating your breakfast, and drinking your coffee, in total silence. 

gojo waits, just a couple moments more. hoping for a delayed reaction, a witty counter, a snarky comment. anything. 

but it never comes.

finally, he starts to sulk. slumping against the leather seat behind him, quieting down with a low huff. furrowing his brows, as his glossy, cherry-tasting lips curl down into a little pout.

honestly, he’s kind of annoyed. just what is your problem? what is with you, today? 

… it’s no fun if you’re not playing along. 

gojo can’t help but grumble, a little, under his breath. you’re usually so responsive, so easy to rile up. so what’s wrong? why are you just sitting there?

…

whatever. so what if you’re not talking to him? so what if you won’t even spare him a glance? gojo has better things to do, bigger fish to fry. he wasn’t even that excited, when he saw you. the thought of bantering with you didn’t lift his spirits, even in the slightest. 

not even a little bit.

…

but, really — would it take so much effort for you to just say something? to just respond to his friendly little quip? you can’t possibly be that tired. 

or, what — did you get insecure, or something? because he called you a zombie? no way. you’re not that sensitive… are you? or is that it? 

what a hassle.

you know he’s just messing with you. he knows you know. so why are you acting so…. 

(sad, gojo wants to think, but he buries the thought before it can reach his frontal cortex. he doesn’t want to empathize with you, not right now — doesn’t want to feel that discomforting pang in his chest.)

a strange sensation bubbles up in his chest. something frustrated, a little unnerved; at your lack of a reaction, the weak glint in your eyes. he just doesn’t understand why — and that frustrates him even more. 

why can’t you just bite back, like always?

(… it’s fun when you do.)

the silence lingers on, stretches out across the room, festers and grows as you gulp down your breakfast. all while gojo keeps on sulking, still sitting beside you, waiting for something to happen. he briefly considers getting up and leaving, or saying something annoying to hopefully spur you on —

but you stand up before he can convince himself to go through with either option.

having finished your breakfast, your legs carry you to the sink. finally, you can head back to your room. gojo’s being weirdly quiet, but you pay no mind to it; methodically washing your dishes in silence. 

you don’t bother saying goodbye to him, either. still sitting there, seemingly deep in thought, grumbling something under his breath. 

he watches as you leave, gaze trailing after you, until you’re completely out of sight. 

then he lays down, flat on his back, with a frustrated huff. trying desperately to brush away the memory of your dim eyes, the slight frown on your lips. the dark circles under your eyes, that he tried so hard not to notice because they made him feel so weirdly uncomfortable. the meek, meek look you gave him.

gojo sighs.

(he feels just a tiny, tiny bit bad.)

when you wake up from your slumber, you immediately note that your body feels lighter.

this time, no nightmares came to haunt you. having practically collapsed once your head hit the pillow, your body finally decided to give you some peace of mind, some well needed rest. thankfully.

with a groan, you lazily stretch out your limbs — enjoying the feeling of your veins waking up, gaze falling on the clock on your wall. you’ve only been asleep for about two hours, or so, but it’s more than enough to give you the little jolt of energy that you need.

what to do, what to do. you still have the whole day ahead of you. another nap wouldn’t hurt, but you don’t want to waste your precious free time just rotting in bed — maybe you could take a walk around the schoolyard instead? the cherry blossoms have started to unfurl, and the grounds of the school are just littered with them.

even just the mental image is enough to have you changing into some light and comfortable clothes, reaching a hand out to push your door open. excitement stirring in your veins.

as you do so, something is knocked over.

all you hear is a soft little thud, accompanied by the sensation of something colliding with the door. a low curiosity overtakes you — eagerly peeking around for a look at the mysterious something.

your gaze falls on something pink.

it’s tiny, awfully out of place, just laying unassumingly on the dusty floorboards. as you crouch down to get a better look, you recognize it instantly; a small carton of strawberry milk. a plastic straw plastered on its side, and an evil looking cow mascot staring at you from the front. one of the items sold in the schoolyard’s vending machines — your personal favorite. you drink it every time you need a tiny pick-me-up, the sweet taste always managing to soothe your spirits.

and it was sitting right outside your door.

you stare at it, silently, in deep contemplation. holding it in your hand as the gears turn inside your head. could someone have dropped it? no, that’s dumb — who’d drop it right outside your door and then not pick it up?

… did someone leave it for you, then? because they know you like it? that could be it, maybe, but who would —

…

your mind stills. 

(no way.)

when you think about it — that’s the only explanation that makes sense. shoko and geto aren’t there, and you barely know any of your senior students. yaga-sensei would never give you strawberry milk without a lecture on the dangers of cavities, either.

that just leaves one possible culprit.

but you can’t wrap your head around it. why would he do something like that? he doesn’t like you — you know that much. so it couldn’t possibly be him.

… then again, you have seen him drink it. both of you like it, contrary to your other classmates; shoko doesn’t like sweet things in general, and geto wouldn’t go for strawberry milk if he could choose something else. it might as well be the only thing you and gojo have in common — the one thing that binds you two together. 

a single carton of strawberry milk. 

it’s almost comical.

