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[knitepercival]

Back to them~ 😌❤️

[gay-dorito-dust]

hey author! how do you think the batboys would act if they had a best friends to lovers kinda of thing going on? like reader is their bro, their other half and then out of nowhere the batboys are like omg i love my best friend <3

Dick often made jokes in the past that it was only time before you two become the plot of a really bad romcom, two friends who pretty much did everything together, it was almost as if fate itself was trying to tell you something. A cliche friends to lovers trope just waiting to happen.

Now he couldn’t help but recognise the irony now as he holds his head in his hands, curse him and his loud fucking mouth for it always found its way to bite him in the ass sooner or later.

Dick didn’t mind falling in love, but to fall in love with your best friend after teasing about it happening for such a long time felt like karma for his teasing behaviour. He’s stuck trying to think of anything that didn’t remind him of you but unfortunately for Dick everything reminded him of you no matter where he looked, even his apartment was covered in things that you’ve left behind with no intention of taking back.

This has proven to be the perfect example of how much you’ve been overtaking his mind, slowly but surely before becoming all he could think of in his waking hours and his sleeping hours. It was driving him mad with how obvious his feelings must’ve been to the people closest to him.

You were all he knew in these moments and he was forced to be remained of his ever growing emotions with how he always seemed to be touching you in any capacity he could, his arm was often thrown over your shoulders in public or he’s holding you from behind as you stayed over at his place. He thrived off of your warmth and presence that it made going home to his place even more dull without you by his side to parent Hayley together, you’d make a great dog parent for all he was aware.

The signs were there and Dick was made to realise that he was the one who had fallen first out of the two of you, even though he wished it was you, and now all he could think was how he’d much rather have you live with him since you loved to leave your stuff at his place for convenience when you did spend the night. Hell you even cuddled together like a couple with you burying your head under his chin while he caged you against his chest with his arms as he pressed a kiss to the top of your head.

Dick knew he’d have to make a move sooner or later before someone else swoops you up right in front of him.

Damian was having his own integral crisis once he realised that he wasn’t in fact ill and was infect feeling romantic feelings towards you.

He’s against it and heavily so that he would find himself putting distance between the two of you because of it as it wasn’t something he was ready to face.

It’s very much an ‘oh shit, oh god why?!’ Type of reaction and suddenly his walls are back up. Damian knows how dangerous it would be if you were either him, as if being friends with him already didn’t put a target on your back. Not only that but he was secretly scared of what these emotions could spell out for his future.

Would he be distracted in patrols and missions to come because his mind was fixated on you and your wellbeing?

Would he become sloppy in his fighting or would he become even more ruthless at the idea of something terrible happening to you under his watch?

Damian didn’t know and he wasn’t one to ask for help either so he would often retreat to his room and put his head in his hands and sigh. Emotions were more trouble than what they were worth and it often caused him frequent headaches in the process. Damian didn’t know what to do and so he could only hope that if he spend less time with you then the feelings would go away.

However owever this plan ultimately backfires on him as he finds himself missing your presence more then he’d ever admit at gunpoint, he’d even find himself drawing you how he saw you and he’s back to holding his head in his hands and groaning at how much of a bother these emotions were going to be.

He loves you but wasn’t willing to risk your safety by taking your friendship to the next level, but even if he ever did he’ll most likely have to teach you basic hand to hand combat to satiate his concern while he’s away from you. But until then he’d rather let the emotions die in his chest, no matter how much they burn him from the inside for he’s dealt with worse.

Jason would come to this realisation that he was in love with you when he found himself becoming more protective over you than normal. And I mean more than normal.

He’d be on patrol and the first person he looks out for is you, especially if your on an late shift at work, as he doesn’t trust Gotham in the slightest at night for that was when the city was at its upmost worst. He’s watching over you like a guardian angel, a rather violent guardian angel but only towards those who deserve such lethal and or permanent punishment from his gun.

He wants you to be safe on your journey home that sometimes after beating up some goons, he’s walking you home as red hood for extra protection before bidding you a goodnight. He doesn’t care how often he has to do it because he’ll gladly walk you home no matter what, your safety was Jason’s top priority and he knew he’d hate himself more then he already did should anything happen to you when he wasn’t nearby.

He knew he had fallen for you when he became softer and more affectionate towards you, whether that be holding you by the waist as he moved to grab a cup in the morning, kissing your temple as good morning greeting, holding your hand when he feels the need to distract himself by fiddling and intertwining your fingers together.

He even remember falling more for you when you reciprocated the touches with some of your own that lead to him falling into your arms, finding his much needed solace there as he realises just how much he wanted this to be a reality you both share together, a reality where you’d lie in bed tougher and wake the other up with kisses and sweet whispers of love and adoration you had for one another.

His apartment that felt cold and dead was more alight and filled with life when you came in through the door, decorating it with trinkets and other gifts that you bestowed upon him, but what made his apparent more alive and warm to Jason and that was you with your presence and Jason didn’t know how he’d manage to live his entire life without you being his rock and his reason for everything.

So needless to say that Jason felt as though that if he’d loose you he would be a man without a cause, a man without an anchor who could aways bring him back form the brink, he knew damn well that how he treated himself now would be nothing in comparison to how he would treat himself if you left his life.

Jason needed you like he needed air to breathe, how he was going to confess he wasn’t certain but he had a thing or two in mind.

[lover-of-mine]

Okay, so, let's entertain the idea the ryliver stuff is one big distraction and Ryan is leaving for whatever reason that has twitter's panties in a twist. Ryliver did stuff together when Eddie was introduced, which makes sense, since Ryan was just getting to the cast, Eddie was written in to be Buck's partner in the field, but when they realized the people were shipping buddie, the show stopped letting them do stuff together for official purposes. They didn't even allow the 2 of them to stand next to each other after 2a ended. There was NOTHING in an official capacity to promote the show with Oliver and Ryan (tsunami? nothing. well? nothing. shooting? nothing. will reveal? nothing. eddie's breakdown? nothing) until the ET tv spot for s6. They got like 15 seconds of classical ryliver flirting in. Then nothing until the space between 703 and 704. They did a bunch of tv spots talking about the show. Then nothing until now, even though there were a lot of moments where it would make sense, Buck's coming out scene, Chris leaving, Eddie leaving. Why? Because they know queerbaiting is a marketing tactic. And they know that if they don't let Oliver and Ryan out together, they are mostly safe from the accusations. I think they are toeing the line, but for all we know they are terrified of the allegations, to the point that Oliver has fought with people on the internet about it before. Using ryliver will always feel like they are teasing buddie. That's a fact. So they are careful with how they use the two of them together. But using them right now without an actual follow-through in the show would kill the show. Everyone is pissed. They killed Bobby, and not only did they kill him, they leaked Bobby dead and buried alive before it aired and Bobby is still dead. They have 1 (one) trick up their sleeve to retain their current audience and draw in a new type of audience for s9. And that's buddie. Buddie is a one-of-a-kind ship because they would be the first queer slow burn in a procedural where neither of them was introduced as queer. This would be history in the making. Especially because they have an actual foundation with everything that happened to them. BUT this only works if the audience doesn't feel like it's them trying to cover their asses for a bad writing decision. So if they use ryliver as a distraction now without actual explicit follow-through on the show, I don't mean a kiss or getting together, in this case, a feeling realization would be enough since Eddie is still straight for all we know, they are in for a whole summer of people accusing them of queerbaiting to turn down the heat about Bobby's death, and with a reason. Because Oliver and Ryan aren't doing a few tv spots talking about filming in the middle of the ocean, they are doing thirst tweets with Buzzfeed and a 10-minute segment on ET where they interview each other that's marketed as "We're spilling the tea with Hollywood's favorite couples and biggest stars." I'm sorry, Oliver and Ryan are not "biggest stars", they're not even breaking top 3 on the main cast of the show, or an irl couple. Doing what they are doing now if nothing happens for buddie on the show is pouring gasoline into a pr crisis. They're already on fire over the Bobby stuff, using ryliver to be "oh they are brothers hihi" in current climate, will make people not watch s9. And they can't afford that because buddie is the one thing they can pull out of their sleeves to have any hope of a viewing anywhere near the one it had this season. If nothing happens, then s7 and 8 suddenly becomes a masterclass in queerbaiting. They literally can't afford that because this show is expensive as fuck to make for them to shoot themselves in the head twice in a row. So either something is happening or we are watching the show commit suicide.

[sans-enjoyer]

Inanimate Insanity Episode 16 Spoilers!!!!

its been like, two days since episode 16, and people are already arguing about Mephone's age. He is a child, and this didnt come out of nowhere guys, he's always BEEN a child:

^post from 2018!! 5 YEARS ago!

^Brian reposting art (amazing art btw<3) where Mephone is described as a CHILD and drawing in a childish way.

^Brian saying that Mephone is so young he doesn't even know how to SPELL.

Now; heres some stuff ive been hearing in argument against him being a child.

"Cobs is infantilizing him." I agree with this to a certain extent, he is acting like Mephone is a child who cant comprehend anything like an abusive parent. but thats where it stops. Children can ALSO be infantlized! But aside from that, Cobs even says; "I forgot how young you are!" Parents don't say that to their adult children, because it makes no sense unless Mephone is a child.

Secondly, why would Brian and Justin be doing the same thing? They say he's young!

"He has an adult voice." Robots don't hit puberty! This means nothing. Unless youre saying that the creators implied hes an adult because hes voiced by an adult, well i'll have to refer you to the images above.

"He hosts an entire show." Arguably not very well, also again, he's a robot, and also, theyre on an island! its not like you need a permit to film on a random island in god knows where. Any child can "host" a show if they have enough determination, general knowledge of how they work, and equipment, and would you know it Mephone has all three! He knows how they work because he watched them in meeple, and he can generate any equipment he needs.

"He's a robot, he doesn't have an age." True..? sort of...? But the thing is, being legally defined as a child is based off your mental capacity. Children arent as mentally/emotionally intelligent as grown adults, because they don't have the life experience nor the capacity to be. Mephone barely has ANY life experience, he grew up in Meeple, and then started the show immediately after leaving. And obviously, in Inanimate Insanity (and all object shows), robots are almost always sentient beings, unlike real life.

"He's much more mature than a child, especially one that couldn't spell." Debatable! First of all, he thinks things like 'going to jail for one day' and 'the calm down corner' are terrible punishments, like children. If you tell a child to go sit on the stairs for 5 minutes and frame it as a punishment, they will take it as serious as anything else. Secondly, he literally decided to make a random species of bat.. things? fight to the death because they ate his four month old ice cream. No mature person would do that... Thirdly, abused children ACT more mature than others because they HAVE to be. Abused children are not ALLOWED to act like children. They have to be mature for themselves because who else is going to be? Who else is going to take care of you when your parent doesn't? But that doesn't mean they arent still a child.

So now we tread into questionable territory. Is it okay to deny the idea that he is a child at all costs, just so you can ship him or sexualize him? There is really no other reason why you would deny that he is a child.

Now obviously; lets not harass anyone who has drawn ship art of him or sexualized him in the past. This stuff was not commonly known, most people thought he was an adult. But if you look deeper, he isn't.

Thanks for coming to my ted talk, if anyone reads this far (￣^￣)ゞI know I usually only post art, but this is an important topic to me as i am very hyperfixated on Mephone4 i swear i can't control it guys!!

Feel free to make any counter points, im open to discussion, but i am also very set on this opinion. Have a good day everyone!!☆

[bullet-prooflove]

For Rip Wheeler

“Oh, if all I got is your hand in my hand Baby, I could die a happy man”

Tagging: @1-fuzzy-squirrels @nerdypinupcrystal @babygirl8900 @domquixotedospobresblog @buckysteveloki-me

Companion piece to Thrill of the Chase (NSFW) - Rip has always loved the thrill of the chase.

Rip doesn’t have a heart, at least that’s what they say about him. They see his hard edges, his gruff exterior, the aura of violence and they think there’s a barbed wire where one should be.

For a while even he thinks it’s true. The world has battered him, bruised him, broken him, he doesn’t have the capacity for softness anymore. He tells you that after you fuck him for the second time.

“Don’t expect anything from me. I don’t have anything to give you.”

His relationships have aways been physical, raw, primal. It’s about stress relief, not connection. He assumes it’s going to be the same with you until it isn’t.

There are so many ways you’re different to the women he’s been with before. There’s a softness in you he doesn’t anticipate. You aren’t rough with him like the others, you’re teasing, gentle. When he’s camping out alone, he thinks about the light caress of your fingertips across the scars that line his left shoulder, the tender brush of your lips as you explore every inch of him.

He might fuck but you, you make love.

He tries to fight the fall, really he does but it’s a constant war deep inside of him. He forces himself to leave your bed when he’s finished with you, he redresses in the dark as you sleep, ignoring the urge to climb back into your sheets, to hold you, to love you.

He’s tired, sore and pissed off when he comes across you in the barn. He’s been pulling up hemlock all day in one of the pastures and you’re finishing a check up on John Dutton’s horse Starbuck. The old girl is getting up there these days, she’s starting to have more health problems. There’s going to come a day soon where you make the recommendation to put her down and the thought of that…

It devastates him because the two of them, they sort of grew up together. She was the first foal he birthed back in the day.

You must see the exhaustion in him, the toll of the day has taken. He thinks that’s why you reach for him, why you catch his hand when he walks by. The gesture surprises him because the women he’s been with, they’ve steered clear of his moods, they didn’t walk head first into them.