(if it’s really true — if he really did do it… then you wonder why. maybe he noticed that you were feeling under the weather, and figured it’d make you happy. 

you wonder if it’d be foolish of you, to believe that it’s true — if only because you kinda like the idea.)

your feet move on their own, before your mind has a chance to question the decision. 

where could he be? in the kitchen, still? in his dorm?

just as you begin to wonder, a flash of white dances in the corners of your vision. when you glance out the window, you see it; white, soft hair, like a fluffy cloud, in the midst of all the pink petals fluttering about. 

you stop.

then you start walking again. with more decision, this time. hurrying to the exit.

gojo is sitting right outside the dormitory, on a wooden bench, legs swinging idly as he gazes at the sky. his hair sways slightly with the breeze, soft strands moving and caressing his skin. pink petals dance all around him, gracefully descending down to the ground, together with a trail of bubbles. gojo is blowing them, haphazardly, following their movement with his keen eyes. they glimmer in the sunlight, reflecting all shades of the rainbow.

the sight is just a little bit breathtaking. 

the ground crunches beneath your feet, when you take a step forward — and gojo turns towards you. you stiffen like a deer in headlights, instantly regretting your decision. blinking nervously. you walked here almost entirely on impulse, but now that you’re face to face…

(it’s a little scary.)

… still, it’s far too late to back out now. you can’t do much except join him, so that’s exactly what you do — albeit a little hesitantly.

trying to ignore his continuous stare, burning into the side of your head, you plop down beside him. feeling the steady bench beneath you, breathing in the scent of sweet-smelling cherries and soap.

an uncomfortable silence lingers in the air around you both, as he waits for you to say something. 

it’s a little tough. mustering up the courage to say anything, even just to face him. the decisiveness you felt just a moment ago has faded, now only the ghost of a sensation — you’re too nervous to verbalize anything.

but eventually, after a deep breath or two, you force yourself to speak. hoping you won’t come to regret it.

”… hey, gojo?” 

it’s almost a whisper. soft and fragile, mumbled beneath your breath as you stare at the cherry trees in front of you. you know his eyes are on you, though. you can feel them, almost feel their weight in the palm of your hand. like marbles.

weakly, you raise up the carton of strawberry milk. glancing over at him, not quite managing a smile, but trying your best to look somewhat appreciative. 

”thanks.”

a confused blink. gojo looks down the strawberry milk, and then back up at you. eyelashes fluttering.

a moment passes. 

then he turns his head away, swiftly, his hair tousled by the movement — a couple pink petals stuck between the soft strands. you can’t see his face anymore.

”i have no idea what you’re talking about,” he huffs, with a voice you’ve never heard him speak through.

when you look a little closer — you think the tips of his ears may be just slightly red. it makes your lips curl up into a small smile, but you barely feel it.

(like this, he’s actually kind of cute.)

cherry blossoms flutter in the wind, dancing joyously, without a care in the world. a spring breeze ruffles gojo’s hair, as he sits beside you, having begun to blow his bubbles again. not saying a word, and looking straight ahead. but you can’t help but stare, as sneakily as you can muster.

you find yourself thinking that he looks right at home, among the petals. fleeting, hard to get a grasp on, so pretty, and so out of reach — despite being so close. 

if you wanted to, you could reach over and touch him. you could reach for his sunglasses, lift them off his face, and finally see those eyes he’s so intent on hiding. you could see him, see straight into his soul — and find out who he really is.

you won’t, though. some boundaries aren’t meant to be so callously crossed.

instead, you puncture the pink carton in your hand with the plastic straw, and take a tentative sip. the sweet taste soothes you, straight away, blooming on your tongue. you can’t help but sigh, softly, relaxing even further — it’s absolutely perfect, for this kind of weather. the sight before you, cherry petals and shining bubbles, a boy you don’t like, but definitely don’t hate. 

you both look up, following the bubbles with your eyes, as they float up into the sky; as they get smaller and smaller, farther and farther out of reach. neither of you say a word, but the silence is comforting. light. 

gojo is the first one to break it — in a voice so small you barely hear it.

”… you don’t look like a zombie.”

a second passes. you’re left blinking in confusion, trying to decipher the sudden statement. you can’t get a good read on his expression, with those eyes of his conveniently hidden; he must have regained his composure, then.

it takes a couple seconds for his words to sink in — but once they do, all pieces seem to fall into place. 

and you burst into laughter.

gojo blinks at you, caught off guard, his eyelashes flapping like a little dove scrambling to get off the ground — staring at you like you just grew a second head. that makes you laugh harder, a bout of giggles spilling past your lips — you just can’t help it. 

”did —” you wheeze, softly, thoroughly amused. trying and failing to bite back the laughter. ”did you think i was bothered by that, or something?”

gojo looks at you. a little stunned, for a moment. the sight only makes your smile bloom further, eyes crinkled as you meet his gaze. from the angle you’re viewing him through, leaning back against the bench, you catch a glimmer of his eyes. they’re awfully pretty — blue and bright, full of life. when you look closer, you can see tiny, tiny splotches of white. 

they look like the blue sky. 

you called them menacing, before, but now you aren’t so sure. they seem soft, in the sunlight, especially when seen like this — right after catching him off guard. it’s a rare moment, terribly precious. something to savour.

gojo doesn’t let it linger, though. 

after a moment of two, he scoffs — turning away yet again. a soft, soft pout on his lips.

”obviously not,” he huffs, sounding nothing but irritated, resting his jaw on the heel of his palm. ”but with how sensitive you are, i wouldn’t be surprised.”

usually, a comment like that would irk you. now it just makes you giggle, lightheartedly — the tips of his ears turning redder at the sound. 

(he really isn’t so bad, after all.)

for a while, you don’t say anything else. afraid of ruining the tender atmosphere. you feel closer to gojo than ever before — and you wonder if maybe this is the gojo that geto sees. childish, but well meaning. arrogant and cocky, but oddly innocent. selfish — but not really. you’re starting to think that you may have been slightly off, with that one.

the strawberry milk on your tongue tastes sweet. a little sweeter than usual, though you choose not to dwell on it.

”hey,” you break the silence, surprising even yourself. the words fall from your lips like soft little breaths, rolling off your tongue like marbles pouring out of a glass bottle. ”i don’t dislike you, you know?”

it’s an impulsive admission. saying it out loud doesn’t feel wrong, though. maybe a little humiliating, sure, but not wrong. not dishonest.

you suspect that gojo may be looking at you, out of the corner of his eye, but you aren’t sure. after all, you’re vehemently avoiding his gaze — a little embarrassed by your own sincerity. 

he doesn’t know how to respond. you’re being strangely unpredictable, today, and it makes him feel unsure of himself. your tone is soft, almost friendly. he only ever hears it when you’re talking to shoko or geto.

not learning his lesson, gojo opts to tease you again. as always. afraid to let the silence linger for too long. it’s a halfhearted attempt, though, more of a vaguely amused huff than anything. 

”what, got a crush on me or somethin’?”

this time, you don’t scoff, or roll your eyes, or give him an earnest fuck right off. you only chuckle, in a way that almost borders on fond. you’re not one to tease, contrary to the boy on your left, but your words are teasing even still. ”i have better taste than that.” 

gojo should be irked, should grumble and bite back, but you don’t give him the chance to. 

”i just… you know,” you taste the words on your tongue. ”i still think you’re annoying. and childish.” gojo huffs, and your lips curl up. ”but i really don’t dislike you.”

you take a sip of the strawberry milk, before continuing, hoping it’ll make the words easier to say. ”… and it’s not like i know you, anyway. so i’m sorry for making a bunch of assumptions.” 

a pause. for a split second, you quiet down, a little flustered. gnawing on your bottom lip.

”… that’s all i wanted to say,” you exhale, gaze glued to your lap. feeling a heat on your nape.

as always, you can’t tell what gojo’s thinking. out of the corner of your eye, you try to catch a glimpse of his face, but you have a nagging suspicion that it wouldn’t tell you anything anyway. his eyes are hidden by those sunglasses, after all, acting as a wall between him and the rest of the world. so you don’t know if the words reach him, if they mean anything at all. 

but you hope they do. even as you brush cherry petals and non-existent dust off your lap, and get up to leave.

gojo just sits there, for a second, deep in contemplation. 

he tries to bury a certain thought, before it has a chance to reach his frontal cortex — before he has to accept that it exists. only this time, he doesn’t succeed. the words die before they reach his tongue, but he hears them, in his head. he hears them loud and clear.

and he flushes under the light of the sun.

(i don’t really dislike you, either.) 

what actually ends up leaving his throat is merely a scoff, so faint he doubts you even hear it. 

”whatever,” he mutters, hoping it’ll come across as cool and unbothered. it doesn’t.

one last smile reaches your face, before you head back inside. gojo stays behind, on the bench, lost in thought.

tossing the now-empty carton into a trash can, you try to calm yourself down. feeling oddly excited, as if you’ve reached something, the start of an eventual conclusion. something worth cherishing.

you still don’t understand satoru gojo. but you get the impression that you just grew a little bit closer to him. there are layers to him, more than what meets the eye, hidden behind those sunglasses of his. you can only imagine what the world might look like, from his perspective. what you look like, reflected in his eyes, a blur of colours and facial features, sparks and dots.

you wonder if the whole world looks like a painting, to him. 

you feel a little ashamed, for thinking you had him all figured out. a spoiled, self-centered rich kid, with no functional empathic abilities. it might be partially true, but you’ll have to reevaluate the statement. to see how well it holds up. you still don’t think his emotional intelligence is anything to gawk at, but you may have been underestimating it. it’s there, despite everything — in those eyes, in that single carton of strawberry milk.

you think there’s a certain maturity, there, in spite of his childishness. or perhaps the latter is no more than a product of the former, a way for damaged children to dress their wounds. the way he carries himself and the way he speaks both seem a bit forced. like he’s used to performing, used to moving in a way that demands attention. all eyes on him, at all times. 

you think that sounds just a little exhausting. 

even as you return to the safety of your dorm room, you still can’t help but wonder. there’s still so much you don’t know. despite the moment you shared, and the connection you think may be growing between you, he’s still so out of reach. almost lonely, in a way. you wonder what he looks like, when he’s alone, when there’s no one around to perform for. 