“Come home with me tonight.” You say as he turns to face you, and he sees the sincerity in your features as you draw him close. “Let me look after you a little.”

It’s the first time that anyone has ever offered him that, that they’ve cared enough to consider his wants, his needs. He’s tired of this war he’s been waging with himself, he’s tired of resisting you. All he wants right now is to curl up in bed, with the woman he’s falling in love with.

“Alright darlin.” He concedes, his thumb chasing over the blush of your cheek. “If you want me, you can have me.”

Love Rip? Don’t miss any of his stories by joining the taglist here.

Like My Work? - Why Not Buy Me A Coffee

[blainesebastian]

consequences

word count: 10,329 ship: Nick Leister x reader rating: NC-17 (for some smut, suggestive sexual language, expletives and uncomfy situations for reader--TW: assault) summary: Nick's tried his best to stay on the right track, to put fighting behind him. But when Ronnie threatens people closest to him, he has to decide whether another time in the ring will create more problems or end them. notes: 🎉🎉🎉 in getting two more films! can't wait to see what inspiration they bring notes2: gifs from this gif pack. masterlist here, thanks for reading!

This is one of the downsides, you think, to having a reputation in the ring. 

Biting on your lower lip, you cross your arms over your chest and lean against the counter where Nick is sitting on a stool. Lion lets out a long sigh through his nose, shrugging his one shoulder as he glances at his girlfriend before looking back at Nick. The whole situation makes you nauseous. Nick hasn’t fought in over a month, seemingly putting speaking with his fists and voicing his frustrations through bruised knuckles behind him. You’ve been proud that he’s been able to take a step back like that…it’s definitely not something that came easy. But he did it for Maddie, for you, not wanting to put himself into situations like that anymore. 

And yet here Ronnie is, trying to drag him back into it. 

“What, he just walked into your gym and demanded a fight with Nick?” You ask, not being able to connect the dots. 

Nick hasn’t even been to the gym lately, not in any official capacity. He boxes there, gloves on, to keep in shape, and he’s gone to watch a few fights that Lion has set up. But Ronnie hasn’t been around, the whisperings are that he’s been in jail, and your boyfriend hasn’t been causing any waves. So what the fuck? 

Lion rubs the back of his neck, “You know what he’s like, he just sinks his teeth into someone and won’t let go.” 

Nick scoffs, shaking his head, running a hand over the lower half of his face. You can sense the annoyance rolling off his body in waves, thick like smoke. His shoulders are coiled and one of his hands is flexing into a fist. You want to touch him but also know that you shouldn’t right now. You step a little closer, anyways, your hip brushing his knee. He draws in a slow breath, his hand splaying along your lower back, thumb working in circles. It’s better than nothing. 

“Well I’m not fighting him, so I’m not sure what the fuck he wants out of this.” 

“What he always wants,” Jenna grumbles, playing with one of her thin braids between her fingers, “To get under your skin.” 

“He’s definitely accomplishing that.” Nick replies. 

You roll your lower lip into your mouth, already knowing the answer to this question, yet you have to ask it anyways, “What happens when Nick doesn’t fight?” 

Lion doesn’t reply but he does glance at his friend, the response obvious in his eyes. Nick’s jaw clenches, as if he’s clamping down on his molars, before leaning back a bit on the stool. Lion puts his hands up in a ‘don’t shoot the messenger’ gesture, 

“Just communicating what he told me.” 

“Yeah, thanks.” Nick bristles, though his iciness is not intended for Lion. 

Jenna glances between you and Nick, reaching for Lion’s hand, “C’mon, let’s head home. It’s late.” 

You give her a grateful expression, a small wave for both of your friends as they head out of the kitchen and down the hall to exit through the front door. The kitchen is quiet in their absence, the sound of the refrigerator running and your shared breathing the only ambiance filling the space. You turn a little to face Nick, your hand coming up to cup his cheek. 

He flinches a little before his shoulders relax, pulled from thoughts racing through his head. You draw your thumb back and forth along his cheekbone, slipping between his legs to press a kiss to his forehead. He lets out a long sigh, his eyes fluttering closed, his hand gripping your hip like he needs that lifeline. 

You feel so fucking frustrated for him to be put into this position, all for the ridiculous reasons that boil down to Ronnie wanting to hurt someone. You don’t know the guy very well, have never wanted to since the moment you’ve met him, but lashing out like that just tells you that he’s severely unhappy with himself. This has got nothing to do with Nick. 

There’s an ache that begins in your chest, behind your ribs, when Nick leans forward until his forehead meets your shoulder. You turn your head a little, pressing a few kisses above his ear, your eyes closing for a moment. Nick, who’s worked so hard at leaving drama behind him for the sake of his relationship with his mom, his sister, himself. You hate that he’s being placed between a rock and a hard place, wishing there was something you could do to help. 

When he pulls back, he sniffs, his soft brown eyes meeting your own. He cups your cheek, his thumb brushing your lower lip before he leans forward and presses a kiss to the corner of your mouth. 

“I’m sorry,” He says after a moment and your eyebrows draw together in confusion. 

“You have nothing to be sorry for, this isn’t your fault.” 

Nick bites down on the inside of his cheek, “Just feel like you shouldn’t have to put up with so much shit.” 

A soft laugh tumbles out of your mouth, voice slightly teasing as you say, “I dunno, I feel like you’re worth it.” 

The corners of his mouth twitch, not quite a smile, but you’ll take it. He wraps his arms around you, keeping you close, and you lean against his chest, your hands settling on his shoulders. He doesn’t outright object to what you’ve said, but you can see the skeptical look in his gaze. You’re not sure what else you can offer him and you can tell he senses that exasperation with the gentle squeeze he gives you. 

You raise your eyebrows, “What are you going to do?” 

“I’m not going to fight him.” He mentions quietly. 

Nick breathes in, tipping his head down to press a kiss to your collarbone. It’s unspoken, he doesn’t know what the alternative answer is. Your stomach does an uneasy swirl, like you’re on top of a roller coaster…no idea what’s towards the bottom as the cart begins to plummet. Closing your eyes a moment, you press your forehead against his. 

“I know.” You whisper. 

Unfortunately, that’s what you’re worried about. 

—

It’s not difficult to avoid the places Ronnie usually frequents. The boxing gym, the underground racing ring, those are spots that sometimes your group ends up in, but more often than not, it’s random parties and clubs that have your attention. Nick says he’s not going to fight, but you also know what it’s like when his buttons are pressed. If he’s pushed hard enough, long enough, he’ll do what he has to. That’s the last thing you want to happen. Nick might be able to carry a win in the ring, but that doesn’t mean Ronnie’s going to respect that? Not only that, you don’t want to think about what will happen if he…

Closing your eyes, you pinch the bridge of your nose, a headache kissing your temples. 

Win or lose, this might not end well for Nick, and that has you squirming with nerves. Lion’s been in the group thread saying that he hasn’t seen Ronnie around, either, which also has you feeling fucking uneasy. Where is he? Just lying in wait? The guy has a short fuse and a violent streak, he won’t just forget about challenging Nick. 

“Y/N?” 

Your head snaps up, blinking at the barista holding onto your iced coffee. It’s clearly the second or third time they’ve said your name. A flush covers your cheeks and you step forward, an apologetic smile on your lips. 

“Sorry, thank you.” 

You pop a straw into the lid and tug your phone out of your pocket when it begins to vibrate, a fluttering beginning in your stomach as you see Nick’s name flash across the screen. 

“Hi,” You hold the phone between your ear and shoulder, making your way towards the exit, “I promise I’m on my way.” 

You can hear the smile in Nick’s voice, “You stopped for coffee, didn’t you?” 

A soft laugh sounds from your chest, “Of course not, already had my caffeine fix this morning.” 

The rumble of an engine greets you in your ear along with a hum of amusement. Nick invited you to his mom’s for the long weekend, Maddie having a football match on Saturday. You’re honored to be invited and, for once, take him up on it. Usually you let Nick have his time with her, uninterrupted, but apparently Maddie also asked after you, which is really sweet. 

“I’m really excited to watch her play,” Then, “Are you going to break up with me if I accidentally call it soccer?” Your American accent really hugs around that word. 

You can picture Nick wrinkling his nose, “Please don’t embarrass me in front of a bunch of eleven year olds.” 

Your giggle dies right in your throat as you turn the corner for your car…and see Ronnie leaning against the hood. You stop short, almost taking a step back as his eyes land on you. He stands, walking towards you quickly, your heart beginning to hammer in your throat. 

“Y/N?” Nick asks, voice shifting from warm to concerned. “What’s wrong?” 

“That Nicky boy?” Ronnie grins, and of course it’s not a question. He’s obviously here, on your car, in your space, for one reason. “Let’s tell him I said hi, yeah?” 

Before you can even think about what to do, Ronnie is grabbing the wrist of the hand holding onto your phone, yanking it towards him. 

“Let me go,” You snap. You’re not even sure what Nick is saying anymore, can hear the rushed cadence of his voice but you no longer have the speaker close enough to your ear. 

His fingers tighten, using his weight to throw you off yours, pulling you until you’re almost stumbling into his chest. Probably a terrible idea, but your other hand launches your coffee at his face, spraying him with a cupful of ice, milk and espresso. You only wish it was hot. 

Regardless, Ronnie sputters as he lets you go and you sprint towards your car. But you’re not fast enough—he whirls around before you can even get your keys out and pitches himself forward against your back so that you’re slammed chest first into the passenger door. 

You squirm, a sharp noise leaving your lips, panic clawing up your throat as you glance around at the practically empty street. There’s no one around. You’re alone. You try not to let yourself fear the worst, that Ronnie could easily force you into the car, put his body on top of yours—that there’d be no one to stop him despite how much you’d try to. 

“Shh,” He says against your ear, breath hot on your neck. You squeeze your eyes shut, swallowing bile crawling up your throat as he presses his body into yours. You hate how you can feel the hard muscles of his chest, the cold metal of a fucking gun digging into your back. 

You choke on a whimper, not wanting to give him the satisfaction of you being afraid when he rolls his hips, pulling your hair back over your shoulder. Even though you’re terrified. 

“So beautiful,” He murmurs, “You can pass somethin’ onto Nick for me, can’t you love?” He doesn’t wait for you to acknowledge him, “Be sure to tell him that if he doesn’t show up for our fight that I’ll be back to finish what I started here.” 

You swallow over a lump in your throat, a hundred thoughts spinning in your head all at once. It sounds like Ronnie’s established a date, has maybe told Lion about it, that Nick knows. But not only that, there’s a deep-seated terror rooting in your chest that as his hand slips down the front of you, toying with the button on your jeans, that he’d make good on that promise. 

And then suddenly, that pressure is gone, Ronnie backs up and heads down the street like he wasn’t just threatening to—

A sharp sound leaves your throat, your body turning to lean against your car, to look around you. But Ronnie’s gone, and so is your hope that this all might blow over.

—

It takes you a long time to gather the nerve to get into your car and drive. You’re shaking so badly that you could barely get the key to slide into the ignition. By the time you make it back to your place, Nick is already there on the front porch. There’s a bloom of guilt in your chest that he turned the car around, headed back here instead of continuing to his mother’s, but you can’t blame him either. You don’t know what he overheard on the phone, the extent of it, but you can imagine it was more than enough because he’s rushing down to your car door before you even have it open. Regret pops in your chest like a balloon—you should have called him back. 

A harsh breath leaves his lips when you step out, his eyes traveling all over your body, searching for injuries that he won’t be able to see. The untamed panic in his gaze alongside the muscle feathering in his jaw nearly takes your knees out. Fuck, he was scared.  

Your hand comes down on his forearm and you—you must be squeezing him hard because he pauses, looks at your face, taking a step closer to you. His brown eyes suddenly soften, and you then realize it’s because you’re gasping for air. You were scared too. So scared. 

“Shh,” He whispers and you nearly flinch, not stepping away from his touch but a shaky hand rests on his sternum as you try to breathe. You have to distance yourself from the feeling of Ronnie against you, his breath caressing your ear—forcibly shove it all deep inside a box, locking it. 

Nick’s patient, waiting before he moves closer to you. When you don’t object, he gently touches your waist, encouraging you to step into him. 

“You’re okay,” Nick assures. “I got you, just breathe, alright?” His hand smooths hair behind your ear, resting along your neck, thumb brushing back and forth over your pulse point. 

“You’re okay now.” 

You’re okay. You’re okay. 

You suddenly pitch forward, like you don’t have the energy to hold yourself up. He catches you against his chest, wrapping his arms around your back. Tears spill down your cheeks, your hands gripping the fabric of his shirt, like you need to be able to ground yourself in him. He rocks you gently, side to side, his lips pressing to your temple, hand working up and down your spine in soothing circles as you sob. You breathe him in, that familiar scent of cologne and laundry detergent, the warmth of his body—these are the only things that are eventually able to drive the worst of the trembles away.

—

Utter exhaustion clings to every single one of your nerve endings as you sit in your bathtub, hot water around you, knees pulled up to your chest. You rest your chin on top of your knee, Nick beside you on the edge with a washcloth in his hand. He runs it along your upper back, on your shoulders, squeezing excess water there so it cascades down your skin. Then he repeats the process, over and over, slow and careful. You recount everything that happened, even though he knows some of it. To his credit, he only pauses once to let out a slow breath from his nose before he continues washing you. 