(what is an actor without their audience?)

and, despite everything, after all is said and done — you really, really don’t understand satoru gojo. not at all, not in the slightest. not one bit.

but you think you’d maybe like to.

[monotonesmile]

Patching up a smug bird

[Damian Wayne X GN!Reader]

[Word Count: 854]

[Warnings: Minor blood and injury]

———————————————————————

“Watch it!” Damian huffs through a wince as they disinfect one of the cuts on his shoulder, sitting shirtless on a chair while they scurry around him to help assist him with his wounds from a rough night on patrol.

“Stop moving and I might be more gentle, birdie.” They raised an eyebrow at him after hearing his wince, cleaning away the dried blood from his skin, making sure there is no debris in the cut, which luckily there isn’t, a clean slice.

“Birdie?” Damian’s face scrunched at the nickname, refusing to admit that it made his chest warm, even if they were currently annoyed that he had been so reckless on patrol.

“Shh, let me finish putting some bandages on.” They shush him which makes Damian grumble to himself, watching as they carefully wrap his shoulder with bandages, checking to make sure they’re in place before the move to the next cut.

Damian stays silent as he watches them work, wincing quietly again when they start cleaning the cut on his side, he hates to show any kind of weakness, especially pain, yet they don’t care, only helping solidify in his mind even further that this isn’t the League of Assassins, that he can show pain, that he can appreciate this.

“Thank you…” Damian had muttered as he looked over at them as they placed a bandage over the cut on his side, making them blink and look up at him in surprise, not expecting genuine gratitude to come from him, at least not without a fight or bitterness.

“It’s no problem…” They murmur, a little smile making its way onto their face as they step back to look him over for any other injuries, finding none. “You’re all set, birdie.”

Damian nods, looking down at his torso to check their work, looking over the bandages decorating his dark skin. He gets up from the chair, walking over to where he threw his shirt when he had first arrived, pulling it over his head, adjusting it until it’s the way he likes.

“You’re welcome by the way.” They grin from behind him as they are putting their medical supplies back in its kit, their back facing him.

“Mhm.” Damian glances back at them from over his shoulder, narrowing his eyes a little before he walks over to them, standing behind them with his arms crossed, they could practically feel his eyes boring a hole through the back of their head.

“Yes?” They look up at him from over their shoulder, head slowly turning to face the boy wonder behind them.

“Why do you call me birdie?” Damian finally questioned, tilting his head slightly, his eyes set in a glare, although he’s not upset, he’s watching their movements, ever a tactical mind as always.

“Cause you’re a bird…?” They glance to the side before looking back at him, body slightly turned so they aren’t craning their neck over their shoulder just to look at him, it’s not a total lie…they just think it’s a cute nickname, besides, they’ve always given nicknames to the rest of the Bats!

“That is not the entire truth, now is it?” Damian immediately saw through the half baked excuse they came up with. Right. Lying to Damian is impossible.

“…no?” They mumble, not even trying to hide their uncertainty in their voice as they turn their head away from him again.

“You are a horrible liar, even Grayson is better at lying than you are.” Damian rolled his eyes, grabbing their chin to make them face him again, looking down at them with a frown.

They can’t even function after he grabbed their chin, pulling their head back towards him, they definitely hadn’t expected that, a flustered expression on their face as they look up at him with wide eyes.

“Now. Why do you call me birdie?” Damian repeated his question, leaning down slightly so he could look them in the eyes, faces close together as Damian’s voice lowered while he spoke.

“Uh…because it’s…cute…and it always catches you off guard…” They mutter quietly, their face warm from blood rushing to their cheeks at their close proximity.

“Was that so hard?” Damian huffs, noticing the flustered expression on their face, his eyes narrowing even further as he smirks, the smug bastard.

“Can you let go of my face now…?” They glance away from him, too flustered to deal with this at this point, just wanting to get back to putting their medical supplies away.

“Hm.” Damian hums quietly, before he lets go of their chin, he places a kiss on their cheek, grinning as he pulls away and releases them. “I’ll be off now, once again, thank you.” Damian grin, walking over to the window as he places his domino mask back onto his face.

“Uh- wha- ye-yeah…?” They stutter, body slumping back onto their table as Damian chuckles before leaving through their window.

“He…what?” They were more caught off guard than ever, running a hand through their hair as they leaned back against the table behind them. They'll be talking with that bird once they see each other again.

———————————————————————

[Requests are open!] (please request other characters outside of Leo, I love him, don’t get me wrong, but there are so many others.)

[miraclecherryblossomsblog]

I hope I'm not annoying you

Had another thought how would some autobots/decepticons react to their human darling just casually popping/cracking their joints

I can only imagine they're like

Darling: cracks joints

Auto/decept: concerned look

Darling: this is normal just some air bubbles stuck in my joints

Auto/decept: surprised pikachu face/ excuse me WHAT!?

Annoying me???? r u kidding AM LIVING for these ask u send op pls I LOVE THEM SO MUCH

Also LMAO YES they would be so freaked out about it cuz like for them hearing noises in their joints when they move means they either got rust which i feel like its an uncomfy pain for them or that they need oil like when ur door creeks

I remember i had a friend that would twist their headtoo high up to make it pop and legit i looked at them like this the first time they did it infront of me

that's them. that's ur cybertronian s/o being traumatized by our weird human quriks

TFO B 127: He would go from fear to amazement.

Like he was just chatting ur ear off like he always does, telling stuff that happen today in his missions or something that was like centuries ago (i headcanon he sometimes repeats stuff he's already told you cuz he kinda forgets sometimes but u dont tell him that most of the times cuz he just looks so happy 😭💕💕💕)

And you listened to everything he said, some of the stuff was hard to understand cuz u know...alien stuff BUT ANYWAY- ur back was starting to scream at you cuz u been sitting for a while now, twisting yourself to stretch, your bones letting a pleasingly loud POP!

I can imagen him letting a squeal and backing away like he just saw a rat or something 💀

and it got u asking whats up and he just points at u and ask what was that noise and u just basically tell him that human joints have air pockets and when moved or stretched they just pop, "its just a human thing, nothing unusual to us" you say shrugging to him as he slowly closes his distance to you "but doesn't like....hurt?? it sounds like it does...wait you're not in pain right now are you?!" he starts to ask in worry already thinking into carrying you to ratchet, quickly you shut his worries telling him again its just a human thing and it doesn't bring any sort of discomfort as it for us it rather helps us when we feel ache in our bodies

and feel like this would go on him asking more questions about how our bodies work, if u dont got any medical knowledge then you might just pull ur phone to answer him cuz i feel like he would ask the wildest shi fr 😭

all and all he becomes more and more fascinated by humanity the more he learns from you, specially if its from you.

[howi99]

The Grimmwalkers chapter 8

Yang: *looking at the cave entrance* You think the relics are there?

Jaune: *Pensive* Well... it's kind of hidden; there's a bunch of drawings depicting a Grimm being contained, and *sniff* it smells like humidity and guano.

Yang: *try sniffing too, smelling nothing* You got a better nose than me if you can deduce all that. *shine her scroll inside, only seeing a long tunnel* But if it was dangerous, they would have blocked the access, right?

Jaune: They did catapult us in the air without warning, didn't they?

Yang: Touché. *scratch her head* Though we still haven't encountered a single Grimm yet.

*rustle*

Jaune and Yang: *turning around, watching a singular beowolf dragging itself toward them, its body missing both legs* Uh?/What?

Pyrrha: *Landing behind it, piercing its skull with a grin* And one more! *look behind her* You're still kicking, Weiss?

Weiss: *slowly coming out of the forest, wheezing and panting, trying her best to get her breath under control* Y-yeah, i- *huff* I'm alive Pyr- *sees Jaune and Yang, looking at them in confusion* -rha.

Jaune: *raise an eyebrow* Were you two following us?

Weiss: Uh... *laugh nervously* N-no?

Yang: *fold her arms* I know you wanted to be with VB over there, *nod toward Jaune* but that feels like stalking to me.

Jaune: *snap his fingers* Oh, so you two must be the reason we didn't meet a single Grimm yet! ... *scratch his head* It's a competition? Wait... are we getting noted on how many Grimm we kill!?

Weiss: *Shake her head* It's nothing like what you two think! It's just- *thinking of an excuse and finding one quite easily* We saw you crash-land! We thought that you might have been hurt, right, Pyr?

Pyrrha: *nod* Yeah. *shrug* It's not every day you see someone break an entire tree in half and walk as if nothing happened; even I would have been hurt.

Jaune: *nonchalantly* Eh, I'm quite the tough cookie.

Yang: *to herself* Guess Ruby isn't the only one to use that expression.

Jaune: *smirk* I'm made of solid stuff! *hit his chest, making himself flinch with a painful chuckle* Oops, guess I still have a broken rib or two, huh?

Weiss: ...

Pyrrha: ...

Yang: ...!? *quickly grab his arm, panicking* YOU TOLD ME YOU WERE FINE!

Jaune: *Tilt his head* But I am?

Yang: Dude, walking around with broken bones isn't fine! That means you broke your aura, dumbass!

Jaune: *confused* It does?

Yang: YES!

Jaune: ... *frown* That can't be right. Here, look! *try using his Grimmwalker's power, but nothing happen* ... Huh, that's weird. *scratch his head* It usually works.

Weiss: *grabbing Jaune's other arm, looking at Yang* Can you excuse us? i need to talk to him.