The silence feels deafening, you're almost grateful for the trickling of water and thunder sounding in the distance. One of your hands disappears beneath the water, a murky lavender oil staining the surface a soft purple. 

“Why didn’t you tell me?” You ask after a moment, voice slightly raw, “Why didn’t you tell me that Ronnie had set a date to fight?” 

He’s quiet for a moment, working that washcloth up and down your arms, “Lion told me a few days ago, I…I didn’t think it mattered. I wasn’t going to fight him. I didn’t know…” He trails off, fingers curling around the washcloth, almost in a sharp fist, before his hand disappears under the water. 

He didn’t know this was going to happen to you. You draw in a deep breath into your lungs, holding it for a moment. You can sense it before it leaves his mouth, “Don’t apologize for this Nick, for him,” Your voice is slightly harsher than you intend, but you can’t help it, “I don’t blame you.” 

Nick scoffs a little then, biting down on the inside of his cheek, “How can you not?” 

Shaking your head, you run a hand over your face. You’re not going to have this argument with him. Nick, who’s done nothing but be a bright spot in your life—who’s been there for you, comforted you, supported you, made you laugh so hard that your stomach hurt, who’s made you feel loved in a way that no one has ever come close, who’s safe and protective and sweet…you just. You just can’t. 

You’re not upset with him for this happening, you’re more worried about what’s going to happen now that Ronnie’s threatened you. 

“Please just do me a favor,” You whisper, to which Nick curls some of your hair behind your ear. 

A pause, “Anything.” 

You turn your head a little to look at him, tracing the handsome lines of his face, “You’ve been doing the right thing, staying out of trouble, don’t let him take that from you.” He opens his mouth, “Please.” And he buckles even though you know that’s the last thing he wants to promise. 

Nick nods softly, leaning forward to press a long kiss to your temple and then offers to wash your hair. 

—

There’s hands on your body that you don’t recognize. Pulling up a shirt you have on, tearing at it, forcefully ripping your jeans open, breaking the zipper. Those aren’t Nick’s hands. His hands are never violent, not towards you, they’re gentle and respectful and knowing. These other hands bruise on purpose, grab, oppress—his body is so heavy on top of yours, you can barely breathe, panic seizing your windpipe. 

“Here to finish what I started,” Ronnie says roughly, against the shell of your ear—

And then you jerk up in bed, heart pounding in your ears, your eyes wild as you take in your surroundings. It takes a long minute to figure yourself out, to get your heartbeat out of your throat, to breathe normally without feeling like you’re gasping for breath. You squint against the dark of the room, a storm raging outside, thunder cracking the air apart as lightning fills the room with brief, pinkish light. You lean back against the headboard, your hand on your chest, turning your head to Nick’s sleeping form beside you. 

A small smile tugs the corners of your lips despite the rude awakening as you look down at him, asleep on his stomach. You’ve always made jokes about him being a heavy sleeper, that a nuclear bomb could probably go off and he wouldn’t stir. Tonight is no different. You brush your fingers through the curls in the front part of his hair, savoring the heat of his body, how he makes you feel protected. 

You’re safe here. 

Feeling a light sheen of sweat sticking to your skin, you carefully pull yourself from bed, making your way in the dark to your bathroom. Flipping the light on and closing the door just a little, you lean against the counter, turning the water on and giving it a few moments to warm up. You don’t want to look at your reflection, but your gaze travels up on its own accord. Definitely a little worse for wear—hair a bit disheveled, bags under your eyes like someone has smudged purple paint with their thumbs, and cheeks flushed. You’re not sure what time it is, but you can guess that you haven’t been asleep very long. 

Grabbing a washcloth, you dip it underneath the water, turning your head towards the door when you hear it creak open. Nick leans against the doorframe, looking far too handsome for someone who’s just woken up, still a little dazed in how he looks at you. Against your will, a small smile finds its way onto your face again when you notice the pillow impressions on his one cheek. 

“I didn’t mean to wake you.” Your voice is soft, almost too quiet in the space. 

Nick shakes his head, taking a few steps into the bathroom. He reaches to take the washcloth from your hands, his bare chest brushing your shoulder as he draws your hair back from your neck. He slides the fabric along there, an audible sigh leaving your lips as your eyes close. His other hand rubs your back in long strides. 

“Nightmare?” He asks after a moment, voice still rough with sleep. 

You swallow, nodding, sometimes wishing he didn’t know you so well. You know there’s nothing to be ashamed of, and yet, it sticks like molasses in your throat—the words you want to say. He must sense that struggle because he clears his throat, gliding the washcloth along the back of your shoulders, 

“I used to have them all the time when my mum left.”

You turn your head a little to look at him, eyes brushing over his form, the way his eyelashes rest on his cheeks, the fullness of his lips, the way he’s prying himself open so you’re not the only one feeling vulnerable. It makes you fall a little more in love with him, as if it’s possible. 

“They were the worst because I used to…dream that these terrible things had happened to her and…” 

He trails off but you get it. You reach your hand out, tracing the line tattoos that you can reach on his skin. The birds on his ribs, the Roman numerals under his shoulder blade, the knot on his inner arm. 

“And then you woke up and she was really gone,” You whisper, “You couldn’t check on her.” 

Nick’s lips tip up, just a little, because you understand. He nods, cupping your cheek and brushing his thumb over the bone there. “You don’t have to tell me what it was about,” Though you’re sure he can guess, “But I know how real they can feel.”

You swallow over a thick emotion in your throat, leaning forward to press a kiss to his jawline. When you crawl back into bed, he pulls you a little closer than before, threading his fingers through your hair until you fall asleep. 

—

You spend most of the next day at Nick’s place, just…not wanting to be alone. You’re both still intending to head out to the countryside, to his mother’s place, but you want to be in a better headspace to see Maddie. And Nick’s not leaving without you. So it’s a slow morning, sleeping in and eating breakfast outside because the weather is slightly warm but not overbearing. 

Nick’s gone in to grab his phone when he realizes he doesn’t have it and you eventually pick up your mug and decide that a refill is in order. Definitely a two to three cup of coffee kind of day. When you round the bend, the kitchen door is already open and voices are fluttering out onto the wind. It’s Nick and…Lion. Lion, who sounds a little exasperated as he lets out a sigh. 

You pause, your eyebrows drawing together. You know you shouldn’t eavesdrop but it doesn’t take much of a jump to guess what they’re talking about. 

“Look, I get what happened was awful…” 

“No,” Nick interrupts, voice as hard as steel, “You don’t. She was terrified. I’ve never seen that look on her face before and I don’t…I can’t see it again.” 

“So you agree then,” Lion sounds like he takes a step closer to where Nick is standing, his words firmer, “You’ll just get the fight over with, put Ronnie in his fucking place and move on.” 

Your stomach plummets, the silence in the kitchen nearly deafening. You’re not sure what to make of it, can picture Nick leaning against the kitchen counter with his hands flat on the marble, contemplating Lion’s words. 

But then, “No. I’m not going to fight him.” 

Lion scoffs, definitely sounding pissed, “Why? Because Y/N doesn’t want you in the ring? It’s selfish of her to—”

“You better watch what comes out of your fucking mouth,” Nick interrupts, tone deadly calm, cutting like a blade. 

You straighten your shoulders, swallowing over what feels like glass in your throat. The last thing you want is to cause a rift between Nick and one of his oldest friends but…you’re not about to say you want him to change his mind. You agree that something needs to be done about Ronnie and while you don’t have an alternative solution? You know that fighting in the ring won’t change anything. Right? 

Lion lets out a slow breath, “I’m sorry, I’m just—” 

Nick interjects again, words calmer this time, “I’m taking Y/N out to my mum’s for a few days, I’ll figure out what to do about Ronnie, okay?”

There’s a beat before Lion mumbles something, maybe words of agreement or goodbye, you’re not sure. But when the kitchen sounds like it’s just Nick moving around, you push yourself forward again, heading into the space trying to act like you didn’t have a metaphorical ear to the door. 

He reaches for the mug in your hand, taking it, his fingers brushing with your own. He puts it down on the counter, filling it up with fresh coffee. His eyes flicker over to yours, a knowing smile pulling the corners of his mouth. 

“Heard all that, did you?” 

You can’t help but smile back, caught red-handed. You rub the back of your neck, “Not…entirely on purpose.” 

He hums lightly but doesn’t reply, instead turning to get your favorite creamer out of the fridge for you. You’re quiet for a few moments, adding lumps of sugar and a splash of hazelnut creamer to your mug. The space fills with the sound of your spoon gently clinking against the walls of the ceramic. 

“Did you consider it?” You ask quietly after a moment, “Just…getting the fight over with?” 

You don’t mean to keep bringing it up but…you can’t tell where Nick fully stands on the idea. He seems to be teetering between the pros and cons, knowing he could probably finish a fight outright with Ronnie in a little over five minutes. You just…wish you were that confident about all of it. The negatives just completely outweigh anything positive for you. Things can often go far too wrong—you wouldn’t even trust Ronnie to handle this fight fair. 

A flutter of fear kisses the ends of your ribcage when Nick laughs, though the sound is humourless. 

“It’s really fucking tempting, not going to lie to you about that.” He shakes his head, a muscle feathering in his jaw, “I could strangle him for putting his hands on you.” 

You want to step forward and tell him that you’re okay, that Ronnie doesn’t matter, but that would be a lie. Him accosting you like that, in broad fucking daylight, and just…you’re supposed to what? Move forward as if it hasn’t shaken you to your core? It’s not possible, and Nick’s able to read you like an open book, like it’s the easiest thing he’s ever done. Usually you’re really fond of that, that he sees you, knows you. But in this case? Part of you wishes you could pretend. 

You wrap your hands around the warm ceramic, “That’s not going to help anything.” You offer gently, Nick wandering over to lean his side against the counter, regarding you. 

He moves his hand to brush his fingers through your hair, tucking it behind your ear. You lean into the touch, one of your hands coming up to wrap around his wrist, turning your head to kiss his pulse point. You then rest the side of your face in the palm of his hand, closing your eyes when his thumb traces your cheekbone. 

“It’d be worth it.” Nick replies, voice lowered as if telling a secret. There’s a finality there that makes a shiver travel down your spine, and for a moment? You almost let that convince you that he’s right. 

That it would be worth it. 

—

The drive to the countryside is calm, the rumble of the engine of the red McLaren comforting underneath you. You lean your head back against the leather seating, watching the trees and pavement swirl by. Despite feeling a little tired from generally not sleeping well, you’re looking forward to being elsewhere, like you’re able to get away and remove yourself from the issue that is Ronnie. It bothers you that there’s no set plan in order to deal with him but at the same time, you know you can’t let that completely overtake your weekend. You’re looking forward to seeing Nick’s mom and Maddie, cheering her on for sports. Just like you told Nick, Ronnie doesn’t get to take those things from you. 

Turning into the gravel driveway, Nick’s hand comes down to squeeze your knee as he puts the car into park. 

A soft smile tugs the corners of your mouth, “Thanks for still bringing me here.” I really needed it is unspoken, between your words. 

Nick leans across the center divide, his hand cupping your cheek. He tugs you a little closer, pressing a soft kiss to your lips. Not nearly enough. You breathe in a sigh of relief at his touch, still a little bit of a whirlwind that he has that sort of effect on you. 

“You know you’re always welcome,” He smiles a little as he hears the front door open, Maddie spilling out and calling his name. “My mom really likes you.” 

You playfully bat your eyelashes, opening the car door, “What’s not to like?” 

Nick lets out a soft laugh, getting out of the car. He reaches down and scoops Maddie up into his arms when she runs over to him, giving her a spin that makes her giggle. It pulls an even bigger smile onto your face at seeing them together. And despite the swirling uneasiness that’s become home in your chest at this whole Ronnie thing, it slowly begins to fade into the background as you greet Maddie and Nick’s mom. 

—

Maddie completely crushes it at her game. You’re not one hundred percent on all of soccer’s, or well, football’s rules but you have a perfectly fun time. The sun’s out, the air is a little crisp, you’re wrapped up in one of Nick’s sweaters and you ask a lot of questions when it comes to the team playing. Nick is patient and answers everything you need to know, his smile a constant, beautiful thing on his face. He really loves being around his sister—you wish you could bottle this expression and keep it for yourself on days that feel particularly brutal. And it’s not that he’s not happy back in London but…it’s like a piece of himself is visible here that’s not usually shared. 

You love it. You love him—even if it’s something you haven’t been able to say outloud to him yet. 

Once back at the house, you unbutton your jeans to tug them off your legs, Nick’s sweater resting long on your body. The fabric brushes over your thighs as you wander over to your suitcase, trying to find the pair of leggings you packed. 

There’s a knock on your door that can only be one person, so you tell him to come in. 

Nick pushes his way inside, closing the door behind him. His eyes skitter over your form, drinking you in, something warm and possessive in his gaze at seeing you in his sweater. He turns his head towards the hallway, listening for something, then he reaches for you. He pulls you close by yanking on the sweater, a soft laugh tumbling out of your mouth as you nearly tumble into him. 

Your hands settle on his chest, on the soft fabric of his t-shirt, playing with the silver chain resting there. Tipping your head up, your noses brush together before he kisses you, his arms strong around your waist. One of his hands slip up and under the sweater, toying with the band of the bralette you have on, a shiver shuddering down your spine. 

You don’t realize you’re walking backwards with him until your back bumps against the doorframe where the closet is, Nick squeezing his hands along your hips. He lifts you up in one fluid motion, your legs going around his waist, one hand on his shoulder, the other tangled in the curls of his hair. A soft noise rumbles in your chest and you pull back just slightly, despite not wanting to, 

“Nick,” You whisper against his lips, “Your mom is literally down the hall making dinner.” 

He smiles, squeezing your thigh, his hand slipping underneath and brushing the fabric of your panties, “Then I guess you better be quiet.” 

Molten heat slides through your veins like honey, making a flush splotch the back of your neck and chest. You cup his cheek, pressing your thumb to his lower lip, which just makes him smile. He leans in and kisses you again, this time sliding his tongue against your own. Fuck. 

“Bed,” You whisper against his mouth. “Please.” 

“Since you were so polite.” He grins, carrying you over and laying you down. 

He rests his body on top of your own, your legs splaying open to accommodate him. You’re pretty sure you could never get tired of kissing him, of the feel of him, unsure how you managed before you were together. Nick grinds his clothed cock into your thigh, a struggled groan reverberated in his chest before he slides down your body. You tug the sweater up, his fingers wrapping around your waistband of your underwear and tossing them to the side once they’re off. 

His hands spread your legs, your breathing a little uneven as you’re exposed to the cool air. Nick plants kisses along your inner thigh, his eyes flickering up to your own as his tongue slips between the seam of your lips. Your hips jerk up, a strangled noise leaving your throat, a chuckle rumbling in Nick’s chest as he pulls back. 

“Quiet,” He teases, brushing a kiss to your knee. 

Your hand slips over your mouth but not before sticking your tongue out at him. 

“Careful,” He muses, his hand sliding between your legs. You’re so wet for him that his finger slips into you easily, almost no build-up before he adds another. “Or I’ll make you put that tongue to good use.” 

A soft groan muffles against your hand and Nick’s tongue returns to your clit, the pleasure so sweet you’re nearly tumbling over the edge. You yank on his hair, probably a little harder than you mean to, but he stops to look up at you. 

“Not like that, I want you up here.” 

Nick smiles a little, pulling back and undoing his jeans. You sit up, helping him get his clothes out of the way even though he doesn’t need it. You lick your lips as you get a good look at him, his cock pointing towards his stomach, head slightly red and leaking precum. Fuck, he’s so beautiful. Your hand wraps around the base and Nick lets out a low breath, his cock jerking at your touch. You lean down, pressing a kiss to his stomach before sliding him past your lips. The taste of him, the way you can feel him throb against your tongue, the moans he makes—all of it just turns you on even more, the pulse of your clit almost painful. 

“Not gonna last if you keep that up.” He threads his fingers through your hair, holding it back a little. 

The only reason you don’t finish him off is because you want him so much closer than he is. You lay back in bed, Nick making sure his jeans are past his knees, so he can crawl over top between your legs. He rests his body along yours, using his arms to prop himself up so he doesn’t crush you. He brushes your nose with his in a bunny kiss and you let out a soft laugh, your leg lifting so that you can slide your hand between you and guide him where he needs to go. 

He rolls his hips forward, a choked noise leaving your lips as your head tips back. He rubs your hip, creating a rhythm that reaches deep inside of you, stoking a building fire. His lips find your neck, kisses along your pulse point, your hand traveling down his back and digging fingers into his skin. It doesn’t take long for your toes to curl, that escalating heat finally reaching a peak. You wrap yourself around him, cumming hard, clenching down on him. He hides his face in your neck as he loses himself in you, pleasure licking your nerve endings and making you feel slightly dizzy. 

Nick leans up just a little, kissing the corner of your mouth. 

You’re about to say something, though you’re not sure what words are fully formed in this orgasm-induced haze—but there’s a knock on your door. 

You freeze, your eyes widening as Nick smiles, gently pressing his finger against your lips. 

“Y/N?” Nick’s mother calls through the door, “Dinner’s ready—have you seen Nick?” 

You poke his side, a laugh leaving him as air out of his nose. His hand leaves your mouth and you barely manage, “I haven’t! No idea where he is. Be right out!” God. Smooth. 

Nick’s mother hums but she wanders down the hall and your boyfriend slowly pries himself back, leaving you feeling slightly cold and altogether too empty. Thank god for a connecting bathroom, he grabs a warm washcloth, cleaning you up before himself. 

“You really have no idea where I am?” Nick asks, voice warm in amusement. 

“Hush,” You laugh, pushing him away so you can sit on the edge of the bed. Your underwear are…somewhere, should probably find those and then grab those leggings to head to dinner. 

Nick buttons his jeans and heads to the door, opening it up to peek into the hallway to make sure no one is there. Grabbing his sweater off the floor, you slide it over your body so that you have something on. When the ghost is clear, he leans back in and presses a kiss to the bridge of your nose. 

“Maddie wants to play goalie with you later.” 

You raise your eyebrows in soft surprise but your heart warms at the invitation. Maybe something after dinner before the sun goes down. “Really?” 

He shrugs his one shoulder, stepping into the hallway, “Can’t be worse than hide and seek.” 

Nick’s mother rounds the corner, seeing him outside your room, as if he’s appeared from wherever he’s been hiding out. 

“Oh there you are,” She smiles as she passes, touching his hair. “Dinner’s ready.” 

Nick hums, giving you a once over before taking another step back. “Might want to put some pants on.” 

You scoff out a laugh as he winks and you playfully close the door in his face. 

___

A few days in this countryside bubble has you feeling an overflow of emotions. On the one hand, you’re completely relaxed, enjoying Nick’s mom and sister and spending time getting to know them. On the other hand? Nightmarish thoughts encroach on you from their dark corners when you least expect it, causing anxiety to bloom— thinking about going back, about what’s going to happen when you do, about what (or rather who) might be waiting. You can’t hide out at Nick’s place forever, eventually you have to be home. Alone. There’s a pit in your stomach at Ronnie finding you again. 

As you sit on the floor in the living room, against the couch, Nick lying on it behind you, Maddie plops down directly in your line of vision. You manage to tug your legs aside just in time so she doesn’t crush them. She pushes her long brown hair over her shoulder,

“Do my hair, Y/N!” 

A soft laugh rumbles in your throat as Nick turns his head. “You wanna try that with a ‘please’, Mads?” 

You want to tell him that it’s okay but she turns around and gives you a big toothy grin. “Pleaaase.” 

You encourage her to sit back between your legs and as a movie plays in the background, you gather her long strands into your hands and begin to separate them. You decide on two fishtail braids, taking your time. A soft hum leaves your lips as calming actions take over and you let your mind wander as you braid. You then tug your bag that was on the coffee table closer, looking in a zipper part for…

“I got these butterfly clips in here,” You spread them throughout the braids with a soft smile, “Very pretty.” You do the sides as equally as you can, looking at your handiwork as you squeeze her  shoulders. 

“Alright, all done.” 

She pulls back from you, grinning as she holds one of the braids over her shoulders. “Nick, look.” 

He turns on his side, propping himself up on his elbow. He smiles, his one hand pressed against your shoulders, his thumb lazily rubbing a circle into the muscle under your neck. 

“Those look great. You better not try and put any of those clips into my hair later.” He points at her as she stands but his voice holds no threat, because he knows she will, and she giggles as she runs off to show her mom. 

He leans forward and kisses the back of your head and you sense it’s a thank you for his sister’s hair, even though there’s no reason for him to offer that. You turn a little to face him and his eyes brush over your face, reading you far too easily. 

He cups your cheek, curling your hair around your ear. “You alright?” 

You chew on the inside of your cheek but nod, unspoken concerns heavy on your shoulders. Nick lets out a slow breath through his nose, shifting back on the couch. He pats the space in front of him,

“C’mere.” 

He doesn’t have to ask you twice, you pull yourself up off the floor, crawling onto the cushions in front of him. You’re tucked so easily into his body, his arm wrapping around your back and waist. Your face fits against his shoulder, breathing him in, eyes fluttering closed. He threads a few fingers through your hair, dipping his chin so that his nose and lips are against your temple. 

One of your hands slip up the back of his shirt to feel the muscles there, fingers tracing random shapes into his warm skin. You hate to say this—you’ve been thinking about it for far too long, about Nick not fighting but…what is the other way around this? Ronnie doesn’t care about pushing buttons, about threatening people that Nick cares about to make him bend. 

And while you’re scared about your boyfriend getting hurt…what’s the alternative? Hiding out here forever? 

You lean back just enough to tip your chin up, looking into his pretty brown eyes, that spackling of beauty marks on his one cheekbone, the softness of his lips. 

“If you…” You swallow. “If you fought Ronnie, you really think you could put him in his place?” 

His eyebrows draw together, not quite at your question, but because you’re asking him about something you’ve been so against. And you still are, you’re just not sure what else can be done. Especially since there’s that unspoken rule about not going to the police. 

“Do you mean if I think I could beat him?” He asks before nodding, “Yeah, I think I could.” And there’s no layer of cockiness there, just an honest response. “I’m a little faster than him and Ronnie fights angry—he lets himself get worked up and his punches are sloppy because of it.” 

You swallow, playing with his silver chain between your fingers as you nod. 

“Look at me,” He gently tips your chin up, “I know your stance on this—we can find another way.” 

You let out an exasperated breath. You want to believe that, you really do, but, “Like what? I haven’t been able to stop thinking about it. I want a better solution but…what if Lion is right?” 

Nick lets out a slow breath through his nose, his hand resting along your jaw as he considers what you’ve said. You swallow, closing your eyes again for a moment, pinching the bridge of your nose with your thumb and forefinger. 

“I’m sorry, I’m — I’m going against everything I’ve said, I just…” Nick gently pulls your hand away from your face, kissing your forehead, encouraging you to release those thoughts that are trapped behind your tongue. 

“I don’t want you to get hurt, I don’t want you to jeopardize anything you have with Maddie, but he—“ You let out a slow breath. “What he said to me, what he did…” 

Nick’s jaw clenches, nostrils flaring as he squeezes your fingers. He lifts your hand, pressing a kiss to your knuckles.  There’s a solemn look to his face, like this is nothing he hasn’t done before and that, if he has to, he’ll do it again. 

“I’m not going to let anything happen to you.” He replies, his voice surprisingly soft given the heated resolve in his eyes. “Okay?” 

You nod softly again, your forehead pressing against his before closing your eyes. 

—

You know there was a promise for Nick to stay out of trouble, to not allow Ronnie to take any progress that’s been worked for. Yet, as you stand in the locker room of Lion’s gym, you wonder if this is somehow the right thing and you just…hadn’t realized it at the time. Ronnie only seems to speak one language and it’s this, through his fists, through violence. Nick used to be like that when you first met him—it’s taken him a long time to learn that his hands can be used for something other than throwing a punch. 

You love the way his fingers cup your cheek or rest on your lower back, how his hands lift Maddie into the air to spin her until she giggles, how he cooks and bakes with such precise movements it appears innate, thumb pressing against your lower lip, fingers curled inside you—Nick’s hands are made for much more than this. 

Straddling one of the benches in front of your boyfriend, you reach for one of those hands, helping him tape it up. Leaning down, you press a long kiss to his knuckles. His thumb moves, brushing your jaw, 

“Are you sure this is what you want?” 

Your eyes meet his and you swallow, shaking your head, “I don’t want you to do this if you don’t want to.” 

“That’s not what I meant,” He replies gently, “When Ronnie came after you, he made this personal. I don’t care much about him making threats towards me, but…” He shakes his head, unable to finish his sentence. 

But you understand those unspoken words, you feel the weight of that consequence pushing into your ribs. He’ll fight Ronnie with no problems, no regret, but he’ll also bend whatever direction you wish. 

And that commitment to you nearly takes your breath away. 

You squeeze his hand before letting go, grabbing his other one to begin taping again. “As long as you’re okay with this, then so am I.” The words taste slightly sour in your mouth, your stomach churning, but…there’s a small bloom of hope at the bottom of your ribs that all of this might be fixed by the end of the night. 

Nick inches closer on the bench, his skin smells like lingering cologne and something purely him. It makes your eyes flutter closed, breathing him in, that comfort that a person you trust brings, in which there are no words to describe it. He presses a long kiss to your forehead, brushing your hair over your shoulder with the hand you’re not holding. 

“If I told you to wait in the car, would you listen?” He asks, voice murmured against your skin. 

“No,” You smile lightly, “You’re stuck with me.” 

A ghost of a smile brushes over Nick’s lips, his thumb running along your lower one. “I guess I wouldn’t have it any other way.” 

—

Wrapping your arms around yourself, you stand on the outskirts of the ring with Jenna, Nick warming up in the center. You can’t even appreciate the long lines of Nick’s body, the way his muscles move with each punch, because you’re so nauseous. When Ronnie steps through the crowd, you really think you’re about to be sick. You swallow down bile gathering in your throat, straightening your shoulders, attempting to look unconcerned when he finds your gaze—winking with a wave. 

“Be right with you after I’m finished, love.” 

You bite down hard on your back molars. Nick notices right away, taking a violent step forward and pushing Ronnie in the shoulder to throw him off balance. Both Lion and a few other guys have to step in-between. 

“Not until the bell rings,” Lion is saying over the chaos. 

Nick points at Ronnie, visibly shaking because he’s so pissed, “You got something to say, you say it to me. Don’t even fucking look at her.” 