Yang: I mean, sure, but shouldn't we warn the staff or-

Weiss: Oh, uh, don't worry! I can help him get his "aura" back. Just... I need to talk to him first.

Yang: O-ok. *watch them walk further inside the cave* ... *sigh*

Pyrrha: *awkwardly stand there* So... I don't think we've meet before?

Yang: Oh, right. Name's Yang. Yours?

Pyrrha: *smile* Pyrrha. Though you probably already knew it, eh?

Yang: *Who didn't watch much tv* No, why?

_ _ _

Jaune: What are you-*get hit in the ribs by Weiss* Urgh! WHY!?

Weiss: *angrily* REALLY? TRYING TO USE YOUR POWERS IN FRONT OF HER!?!

Jaune: *Rubbing gently his ribs* I mean, yeah? It's just black smoke; what harm can it do?

Weiss: Holy— *take a deep breath, calming herself down* Jaune, you do not possess aura. Aura looks like this. *she brings forth her own meager aura, faintly glowing in the dark* See?

Jaune: *looking behind her, in shock* W-Weiss!

Weiss: *Annoyed* I swear to the god of Darkness that if you didn't watch me, I'll— *get grabbed by Jaune, who start sprinting toward the exit* H-HEY! WHAT ARE YOU—

Deathstalker: *Roar, having sensed Weiss's use of aura*

Weiss: ... On a second note, RUN FASTER!

[cozmowrites]

Hidden Among the Shadows

arranged marriage au

====

The faint hum of the heater filled the spacious living room of the apartment. It was modern but lacked warmth, much like its current occupants. Bakugou Katsuki sat at the far end of the couch, arms crossed over his chest, glaring at the wall as though it had personally offended him.

You sat across from him, perched on the edge of an armchair, hands folded neatly in your lap. The silence between you stretched thin, so taut it felt like it might snap at any moment.

Your eyes darted to the steaming cup of tea on the coffee table. You'd made it for him as soon as you arrived, desperate to do something to ease the tension. But he hadn't touched it.

"I..." You started, voice soft and barely above a whisper. You felt your cheeks heat up as his crimson eyes flicked toward you, sharp and unyielding. "I'm sorry if the tea isn't to your liking."

Bakugou's eyebrow twitched. "What the hell are you apologizing for?"

You flinched slightly at his tone, your fingers clutching the fabric of your skirt. "I— I just... thought—"

"Stop," he cut you off, leaning forward with a sigh of frustration. "You didn't do anything wrong, so quit saying sorry for every little thing. It's annoying."

Your gaze dropped to your lap, and you nodded quickly. "S-sorry..."

He groaned, dragging a hand down his face. "This is gonna be a pain in the ass."

You bit the inside of your cheek, the words stinging even though you had expected them. You knew Bakugou wasn't thrilled about this arrangement—neither were you, if you were honest with yourself. But this was the hand you'd been dealt.

Your families had decided this was for the best. A strategic alliance, they called it. Your quirk, Umbra Manipulation, allowed you to control and solidify shadows, an ability that paired well with Bakugou's explosive quirk. Together, they said, you'd have powerful children. You thought quirk marriages were old fashion, but your parents didn't care.

Not that you had any desire to become a hero. You weren't like Bakugou—confident, brash, and full of fire. You preferred the quiet, the background, where you could avoid conflict and simply exist.

But that wasn't an option anymore.

"Hey." His voice snapped you out of your thoughts, and you looked up to find him staring at you, a scowl etched into his face. "You always this quiet?"

You hesitated, unsure if he wanted an answer or if the question was rhetorical. When his eyes narrowed, you quickly nodded. "Y-yes."

"Tch. Great," he muttered, leaning back against the couch. "This is gonna be real fun."

You shifted uncomfortably, the urge to apologize bubbling up again, but you bit it back. Instead, you tried to focus on the room around you. The apartment was clearly his, with minimal decorations and a stark, utilitarian design. Simple, modern. The only personal touch was a shelf lined with All Might memorabilia that you'd think would be kept in his room.

"You don't like talking much, huh?" Bakugou asked suddenly, breaking the silence.

You shook your head, fiddling with the hem of your sweater. "Not really..."

"Figures." He crossed his arms, his gaze scrutinizing you. "You better speak up when it matters, though. I'm not dragging dead weight around if we're working together."

The implication made your stomach twist. "I'll... try my best."

"Try?" His voice rose, and you flinched. "There's no try when it comes to this kind of shit. You either pull your weight, or you're useless."

His words hit like a punch to the gut, but you nodded meekly. "I... I understand."

He clicked his tongue in irritation, running a hand through his spiky blonde hair. "Whatever. Just don't get in my way."

The conversation lapsed into silence again, and you couldn't bring yourself to look at him. The weight of his presence was suffocating, like a storm cloud ready to burst at any moment.

"I... I can cook dinner," you offered hesitantly, desperate to fill the void. "If you'd like..."

He glanced at you, skepticism written all over his face. "You can cook?"

You nodded quickly. "Y-yes. I... I've been told I'm pretty good at it."