But Ronnie knows exactly what pressure point he’s pressed, grinning at him. “Oh c’mon Nicky boy, she’s a nice winning prize.” 

“Nick, don’t.” Lion warns at the same time you reach out and grab onto Nick’s wrist. 

He’s an exposed live-wire, so he doesn’t realize it’s you until he whirls around, almost reacting before he thinks. You squeeze, forcing him to look at you. You remember what he said about Ronnie fighting angry, Nick can’t be allowed to fall into the same trap. Not because of you. 

“Stop,” You soothe, running your thumb along his pulse point underneath his thumb, “I’m fine. He’s just using me to upset you, don’t let him.” 

You step closer to cup his cheek, pressing a kiss to the corner of his mouth, and just like that he noticeably eases. He lets out a long breath through his nose, closing his eyes for a moment as you squeeze his wrist again. 

“Okay?” You ask softly before he gives you a sharp nod. 

Lion’s hand comes down on Nick’s shoulder, gently encouraging him towards one side of the ring as Ronnie sets up in another. He’s got that manic grin showing his teeth, and as you back up to stand with Jenna, her arm coming around you in a comforting gesture…

You can’t wait for Nick to strike that look right off his face. 

—

When the fight starts, you force yourself to keep your eyes open, even when Ronnie throws a punch to the stomach, even when Nick’s blood speckles on the floor from being hit in the face. A sharp noise leaves your lips, your hand covering your mouth, Jenna’s arm slipping around your back to keep you close as the two bodies move in front of you. You’re not trying to keep track of a winner, you don't think you can stomach it anyways, but you’re aware that it’s only over when someone doesn’t get up.

When Ronnie delivers a punch that snaps Nick’s head back, you let out a sharp noise and turn a little bit into Jenna. “Fuck, this is…this is all my fault.” 

Jenna shakes her head. “Don’t think that. It’s not.” She squeezes around your shoulder.  “Nick was always going to end up here. Regardless of how you felt about it, I think you know that.” 

You swallow a knot in your throat, watching Nick land on the ground but he’s quick to get back up. He bounces backwards on the balls of his feet, avoiding a swinging punch. 

Despite not wanting to hear it, you know Jenna’s right. Ronnie was never going to leave it alone, leave you alone. If anything, Nick’s wildly protective over the people he cares about. Even though it upsets you to think about it, maybe the only outcome was Nick in the ring. You close your eyes for a moment, rubbing the bridge of your nose. 

Jenna rubs a calming circle against your arm, Nick getting a hard hit across Ronnie’s jaw. He spits at him over the noise, “This fight is pathetic.” 

Ronnie laughs, his teeth red from blood. “And yet here you are.” 

Nick takes a step forward, looking like he’s going to throw left but he cuts right. It’s a sharp move and it throws Ronnie off balance, making him stumble. 

“You think that means anything?” Nick asks, “You had to assault my girlfriend to get me here. Threatening people to get your way?” He smiles, something calm and easy—but you know Nick, that glint to his eyes, like he’s a snake coiled up lying in wait. 

“That makes you a fucking loser no matter how this turns out.” 

You can tell the exact moment that his comment lands, like a blow itself. Ronnie rears back a bit, his eyes a little wild, and he grits his teeth before he throws himself forward with messy abandon. Nick was right, Ronnie is sloppy when he’s pissed off. He’s throwing punches just to see if anything hits, he’s not being calculated or worried about wasting energy. It takes twice as much to swing and miss than to make contact, and right now Nick is capitalizing on that, avoiding every poorly aimed punch. 

And then Nick flips to the offensive. 

There’s no downtime, he’s just a flash of movement, well-practiced balance and measured blows. There’s no moment in which he allows Ronnie to recover, to rethink strategy—he gets him on his knees and then hits with his elbow. Ronnie goes down like a bag of bricks, Nick leaning over him, breathing a little heavily before spitting blood onto the pavement near his head. 

“Don’t get up.” Nick warns, but he waits, just in case. 

Ronnie rolls over, a tooth coming out of his mouth when he coughs, and your heart begins hammering in your ears as you stare at him. Wondering what he’s going to do. 

When Ronnie doesn’t move, the bell rings, and you let out a harsh breath as you realize it’s over. It’s fucking over. 

As Nick turns, looking for you in the crowd, Ronnie grunts and—there’s a flash of silver in the light, something sharp tucked away in his boot—

Dread explodes in your chest, the sound of everyone around you becoming a dull roar in your ears, your heartbeat in your throat, “Nick,” You sound like a pinched scream, a warning. 

Ronnie thrusts his arm forward, but Nick jolts to the side at your panicked voice, avoiding—yes, that’s a knife. Before he has time to try again, Nick wails his arm back and punches him. This time he hits Ronnie straight in the nose—bone crunching and blood spurting like a fountain, the momentum of his strike knocking him out cold. He tumbles to the ground, the knife skidding across the concrete. 

Your heart is beating so hard in your chest that you feel lightheaded, your hand covering your mouth because—because—

Nothing can keep you firmly planted where you are, rushing through the small crowding of people to where Nick is. As he turns, you throw yourself against his chest, wrapping your arms around his neck. You can feel him wince against the sudden onslaught, but he doesn’t protest, doesn’t try to push you away. He dips his chin a little, his face against your shoulder. 

“It’s okay,” He murmurs, threading his fingers through your hair, his arm wrapping around your waist and squeezing despite the fact that it probably hurts him. “I’m okay.” 

You screw your eyes closed against the onslaught of tears, your breathing uneven. There’s a distant realization that blood is probably getting all over your clothes, but you can’t find it within yourself to care.

—

You feel like your lower lip is sore from how often you’ve been biting it, leaning against the kitchen counter in Nick’s home, watching as Lion helps wrap Nick’s ribs. All things considered, Nick’s alright, you should focus on that. And yet, you can’t stop yourself from running over the black and blue splotches and the cuts and—and what could have happened. Ronnie with a fucking blade. Your fingers shake as you rub one of your red and slightly swollen eyes. At least the crying has stopped. Barely. 

You draw in a sharp breath, shifting uneasily, “Can I help with anything?” There’s a silent plea in your voice that has Nick’s gaze meeting your own. He glances down at Lion, shifts on the stool, and then reaches his hand out towards you. 

Walking towards him on wobbly knees, your fingers easily lace with his. He brings your hand to his lips, pressing a kiss to your knuckles. “Why don’t you go put on one of my shirts?” He says gently and you know he’s referring to the blood on your clothes that you haven’t been able to look at, “I’ll be right up.” 

You let out a slow breath through your nose and nod, turning to head upstairs. You check your phone on the way to Nick’s room, knowing that Zach’s been putting messages in the group thread about Ronnie. He’s been arrested again—getting into fights like that, along with carrying around weapons, are violations of his parole. Go figure. You close your eyes, squeezing your phone, trying to calm your hammering heartbeat. 

Thank god for small favors. 

Pushing your way into Nick’s bedroom, you undo your jeans and toss them towards the wash and grab a soft, black, cotton t-shirt to tug over your head once your own shirt is off. You try not to have your gaze linger on the splotches of crimson on the baby blue fabric, the scent of Nick’s laundry detergent calming your nerves as you press your nose into the sleeve. 

Heading into the bathroom, an automatic light flicks on, casting a soft glow on the marble. You tug open one of the mirrors and pull out a small first-aid kit. You know that Lion’s probably taken care of most of Nick’s injuries downstairs, but there’s this overwhelming urge to help, to do something. Distantly, you know there was no way around all of this, and you’re not…upset, exactly, with how things turned out. But…

“You okay?” Nick asks, nearly making you jump out of your skin. 

“I feel like I should be asking you that.” 

His left shoulder lifts in a shrug, “Not in here feeling guilty, are you?” He’s leaning against the doorframe to the bathroom, the lights creating a warm glimmer on his skin and the blonde curls in his hair. 

“No,” You reply but god, that sounds like so much of a lie that Nick smiles a little, stepping fully into the space. 

He leans his back against the bathroom counter where you’re standing and you can’t stop yourself from closing the distance, resting your chin on his shoulder, breathing him in. He tilts his head down, brushing a kiss along your forehead before planting a real one to the bridge of your nose. 

“I’m so glad you’re okay.” You whisper, your fingers playing with the fabric of his shirt that you’re wearing, “This isn’t going to ruin anything with your sister, is it?” 

He shakes his head, “My mum is taking a small vacation and obviously Maddie is going with, I have some time to heal before I see her again.” He pulls back just a little to cup your cheek, “But even if that weren’t the case, I don’t have any regrets. I think if I had to explain what and why, my mum might understand.” There’s a twitch to his lips, “She’d still be pissed but.” 

You groan softly—regardless, you hope he doesn’t have to. “We do not need to give your mom a reason to hate me.” 

Nick’s arm wraps around your waist and he tips your chin up with the hand that’s still on your cheek so that you fully look at him, “My mum loves you,” You swallow over a lump in your throat, your breath stilling as the next words spill from his lips. “And so do I.” 

It’s one of those things that’s been implied for so long that it feels…unbelievable to hear it said outloud. You try your best to ignore the tears filling your eyes and the tingling at the bridge of your nose as you smile at him. 

“Really?” You can’t help but whisper. 

He smirks, running his thumb along your cheek. “Well I practically won a knife fight in the ring for you so, I’d say it’s pretty obvious.” 

You lean against his chest, careful of his ribs as your lips move against his when you speak, “Say it again.” 

He goes to tease— “I won a knife fight in the—”

“Nick.” 

Nick licks his lips, smiling earnestly now. He nips at your lower one, “I love you.” 

Your hand rests along the side of his neck as you kiss him, whispering I love you, too, along his mouth, shuddering as his tongue slides against your own. His body suddenly moves, encouraging you towards his bedroom. 

You suppose out of any outcome that could have come from all of this? This is a pretty good one. 

[cece693]

More Hannibal please 🙏 🙏🙏

Quite The Pair

pairing: hannibal lecter x gender neutral reader tags: doesn't take place in a season but hannibal and reader met in Florence, reader is also a killer, two monsters finding each other and being only soft for one another, reader wants to see hannibal loose some of his control, and kinda succeeds?

You always recognized the glimmer in Hannibal’s eyes just before a dinner party. It was the same glimmer you carried behind your own, a mirror of desire: for elegance, for creation, for something exquisite that both enthralled and intimidated. By the time you arrive at his home—your home, now—the smell of fresh herbs and simmering stock curls through the air, and you can already anticipate the feast he’s prepared.

You sense his presence before you see him. It’s the subtle shift in the atmosphere, a tension that hums between two beings sharing the same dark passions. When you step through the threshold of the dining room, Hannibal is waiting. Dressed immaculately, eyes sharp with a refined hunger, he gives you a smile meant only for you—an acknowledgment of everything you both are beneath the veneer of high society.

Tonight, it’s just the two of you. He has prepared a lavish meal: seared foie gras, your favorite amuse-bouche, and the promise of something sweet to end the evening. But it is the undercurrent, the unspoken bond, that truly excites you: the knowledge that beyond the refined courtesies and classical music, you both share a darkness and a brilliance that no one else could ever match.

Hannibal gestures you closer, and you let him guide you to the table with one hand on the small of your back—possessive, reverent. In a world where Hannibal Lecter stands elevated above all others, you have learned something fascinating: you are the one capable of drawing him from his impenetrable heights. You see the slight tremor in his fingers when he sets a glass of deep red wine before you. Those hands so deft with a scalpel, so unflinching in their artistry, now waver. Because of you.

“I trust you’ll enjoy tonight’s menu,” he murmurs, voice low and cultured as ever, though there’s a hint of warmth that rarely surfaces for anyone else.

“Always,” you say, returning the smile, your reflection in his gaze.

You savor your first sip of wine. Hannibal watches you carefully, like a painter studying their masterpiece. He remains seated across from you, but the tension in his posture betrays his eagerness to be nearer. His eyes linger on your face, on your lips, as if you are more enticing than any dish laid out before you.

You recall the night he first approached you, after a particularly exclusive benefit in Florence. You had been drifting through the gallery, analyzing each painting with an astute eye, ignoring the usual polite chatter in favor of letting the masterpieces speak. He caught your attention with a single, well-placed observation—a challenge, really, about the meaning behind one of the more obscure canvases.

Something in that challenge had made your heart pound. And when you challenged him back, you watched Hannibal Lecter’s carefully schooled expression shift—just the barest flicker—into the beginnings of curiosity. It was no small feat to snag the interest of a man like him.

From that moment, it was as though you were two predators circling in slow, deliberate steps. You admired his refinement, his intelligence, his capacity for both cruelty and tenderness. And you matched him, piece for piece, tactic for tactic, in a cold, calculated dance until you both admitted what was between you went far beyond fascination. It became need.

Now, in your shared life, your combined intellects and appetites thrive. You create new dishes together, merging flavors no one else would dare. You sharpen each other’s nightmarish edges in stolen moments behind an innocent façade. You understand each other on a level that is entirely primal. And as much as Hannibal Lecter relishes control—lives to orchestrate and manipulate—he finds himself bending to your presence, entranced. You alone can coax from him a moan of admiration, the brief flicker of a trembling breath, or the subdued smile that only you can inspire.

Dessert is almost finished when you decide to test his resolve. You lean back in your chair, letting your gaze travel away from him for a moment, as if you’re distracted. A faint pout touches Hannibal’s lips, only visible because you have learned to read him like a favorite novel. The flicker of jealousy is there, unguarded, an emotion he normally masks so deftly.