He huffed, leaning back against the couch. "Fine. Knock yourself out."

Relieved to have a task, you stood and made your way to the kitchen. It was as sleek and modern as the rest of the apartment, with shiny appliances that looked like they'd barely been used. You began gathering ingredients, thankful for something to focus on other than Bakugou's piercing gaze.

As you worked, you felt his eyes on you, though he said nothing. You tried to ignore the pressure, concentrating on chopping vegetables and stirring the pot. The rhythmic motion was calming, a small refuge in the storm.

"Smells decent," he commented after a while, his tone begrudging.

Your lips twitched. You weren't sure how to feel so you just nodded. "Thank you..."

When dinner was ready, you set the table and placed the dishes down carefully. Bakugou joined you, eyeing the food with suspicion before taking a bite.

He didn't say anything, but the fact that he kept eating was enough to ease some of your nerves.

"This is good," he admitted gruffly, barely looking at you.

Your heart skipped a beat at the unexpected compliment. "R-really?"

"Don't make a big deal out of it," he snapped, but his tone lacked its usual bite.

You nodded quickly. For the first time that day, the tension in the room seemed to ease, just a fraction.

It wasn't much, but it was a start.

(Edit: A continuation of this IS a fic.)

(Link to the Wattpad of this fic: https://www.wattpad.com/story/386015240?utm_source=android&utm_medium=link&utm_content=story_info&wp_page=story_details_button&wp_uname=lotusdotpng )

(Link to the AO3 of this fic: https://archiveofourown.org/works/62753884/chapters/160653781 )

+++

masterlist ⟢

more bakugou ⟢

requests ツ

[blackknight-kai]

https://vm.tiktok.com/ZMhrnNVxy/ this but with wukong, I don't think DO would be like that, more like brooding in the corner, all pouty

LOL yes anon!

While I don’t think Wukong would be insecure about your love for him or anything (if you’re together), I do think if you give just too much attention to someone else he’d start getting huffy about it.

I can definitely see you talking to someone and giving them your full attention, maybe trading stories or just idk someone who you’ve been talking to for A WHILE. And Wukong notices it and will subtly start making sure he walks by all the time and brushes his tail against you. Or hands you things like snacks or drinks or just random shit he finds purely to have your attention for a moment. Or circles behind the person the give them dirty looks. Because what makes THEM so interesting to you? (If he’s particularly annoyed he might ‘accidentally’ throw stuff at them or drop things on them or hit their shins with his staff/steel bar of a tail.)

While I don’t think he’d be overly jealous I definitely think he’d be curious as hell and probably insert himself randomly just so everyone involved knows he’s there. You especially.

Also, I was just thinking that I don’t personally think he’d be jealous of baby monkeys getting your attention BUT on the off chance that he is, I can see him being a big pain in the ass about it. He thinks its wonderful that you play with them and indulge them. That you don’t mind when they just nap on you or climb up you excitedly. At first.

But then….then you continue to do so and in turn ignore him for hours on end and even groom them as they nap on or next to you. Hearing their adorable little happy trills as you scratch them gently or comb your fingers through their fur.

It’s cute as hell. But also, WHERE ARE HIS SCRATCHES AND NAP TIME GROOMINGS? AND YOU HAVENT LOOKED AT HIM IN AN HOUR!

He’s definitely going to make sure to take the prime place on your lap for his head and require scratches and pets. Will definitely put your hand back on him if you take too long with the baby monkeys around you or in between grooming them. When the baby monkeys start climbing on him or taking naps on him too, he’s more than fine with that. As long as you give him his deserved attention too.

Destined One:

I think he’d definitely be pouty and huffy as hell. He’d sit there with his arms crossed glaring at the person who has been holding your attention for so damn long. At first he didn’t care much, but the longer you spent with them the more pouty he got. Especially when you didn’t respond to the noise he makes when he’s trying to get your attention. His frown deepens if they can make you laugh or something. He knows you aren’t into them or anything but that doesn’t mean he wants to share you especially for so long.

His tail will be thumping the ground if he’s sitting or whatever he’s standing next to. Might even “train” or something and do it loud enough to cut the person off every time they try to speak by hitting his staff against something loudly in a well timed manner.

[alexanderlightweight]

Hi i think i might be a little early for Wednesday prompts sorry ( not sure what time zone you are ) but if it sparks interest a continuation of the one shot that has manipulative magnus conspireing with cat and ragnor how to get alec to properly relax

hope you and everyone else are doing well and the moving house goes as smoothly as it can and hope you all have a nice day and that nightshade is better from battleing the bee and abyss is happier thanx for shareing your writing with us its brilliant

it has taken me a bit but I'm back and i'm answering new prompts and also making sure to not neglect and finish filling older prompts! so here we are and I hope you will still enjoy it and are doing well!

also things have been a bit off the last week but the house we moved to has been a blessing. the insulation mostly works here (which is amazing considering how hot it can get) rather than no insulation and melting shades and sparking outlets at the last place.