He clears his throat.

“Is something amiss, my love?” His voice is smooth, but there’s a tension humming beneath.

You tilt your head. “At the market earlier, the sommelier seemed quite taken with me,” you remark, feigning nonchalance. You watch Hannibal closely, anticipating the shift in his demeanor. His grip on the dessert spoon tightens. For just a second, you see the edge of the predator in him. Protective, territorial. You wonder if he envisions removing that sommelier from the equation—discreetly, elegantly, as only Hannibal can.

You sip your wine slowly, letting the silence crackle around you. He sets his spoon down carefully, collecting his composure. But you see the intensity in his stare, as though any perceived threat to what is his cannot be tolerated. “Did they, now?” Hannibal says softly.

You nod, holding his gaze. “They gave me a bottle of that exclusive vintage you’ve been after. All on the house.”

A flash of raw possessiveness crosses his face. He doesn’t speak, doesn’t need to—jealousy and love alike coil through him. So seldom does Hannibal lose his impeccable composure, yet here he is, rattled. Because of you.

You lean forward, placing your hand gently over his. “I brought it home for us to enjoy,” you say with a wry smile. “I made sure they knew I had someone waiting for me.” At your reassurance, the tension drains from him, replaced by that blossoming warmth that he reserves just for you. His fingers thread between yours, and he raises your hand to his lips. That old-world courtesy, so carefully performed, never fails to make your pulse quicken.

Hannibal’s lips brush your knuckles. “I trust you sent them your gratitude,” he says, smooth but laced with that quiet darkness.

“Naturally.” You run your thumb across the back of his hand. “Though I suspect they know my heart isn’t on the market.”

A hint of a smile. Relief softens his features, but the subdued desire remains. That is the moment you realize you have the power to unmask him in a way no one else ever could. Later, you find yourself in his study—a haven of leather-bound books and the soft glow of lamplight. Hannibal stands behind you, wrapping his arms around your waist, pressing his chest to your back. You can feel the steady drum of his heartbeat.

“You distract me,” he whispers, voice reverberating against your neck. “I’m enthralled.” It’s rare that he admits to vulnerability. But with you, he does so freely, because he knows you will not use it against him—you will nurture it, reflect it, mirror it. You turn in his arms, catching his dark gaze.

“You’re not the only one who finds it difficult to focus,” you murmur. “Sometimes, the only thoughts in my head are of you and all the exquisite ways we can devour each other’s minds.”

He grins, a fleeting glimpse of teeth—sharp as a wolf’s. “We make quite the pair,” he says, pulling you in closer.

The scent of his cologne tinged with the faintest aroma of tonight’s dinner drifts around you. His composure is usually rock-solid, but now his breath quickens, eyelids lowering as he leans to press his lips to yours. There is no gentleness—only pent-up passion and quiet devotion that threatens to consume you both.

He lifts his head just enough to whisper against your lips, “I have been searching for someone worthy. And here you are, my perfect reflection.”

You trail your fingers over his collar, then up into his hair. He exhales, and you feel his powerful form relax beneath your touch—Hannibal Lecter giving himself over to you. For all his careful planning, for all his cultivated self-control, he allows himself these moments of surrender, heart and mind unguarded.

“There’s no one I’d trust more,” you reply.

And in that stillness, you both know: your unity is as inevitable as it is extraordinary, two minds—two monsters—dancing in tandem. Together, you create something so rare and potent that it challenges Hannibal’s rigid control. He needs you, and you need him, each the other’s mirror, forging a bond that fuses obsession and affection into an inescapable truth.

[aimfor-theheart]

brush the sky no. 2: caught

minors and ageless blogs dni, 18+

|| vi x reader || part one || masterlist ||

tags: mafia au, bodyguard!vi, femme!reader, longing, a little angst if you squint. a little sevika in this chapter/reader flirts with her a bit

cw: drinking/alcohol. suggestive.

wc: 1.9k smh

a/n: this isn't a "part two" as in chronological order, but it's apart of the same universe as part one. calling this little series "brush the sky" and i'll add more if i write more! lmk if you'd like to see more...or if you ever wanna talk about this au, i'm always down <33 vi takes up like most of my brain capacity lately lol

dividers by @/cafekitsune

The night is young and blush-dark; perfect for trouble.

“You’re supposed to be grounded, missy.” Vi’s voice is a drawl, and underneath the tease of it, is a little irritation.

From your place perched in Sevika’s lap, you pick your head up to look at Vi. You smile slow and wicked, eyes glittering, fox-sharp and knowing.

“Violet!” You chirp, extending your arm to her, “so glad you could join us! Want a drink?”

Sevika snorts, “looks like your babysitter’s here.”

For a moment, the two women eye each other, size each other up. You feel the fissure of tension bolt through the air, watch as Vi shrugs out her shoulders to look bigger, taller. Sevika spreads her legs a little and you’re jostled slightly with the movement.

“I’m a little too old to be grounded or have a babysitter, don’t you think?” You finally say, voice laced with distaste as you rise to your feet and purposefully get between their gazes to break the standoff. “I am a big girl.” You say dryly.

“You’re not supposed to be out tonight—and you’re definitely not supposed to be out with one of Silco’s—“ Vi starts, but Sevika cuts her off;

“We were having a good time, kid. And like she said—she’s too old for this shit. Why don’t you tuck tail and go home?”

A muscle in Vi’s jaw feathers. Sevika’s reaching hand meets air as you step towards Vi now, knowing that the look in her eyes—darkening blue, all stormy and fierce—means trouble. You try to draw her focus to you by placing your hands on her chest, right around her collar bones.

You get in Vi’s gaze again, and watch as she focuses on you, softens a little.

“My father find out I disappeared?” You ask, trying to give your best eyes. Sweet, a little sheepish.

“Not yet,” Vi responds, “I’m here to drag you back before he does.”

“Aren’t you sweet?” You purr, thumb dragging over the exposed skin of the base of her throat.

She sucks her teeth, “and you’re a brat. Let’s go, princess. Night’s over.” She says, short and sharp and firm.

You pout at her, “but I didn’t even get to dance.”

“I did promise you that, didn’t I?” Sevika says around her drink, dark amber liquid sloshing as she takes a sip. She sets it down, ice and glass clinking, and leans forward. She grins at Vi, wolfish, “Why don’t you pass her back here, kid?”

Vi’s teeth bare and she jolts beneath your touch like she might lurch for Sevika. A dog on a leash. You step further in front of her to stop her.

“Easy, tiger.” You hum and to keep a brawl from breaking out, you add, “we’ll go home—let’s go—take me home, Vi.”

Slowly, that viciousness melts from Vi—all her muscles uncoil. Vi’s a good bodyguard because she’s overprotective. Vi’s also a bad bodyguard because she’s overprotective. She doesn’t like when people talk about you like that—doesn’t like when they sniff around you a little too long, doesn’t trust anyone near you. And she’s a person of action; if she doesn’t like something, or someone, she does something about it.

And tonight, you don’t feel like cleaning up any blood.

You turn back to finish your drink in one last gulp, then you lean forward and press a fleeting kiss to Sevika’s cheek. “Next time, maybe!” You chirp, before turning back to Vi, who clasps a hand down around the back of your neck—like you’re being taken by the scruff.

(Uh oh, you think, I’m in trouble now—)

Over your shoulder, you wave to Sevika as you’re pulled away, and out of the swanky little speakeasy—into the crisp, clear night.

Despite the firm hold on you, you lean towards Vi, into her side.

As if to say, I’m sorry, as if to say, I won’t run off. As if to say, you’ve got me now.

Vi let’s go of a hard sigh and the hand around the nape of your neck moves to your lower back. She takes your weight as you walk together, in step. “You’ve always gotta make my job hard, huh?”

“Don’t mean to make it hard for you—“ You say, “but I can’t be kept cooped up all day.”

“So you go out with Sevika?” She asks, and there’s bite in it.

(Maybe something more—jealousy simmers in the edges of her voice. Your eyes light up a little.)

“I didn’t go out with her. I went out and she was there.” You correct Vi, “she bought me a drink and…”

“She’s dangerous.” Vi snaps, “and she’s only sniffing around you because Silco and your father are rivals.”

“You wound me! You don’t think it’s because I’m charming and beautiful?” You try for levity. And anyway, you’re not naive—besides, who’s to say the reason you had your arms looped around Sevika’s neck like that weren’t for similar ones?

Your apartment isn’t far from the bar you were at and you head up to the top floor with Vi on your heels.

She snorts, “well, there’s no doubt about that. But—“ She drags a hand through her hair as you let the two of you back into your space. “You like to play with fire a little too much, princess.”

You toe off your heels, already unpinning your hair and shaking it out as you wander towards your bedroom. Much to your pleasure, Vi follows after you. You flop onto the edge of your bed, back hitting the softness of your mattress with a huff.

“Why’d you have to go out so bad anyways?” Vi asks and she takes a seat across from you, in one of the velvet loveseats.

You sigh, before pushing up onto your elbows to look at her and—the strap of your dress slips down your shoulder. Your hair is tousled, jewelry askew. You watch as she drinks you in slowly, from your head to your stocking clad toes. Warmth flickers deep in your stomach. Oh.

“A girl has needs, Violet.” You respond, lips quirking up into a little smirk.

“Yeah?” She asks, low and dark, “what needs are those that you need to head out to a bar at this hour?”

“Everyone needs a little love and affection. Besides, I wanted to dance.” You sigh.

“And you’re trying to find that with strangers? Think they’ll take care of you?” She asks, eyes stone-dark.

“And where should I have turned?” You parry softly, brows lifting, “who could take care of that for me?”

She licks her lips. Then she stands suddenly, crosses to you, gaze heavy.

Your stomach flips.

Without thinking, your knees fall apart to make room for her. You sit up fully, chin tipping up to look at her.

“Not strangers, sweetheart.” Vi says lowly and you feel her, just there, against your inner knees.

“Then who?” You press, your hand lifting to fan out against the jut of her hip, just barely her abs. “You?”

Vi sinks to her knees. Your hand falls away. Her eyes, endlessly blue, flutter as she takes you in—like this.

Splayed out, for her.

You part your legs a little, let one slide over her broad shoulder and your dress has ridden up enough that she can certainly see the sheer lace underneath, through the opaque cling of your tights.

(And there’s something about it—the layers between you still. The distance you can barely hold, like the thin, delicate threads of your tights. Your head swims.)

“Am I supposed to come to you for that, Vi?” You murmur, “you gonna take care of me?”

Vi, against her better judgement, lets her hands settle around your thighs, inching closer. She sighs hard and—

God you feel it, against your thigh. Her breath.

“You know I’ll always take care of you.” Vi says, voice hushed, brows furrowing a little in earnestness. She settles her cheek against your inner thigh, looks up at you with those sweet, blue eyes. Devoted. Heated. “But I shouldn’t—in this way.”

Your lip pushes into a pout, “Want me to beg? I can beg real pretty.”

Vi curses. Her hands squeeze the plush curve of your waist. And for one, burning moment, her eyes fall to the apex of your thighs.

Then back to your face.

She hangs her head like a guilty man.

“No—“ She gets out and her voice is frayed, desperate. “Don’t beg.”

Your fingers trail up around her face, hand moving to card through her tousled hair. You push it from her face, look at her.

“You look close to begging.” You hush, smile curving over the bend of your lips.

Vi laughs, soft and rough, “begging for strength here, princess.”

“Don’t always need to be strong.” You respond and—you realize you want her unguarded. You want her vulnerable. You want her split open and trembling and—

Vi turns her face towards your leg. She presses one, searing kiss to the inside of your knee. And then slowly, she detangles herself, she stands.

“In this way, I do.” She finally says, standing over you again.

You let go of a breath you hadn’t realized you’d been holding, only to realize your own heart was trembling—you were open and vulnerable.

You try to cover it up with a pout, “You’re such a tease.”

“Ha,” She pinches your cheek, “coming from you—that’s rich.”

You sniff delicately, swatting her hand away.

And after a moment of trying to get your heart and your head under control, Vi speaks up;

“Dance with me.”

You lift your eyes to hers.

She offers her hand. And you look at it, the scars and the marks, the way her fingers arch towards you.

You take it.

She pulls you up. She moves to the record player in your room, sifts through your collection a moment, before settling on one.

In a moment, slow, burning jazz plays from the speakers.

Vi takes you into her arms. You let yourself fall into her embrace, head against her sternum, hand in hers, other hand curled against her chest. You can hear her heartbeat like this. You can feel it, too.

She holds your waist, your hand. The callouses of her palm come up against the soft, unworked skin of your own hands. Her body presses to yours, ribs to ribs, heartbeat to heartbeat. She sways with you.

She holds you in a way you’ve never been held before—like you’re the world in her arms.

When the song ends, you lift your head and ask, “Will you stay with me tonight?”

(And you want to add—I’d take you in any way. In every way. Even if you just sleep beside me, or at my feet, even if I can only be beside you with a wall up. Or my hands chase you all night, never to catch you.)

Vi looks at you, takes you in slowly and you wonder what she sees, wonder how she sees you, or the thoughts that flicker over her mind. She’s not unreadable—but what you see in the ocean of her eyes—

She leans forward and presses a second, searing kiss to your cheek. She lingers there. Your breath stutters.

“Next time, maybe.” Vi echoes, lips lifting into a hint of a smile but its twinged with longing. An ache.

She steps away from you, moves towards the door. Over her shoulder, she says, “Goodnight, princess.”

You stand, alone, in the center of your room.

“Night, Vi.” You respond, and try and keep the disappointment out of your voice.

She’s gone in a moment, like she was never there at all, except for the warmth lingering in your hands. On your cheek.

You catch a glance at your face in your vanity mirror.

You wonder if she thinks hunger looks good on you, too.

[txmxkis]

i'm only really me when i'm here with you

pairing. boothill x gn!reader

genre. hurt/comfort

wc. 1.5k+

summary. you're determined to help boothill heal from his trauma by... doing his hair?

warnings. i took liberties with this, who knows what specific parts he actually has left or whether he can blush or not (in my heart he can lol), mention of boothill picking u up but i mean. he’s literally so strong he could handle anything, i made him soooo sad and it’s possibly wildly out of character, selfship coded as usual rip

a/n. continuing the tradition of using lyrics from songs on selfship playlists for fic titles lol. based on my tags on this post

they say that trauma is stored in the body, and while boothill didn't necessarily have a complete body anymore, this was still something that you thought about frequently when it came to his physical form.

regardless of just how much of his original self remained, there was still enough of him left that you were sure it had to be true in some capacity. after all, he retained his head and his heart—at least you were fairly certain—two of the most vital components of human anatomy.

it was so hard to read him. the real him. he tried so hard to always act confident and cool. actually, he didn't even really have to try or act. it seemed as if it came to him naturally and endlessly. there was a perpetual air of optimism surrounding him that was difficult to dim even on his most wearisome days.

even after experiencing whatever horrors he had to face from mission to mission, when he came home, the door to whatever room you were currently in would fling open—sometimes scaring you half to death—and he would greet you so happily that it felt as if there were no terrible things in the universe whatsoever.

you cherished his mannerisms, especially because you could be a pessimistic sort of person. rather frequently, in fact. you loved having him near you, able to draw laughter from you, however unwillingly it might be on your part at times. he was oddly skilled at making you feel assured and comfortable, in a way that nothing and no one had ever done before. you couldn’t seem to remember how you ever lived without his encouragement, and you didn’t think you could ever feel truly whole without it again.

there really was no accounting for his relentlessly positive attitude. given what he'd seen and endured, you thought it was damn near impossible to be as carefree as he seemed to be. at any rate, he did manage it. however, there were times, moments he rarely ever allowed you to witness, in which his façade would falter slightly and betray just how heavily the past weighed on him.

occasionally, you would catch him staring at his reflection, a downcast expression painting his beautiful features. every time you spoke of your family, you could detect glimpses of sadness in his eyes, albeit hidden behind a smile. once you even caught him crying as silently as he could—you assumed so as not to alert you—his shoulders sagging under an unforeseen weight, a look on his face that you could only describe as heartbroken. your own heart broke with his in that moment.

you always tried to be particularly attentive following those moments, but it was so difficult to get him to open up to you. he just wanted you to be happy. to not bother worrying about him. you had your own problems, after all, and there was no need for him to add to your burden. no need for him to ask for your pity.

he knew you cared for him deeply enough that it would cause you pain, and even if it was only a fragment of the grief that he lived with every day, he was sure that he would feel terribly and incessantly guilty about it. if he could remove every single aspect of your life that caused you suffering, he would do it in a heartbeat, and he could say that because it was one of the few original parts he had left. how could he add to that suffering by forcing you to imagine all the horrors from his own life?

it took so much time and effort on your part to convince him to open the door to himself, if even just a tiny crack. he was still extremely careful with his words and the details that he disclosed to you—he didn't want to overwhelm you, and he certainly didn't want to hurt you. in reality, these conversations, painful as they were for you to hear, actually helped you to feel as though you could comfort him more effectively.

yes, it hurt immensely to know even a small fraction of how much anguish he had experienced. yes, you despised the people who had done this to him and wanted to fight them yourself, in fact. yes, your chest felt tight with ache and sadness on his behalf. still, you could help him more by knowing than by not knowing.

eventually, you were able to make it this far, brushing through his hair as gently as your hands could manage. he had confessed to you in one of his more vulnerable moments that the white shock of hair on his head often served as a stark reminder of worse times, of the trauma and stress inflicted on his body. the admission gave you an idea, one that made boothill feel more than just a little bit exposed. he wasn’t accustomed to being looked after like this, with so much affection and love.

you began to make a routine out of it. every day you would do something with his hair—whether it was braiding it and tying it up intricately to make him feel pretty or simply combing through the strands and allowing them to cascade around his shoulders and down his back.

sometimes you would sit him in front of a mirror while you worked so that he could see exactly what you were doing in the moment. he didn’t quite understand how it all came together, but he found it fascinating to see how you twisted and weaved. at times, you were so focused on the hair in your hands that your brows would furrow, tongue poking out slightly between your lips. in the reflection, you genuinely looked like you were enjoying yourself.

even more noticeable to him was the expression you wore when you looked at him through the mirror. your gaze was so full of tenderness that his chest ached. he could swear that his heart actually skipped a beat. whenever that happened, you could see a flaring blush creep up his cheeks and into his ears, and you couldn’t help but laugh just a little bit at how endearing it was.

other times, you would settle on the couch, with him seated on the floor between your legs, adorning his hair with the cutest accessories, the two of you laughing and joking the whole time. you would delicately twist the locks back, securing them with pretty, multicolored clips that shone in the light.

when you were done, you would lead him slowly to a mirror, hands over his eyes, nearly stumbling over his legs as you walked behind him. you would pull your hands quickly from his face, revealing your handiwork, beaming with pride and grinning at how adorable he looked. he loved every minute of it—and every bit of you, he would think to himself as he turned to pick you up and spin you around, laughing in that deep voice of his. then he’d set you down gently, thanking you for your hard work with kisses sprinkled across your face.

days that were particularly trying for him would simply be spent in comfortable silence. when he didn’t feel like talking from the pain of it all, he would wordlessly lay his head on your chest as you ran your fingers through his long locks. feeling your touch—the slight pull on his scalp, the tickle of shifting hair—it all made him feel so relaxed that he could melt right into your skin until you absorbed him fully into you. often, the combination of this and the gentle, steady beat of your heart would lull him to sleep, and seeing his expression ease and soften in these moments was all the reward you ever needed.

in the beginning, it was unclear whether this dedicated time spent caring for his hair was helping or not. over time, however, you noticed a glimmer in his eyes—something that told you he would be alright, despite everything.

pain still remained; it always would, but instead of constantly gazing at his reflection with grief, every once in a while you would catch a hint of a smile pulling at his lips. it was as if he was remembering how you hummed while placing those clips, or how he had teasingly whipped you with his hair on a more playful occasion, or any number of positive memories that you had put so much effort into lovingly crafting with him.

you were determined to do your best, slowly but surely, to lighten his burden—or at least help carry it. there was no reason for him to feel alone when he had you by his side. and if creating these happy memories was what you had to do in order to help him, well, you would gladly continue forever.

reblogs & interactions are appreciated! thank you for reading! <3 — txmxkis

[lunaandco]

anatomy studies; part one

pairing: pedri x ofc

summary: vic needs a model. pedri is very quick to offer his help, even if her brother does not approve.

taglist: @htpssgavi ; @joaosnovia

masterlist // series masterlist // I do not take requests

Pedri ignored the conversation he was supposed to be having with Ferran just to stare at Victoria Casadó. She was currently arguing with her older brother about something, both of them standing a bit apart from the group. It was moments like this that Pedri could take advantage of, in order to avoid setting off Marc's protective instincts, that made it almost impossible for a guy to approach her.

Vic was a pretty girl, with long silky hair, the same colour as her brother—although she was not balding like he was. She was also a third year art student, so it wasn't uncommon for Marc to have to skip a boys night out because she had forced him to model for her.

Pedri would never understand why Marc complained so much about it, he would do anything to be looked at by Vic in any capacity.

"Stop staring," Ferrran said, not even looking at where his friend's gaze had been lost. "Marc is going to catch you and you're a shit liar. Everyone already knows you want to smash his sister, he won't take long to realise soon, too."

Pedri blushed furiously.

"I wasn't..." he protested. "I do not..."

"See? You suck at lying."

Ferran had that shit eating grin he only displayed when he knew Pedri could not argue with his teasing.

"Do you know what they are arguing about?" Pedrihad been caught in the traffic on his way to Lewandowski's house, and he had missed the beginning of the hangout.

"Vic needs an nude model for her next assignment and she does not want to use Marc."

"Why?" he asked. "She always uses Marc when she has to draw men."

"Exactly because of that. She needs a bit of variety. And, well, she's supposed to do a slghtly erotic piece. You might understand why she doesn not want her older brother to be the model."

Pedri blushed again.

"Then who..."

"She wanted to ask today if any of us would be down for it, but Marc doesn't—"

"Want any footballer getting any ideas," finished Pedri. It was too late for Marc. Pedri had already gotten many ideas.

He strolled around the garden, casually aproaching the siblings, pretending it was a total coincidence to meet them at that point.

"Hey, how are you two?" he asked, making eye contact with Vic. She smiled shyly.

"Actually, not too well, my brother is being annoying," she told him.

"Older brothers," Pedri sympathised with her struggle, dramatically rolling his eyes. "It's like they only know how to be annoying. What are you tormenting the poor girl with, Casa?"

"He doesn't want me to draw any of you," she puted, her honey colored eyes looking at him through her lashes. "But it's so boring to always paint him..."

"I can be your model," he offered, smiling. "Casa here knows how trustworhty I am, right?"

"Well, yes, but..."

Vic's squeal of happiness interrupted Marc's complaints.

"Thank you, Pedri!" she said, throwing her hands around his neck in a hug.

"But it's supposed to be nude!" protested Marc. Pedri winked at him.

"Don't worry. i'll take good care of her, I promise."

Marc clenched his jaw, but even he knew not to make a scene about somehting like this in Lewandowski's garden, with all the team and families around them. Meanwhile, Pedri enjoyed the warmth of Vic's body pressed against him for the duration of the hug, being exactly as interested on her as Marc feared.

💙❤️

Should I shave beforehand?

Pedri texted. Marc had refused to let him get Vic's number, but had allowed him to follow her on her private Insta, which meant he had now access to a couple of pictures o her. He might have put one of those as his lockscreen.

No. Vic replied. I actually would rather you had a little bit of hair. You know, to practice the shading.

Because of that Pedri left his chest hair alone, He made the trip to the Casadó's househould, his heart beating fast and his legs weaker than after a Champions League game.

Marc opened the front door for him. Pedri's heart dropped. He should have known that he would insist on not leaving then alone for the duration of the session.

"Marquito stop being so paranoid," Vic complaned when she saw that her brother was following Pedri inside of her room. "I'm not a Victorian maiden and he is not going to take away my virtue or some shit," she said. "Get lost or I'll tell mom you're sneaking your girlfriend at night. See what happens then."

Marc grumbled, but the thrat landed true, and he retreated slowly.

"I'm sorry for my brother, he just worrues one of you will break my heart or somehting."

"I can tell. HE cares a lot about you," Pedri said, standing awkwardly in the middle of the room.

"it gets asphixiating," Vic concluded. "I... I'm sorry, we can stop this if you're uncomfortable."

"Don't worry about it," Pedri said, but he was sweating nervously. What if Vic didn't like his body?

"I need you to take your clothes off," she explained. "All of them. You can lay on the bed if you want."

Pedri gulped, but took off his hoodie first, and then his pants. Vic had turned her back on him, giving him a modicum of privacy, while she sorted out her materials. Once he was completely nude, he sat on the soft bed.

Pedri felt like he was going to hell. He was laying in his crush's bed, completely naked and surrounded by her scent, something between oil paint and tulips, but he coukd not let her know how much it excited him.

Thinking of this moment, Pedri had not considered the possibility of getting a boner, but as Vic finally turned, he found himself beging his dick to cooperate.

"Is this alright?" he asked, acomodating his back against the pillow.

"Yes." Vic said. "But I need you to bend your leg... no the other one. That's it."

The arms were more complicated. Pedri did not understand Vic's directions, and she ended up having to swallow up he rshyness and move them exactly whener she wanted. Pedri pretended as if his skin wasn't crawling at hte thought of her touching him.

"If you're cold or need a break just tell me," Vic indicated as she finally settled on her desk and grabbed her sketchbook. "I'll be as quick as I can."

💙❤️

Pedri wasn't sure how long it took. Marc went into the room at least five times, with the excuse of bringing water and snacks, but Pedri knew he was just checking that nothing he didn't approve of happened.

The sunlight was gone and Vic was cracking her back.

"We're done," she said, standing up. "Here, she gave him the finished drawing, which made Pedri blush. He looked sexy. the body he had always considered too skinny, too bony to be actually atractive on its own, without the addded perk of his footballng ability, was now staring back at him, shaded in charcoal and looking as beautiful as ever.

"Thank you," he said. Even his dick, which had cooperated with him, thank God, looked pretty, nestled between his thighs. The hair she had told him not to shave reflected its coarse texture, even if Vic had not touched.

"I should be the one saying that," Vic joked awkwardly. "Here, you can have the sketches."

She gave him some sheets in which he could also recognise himself, albeit less detailed and the traces lighter.