Nightshade has avoided bees since this incident and will sometimes bark for help and when I go to see what it is, it ends up that he's letting me know a bee got too close him and he needs comfort...

yes he is ridiculous but I love him. the Abyss is about to go be cuddled because her main person is out for a few nights and she demands pawtention! and I promised i'd annoy her with love.

<3 lumine

manipulation is rehab

Alec has figured Magnus out.

“You’re tenderizing me for the future.” He mutters into the sheets, “fattening me up and then getting my muscles nice and soft.”

“Yes darling, I’m going through all this effort so I can make a nephilim roast. Angelic meat definitely is enhanced by lavender and wintermint.”

Magnus’ rather droll tone is as soothing as his hands and Alec nods in agreement despite knowing how ridiculous he’s being.

“I’m okay with this.”

“Wonderful, you’re fine with me taking care of you as a means to devour you. Yet you shy away every time I try to ease your burden.  A true wonder you are, sweetheart.”

That sounds a little rude even if it’s not actually insulting and Alec means to complain but then Magnus’ fingers press down on a particularly stubborn knot that even an iratze can’t unravel and Alec goes even more limp.

Magnus’ fingers are as magical as his magic, which makes sense because Magnus is magical.

“Alexander, can you still breathe?”

It’s an unfair and unnecessary question, especially because Magnus’ fingers have paused and Alec whines in despair. He can hold his breath for more than long enough but apparently Magnus doesn’t agree and Magnus is the one with the power of magic and talented fingers.

With a sigh Alec turns his head away from the smothering embrace of Magnus’ many pillows.

Pillows that smell like Magnus shampoo and would have been a delightful way to go.

“Yes, Magnus. I can still breathe.”

He wiggles, trying to shimmy his back and flex the muscles there to make sure Magnus knows he can get back to what he was doing. There’s a deep, delighted chuckle above him before finally Alec has Magnus’ fingers back where they belong.

On Alec, clearly.

Which is something Alec didn’t realize for far too long and he’s going to spend the rest of his life making up for all the time he’s missed since meeting Magnus.

—-

Alexander is surprisingly docile once Magnus actually gets to work. The difficult process was getting him to settle down enough to accept comfort and help.  Now that Magnus has passed that hurdle, Alexander’s is soft clay, moldable and pliant beneath Magnus’ palms.

There’s a connection that forms between the touch of Magnus’ skin to Alexander’s that both electrifies and soothes and Magnus drinks in the soft noises of pain and pleasure that his shadowhunter makes. 

Alexander is sweetly intoxicated by magic and potions and the candles that ease him to a gentler state of relaxation. Beneath Magnus’ palms the weight of the world is shaved away and Alexander breathes deep and even and calmly.

And for once, Magnus doesn’t have to chase his shadowhunter down to keep him in one place, not when he’s eager and quiet beneath Magnus’ touch.

-

AN:

alec hasn't quite realized that Magnus just wants to take care of him. he's trying to rationalize it and he's not actually being very rational and Magnus is just tiredly amused by the whole thing and really just happy to finally get his Alexander in one place long enough to see him relax.

magnus probably could have just laid next to Alec and started napping like an hour into it, but he's so pleased by finally getting free access to Alec without interruptions or 'i have responsibilities' or 'i don't want you to trouble yourself'. Alec can't make any complaints when he's too incoherent to make sense.

Magnus is going to bite him if he keeps up the talk about Magnus just wanting to eat him though. just because Magnus only has so much willpower. which I think is fair.

alec is just really enjoying the fact that his muscles are no longer solid. he is puddle.

[jumalanpelko]

Sweats in I might make another comic oh lord

This is mostly me thinking out loud (or. Thinking in a tumblr post.)

But yeah some of you already know that I am also a indie book author and I am writing a book series in Finnish. It is called Katastrofiballadi and it has 3 books at this point

Yes those are humans you are seeing lmao yes I dont only draw cats

Lately writing has been. A lot. Mostly cause I am going to school and making Jumalanpelko and have a very annoying cat who loves to scream and make writing not possible. Writing the last book was painful and publishing sucked ass (books got lost ect).

Also I just dont have that many readers for it (1. Its not easy to get people to read indie books 2. Finland is a tiny fucking place) and as much as i am writing for myself and my friends it does make it bot very fun to work on it

And making Jumalanpelko has really made me fall in love with comics. They are just much easier for me to make and I love this story, it is very important for me.

Soooooooooooooo I might just. Comic this bitch. Make it both in Finnish and in English. I am not saying I will 100% do it or that I won't finish writing the books. Just really want to look for a way to do what I love.

Now let me tell you THIS STORY IS WEIRD

It is satire, it takes place in fictional Finland where the country has broken into city states and IT IS WEIRD LMAO

I would have to edit it a lot to make it into comic (mostly the first books since I was still very young when I wrote them and they are long) buuuut it could honestly be worth it

I will think about it and most likely post some stuff on patreon. If Im making it a comic that would maybe force me to move Ruotola as a comic I would do later ect but we will see!