"I mean it," he insisted. "Thank you."

Vic's eyes slid down the curve of his shoulder. After two hours of being profoundly stared at, one woukd think Pedri would have gotten used to Victoria's eyes upon him, but he still shivered.

"Shit, I am so sorry, you must be freezing!" she said, leaping back and picking up his clothes for him. "I am so sorry," she repeated, "I'll leave you so you can dress properly.

Pedri opened his mouth to say something, but his voice got caught on his thoat as the door of the room closed behind Vic.

He dressed quicly, and grabbed the sketches Vic had gifted him again. In the corner, scribbled, there was a phone number and a note.

Don't tell Marc.

[gloomwitchwrites]

Hi! Are you still taking 1K event request? I saw it now...

If yes, i would like to ask for a ThorinXHis Queen SFW headcanon if that's okay?

When you sent this request in, I was still taking requests, so you’re absolutely good! I decided to make this Thorin x Queen!reader, so afab!reader applies here. Thank you for sending this in. Enjoy!

Content & Warnings: fluff, brief suggestive themes

Word Count: 1.2k

ao3 // main masterlist // 1k follower event masterlist

A = Affection (How affectionate are they? How do they show affection?)

Very affectionate but mostly in private or during a relaxed public moment. For example, if you and Thorin are in the throne room, Thorin is less likely to show affection to you during that time. Same goes for any official business. You and Thorin are ultimately there to work. Thorin would however be more affectionate during a festival, party, feast, etc. This is a more relaxed atmosphere, and he’d be more inclined to openly touch you, kiss you, and even serve you food. He is much softer with you in private than in public.

B = Best friend (What would they be like as a best friend? How would the friendship start?)

It’s a friends to lovers situation. Thorin needs trusts and friendship to build on first before he can dive in. I suspect that you and Thorin met during a meet cute situation where the two of you had a good laugh over something and the friendship grew from there. A good foundation built on friendship is important for a lasting marriage.

C = Cuddles (Do they like to cuddle? How would they cuddle?)

Thorin is a cuddler and snuggler. You cannot change my mind about that. When it’s been a particularly long day, Thorin loves nothing more than curling up beside you and drawing you into his arms.

D = Domestic (Do they want to settle down? How are they at cooking and cleaning?)

Wants to settle down, but isn’t the best at domestic life. And by that I mean, Thorin isn’t particularly dirty, but I wouldn’t say he’s the best at cleaning and cooking. He is a King now, so there are other people who help with that.

E = Ending (If they had to break up with their partner, how would they do it?)

Thorin is never separating himself from his Queen. Ever. But if he had to break off a relationship, I can—in an unhealthy way—try to run or turn cold before you’re the one who confronts him over his behavior.

F = Fiance(e) (How do they feel about commitment? How quick would they want to get married?)

Thorin believes in commitment, and knows himself well enough that he’d know rather quickly if this is something he wants in life.

G = Gentle (How gentle are they, both physically and emotionally?)

Very gentle, but has his moments. Thorin is strong-willed, and sometimes that causes him to be insensitive when he doesn’t mean to be. However, he will own up to his mistakes—with you, but maybe not others—and you can forgive in that capacity. Otherwise, Thorin is aware of you needs, and is not one to cause harm.

H = Hugs (Do they like hugs? How often do they do it? What are their hugs like?)

Doesn’t give them often, but they are some of the best.

I = I love you (How fast do they say the L-word?)

Thorin will say it quickly if he knows his heart. He’d find a quiet, private moment to say it in the hopes you’d say it, too. (And obviously you did).

J = Jealousy (How jealous do they get? What do they do when they’re jealous?)

He’s more protective—and slightly possessive—rather than jealous. Thorin knows where he stands with you, but that doesn’t mean he likes all the attention you receive. Before you were Queen, Thorin did lean toward jealousy whenever he thought someone else was stepping over the line and making a move when they shouldn’t.

K = Kisses (What are their kisses like? Where do they like to kiss you? Where do they like to be kissed?)

His facial hair is always scratching your skin but you like it. Thorin will often give you absent, almost chaste kisses most of the time. He saves the more passionate ones for closed doors.

L = Little ones (How are they around children?)

Good with kids. Endless patience for them even when he has none.

M = Morning (How are mornings spent with them?)

Depends. As King, he has lots of duties, and doesn’t always have time to sleep in. But when he can stay, it’s spent casually.

N = Night (How are nights spent with them?)

Again, it depends. If he’s working late, don’t expect much. You will be in bed before him, but if he has an early night, expect him to use this time for you. Might be completely innocent, might not.

O = Open (When would they start revealing things about themselves? Do they say everything all at once or wait a while to reveal things slowly?)

Thorin isn’t one to info dump about himself. He will likely reveal small pieces of himself over time to you.

P = Patience (How easily angered are they?)

Thorin is easily angered/irritated but rarely with you. He sees you, his Queen, as a buffer to his responsibility. If anything, he’ll easily anger or grow irritated with advisors and people wasting his time.

Q = Quizzes (How much would they remember about you? Do they remember every little detail you mention in passing, or do they kind of forget everything?)

Thorin is the kind of person to not forget anything but he’ll leave you guessing. It might seem like he’s forgotten something and then he’ll turn around and completely surprise you.

R = Remember (What is their favorite moment in your relationship?)

Thorin’s favorite moment is when you first kissed him. And not on the lips. Your first quick, chaste kiss on the cheek did him in.

S = Security (How protective are they? How would they protect you? How would they like to be protected?)

Very protective, sometimes overly so. Thorin will go out of his way to ensure your safety before his own, and he finds it cute when you try to return the same effort.

T = Try (How much effort would they put into dates, anniversaries, gifts, everyday tasks?)

Thorin would try, but he wouldn’t be perfect it. With his duties, Thorin might slip up in the moment but he’ll eventually remember, or even do something delayed for you. He’s very stressed.

U = Ugly (What would be some bad habits of theirs?)

I’ve talked about this before in another post, but this man would absolutely leave things around, especially smithing tools and random weapons. Thorin is not organized.

V = Vanity (How concerned are they with their looks?)

Hardly. Thorin knows he’s good looking but he’s not going to flaunt it around.

W = Whole (Would they feel incomplete without you?)

Yes, but Thorin also understands the importance of duty. That duty might force him away from you for periods of time. That doesn’t mean he won’t yearn until he returns.

X = Xtra (A random headcanon for them.)

Whenever he’s feeling a bit tense, Thorin only needs to reach out for a quick reassuring touch to calm him.

Y = Yuck (What are some things they wouldn’t like, either in general or in a partner?)

Arrogance—which is funny since Thorin can be arrogant and prideful, and doesn’t always see it in himself. But he hates it in other people. He also wouldn’t want a Queen who didn’t love his people, but Thorin wouldn’t have married you if that were the case.

Z = Zzz (What is a sleep habits of theirs?)

Can fall asleep almost anywhere. Life on the road drilled that into him.

[lailoken]

Hi! If you don’t have the capacity to answer questions like this thats totally okay but I was wondering if you have any thoughts/resources on house cleansing rituals? My family and I are soon moving into the home my parents will likely live in for the rest of their lives, and I’m feeling drawn to consecrate the space with some cleansing and protection magic but unsure of where to start. We are of Irish and Danish descent living on Coast Salish land, I’m sure there’s some rich folk magic I could draw from but I have no teachers or guides to show me the way! I deeply admire your work and appreciate any advice you might offer :) Thank you!

Hello there, and I'm sorry it's taken me so long to respond! I've got a whole bunch of messages I've been meaning to respond to.

I definitely get that urge to "magically nest" into a new home.

I'll start by addressing the cleansing aspect of your question. When it comes to a new home (or really, any new space or item that you're going to be exposing yourself to energetically over time) there is often an urge to cleanse in some way, which is understandable. However, I encourage you to check in with yourself and your intuition of the space, asking if it feels truly pertinent to cleanse it. I bring this up because, some things—and homes especially, in my opinion—can actually benefit from and be strengthened by the accrual of energy in them. For instance, sometimes you move into a place, and it just feels gross and wrong on a visceral level, as if it was covered in "energetic grime." In a situation like that, cleansing makes total sense, as the goal is to remove that influence so that you can begin to imbue it with energy of your own. However, other times, you move into a place and immediately feel the warmth, love, and care that has been steeped into it, in which case, why would you want to remove such a rich and supportive energetic foundation from which to build upon?

As an example, when my in-law's first moved into the house we later inherited, it was shortly after the house's first tenant had died within it. She was a very kind and funny old woman who really liked my in-laws and helped make it possible for them to buy it following her death. For the first ten years or so of living in the house, they still strongly felt a sense of her caring nature present in the home, which makes sense given how long she lived there. What's more, though, any time my in-laws would argue or struggle with tension, they would begin to smell cigarette smoke and hear distant country music they couldn't find the source of (two things the original homeowner loved and indulged in daily), which would always lead to them laughing and patching things up. The energetic residue left by this woman could theoretically have been cleansed upon moving into the house, but I believe that would have been a sad loss for the house and the family.

With that little rant out of the way, let's say that you do have reason to want to cleanse the home and address that approach. There are many different ways one could use to energetically cleanse a building, but the main ones that seem worth mentioning here include Fumigations, Washes, and Recitations.

Purifying Fumigations involve invoking the excisive virtues present in a given material or mix of materials (such as Rue, Sage, or Vervain) and then burning said materials to release the ritually activated and aligned virtues of excision to aid you in cleansing the space. Practically speaking, this looks like wafting smoke through the home.

A Cleansing Wash involves steeping the excisive virtues of pertinent materials (such as Salt and Chile Pelper) into a solvent base (such as Water, Vinegar, or Oil), invoking and aligning said virtues ritually, and then using the homemade solution to physically cleanse the space (using the different solvents depending on your need—i.e. use oil for polishing wood, use vinegar for cleaning glass, etc.)

Recitations of Banishment involve walking through the house reciting or reading words of power aloud that call for the expulsion of unwanted energies or entities. This method will generally benefit from a close connection to the source material and/or a close working relationship with one's spirit allies.

In many cases, a mixture of two or more of these approaches will be used in conjuctjon to purify a home.

As for domestic protection magic, that's another subject with innumerable approaches. Additionally, most useful domestic protection magic I've encountered seems to focus on particular facets of protection (which is why my home is layered with multiple wards). As such, I struggle a little bit to think of a concise and clear way to discuss this aspect of your question. However, here are some links to previous posts in which I've discussed things like:

Protecting the home from Intruders

Protecting the home from Storms

Protecting the home from Fire

Protecting the home from Malefic Forces

A Generalized Property Ward

Additionally, I believe that developing a close working relationship with the spirirt of one's home—called a Genius Domi in my tradition—is probably one of the best ways to establish magical guardianship of the house.

[dcdreamblog]

A bit of an odd question but who was/is the best dancer in the JSA? The one mystery man who was only killed on the dancefloor?

Now this is a FUN question, though honestly one that would be hard to answer. I'll just keep it to the membership of the core, Golden Age JSA for simplicity's sake.

Let's check things off as we go.

Dr. Fate, Dr. Midnite and The Sandman: Were all noted as being incredibly mousy and introverted.

Charles McNider (Midnite): Was a lifelong bachelor who was always more concerned with his various intellectual pursuits. He didn't drink and his natural position at any function was in the corner, feeding our d'oeuvres to his owl.

Kent Nelson (Fate): Equally so, being a book learned archeologist whose wife was more likely to share a night at the library than the dance floor. At any social function, Kent and Inza Nelson truly only had attention for one another. You'd leave them alone at a candle lit dinner table and come back to find them sharing the light over some dusty scroll.

Wesley Dodds (Sandman): Was noted as being instantly eclipsed in any social or hosting capacity by his companion Dian Belmont. His teammates were often known to comment that the Dodds with and without his mask seemed like two entirely different people. Jay Garrick is once noted as saying that an unmasked Dodds "struck me most as a clerk, juxtaposed against Belmont's gothic elegance."

Starman: Would usually have been noted in a similar category to those above. UNTIL his marriage to Adele Drew. Drew was noted by a contemporary Daily Planet reporter as "Homely in appearance but of excellent humor and infectious energy" making her the perfect fit for the often melancholy intellectual she married. (That is NOT how anyone who knew her would describe her. Hippolyta once said Adele Knight was "Gorgeous of spirit and overflowing with love") While they DID dance, Knight was noted as being VERY unskilled, mostly floating along on his wife's ever present enthusiasm.

Green Lantern: Was an interesting conversationalist, and often popular at social functions, noted as having a voice for speeches. However his heavy build and more serious air kept him from being much of a dancer. (The only evidence I can find of him ever dancing is from memoirs about the reception of his wedding to his second Wife Molly Mayne (AKA Harlequin) which speaks more to the outsized effect she's had on him than anything.)

Wildcat: Any boxing historian can tell you that Ted Grant was not a sportsman known for his footwork. I read one account that described his style as "pouncing on the other guy and giving better than he got". Those more familiar with the sport can comment there. He was however known as a boisterous presence, especially when drinking.

Atom: Al Pratt was a man with a lot of good qualities. He had a lion's heart, he was loyal to a fault and he was tougher than a team of oxen. He was also 5 foot nothing and could be described as having two left feet if you cloned him and taped them together. His wife Mary wasn't known to be much better. Their "dancing" mostly included the two stepping on each other's toes, apologizing at the same time, and giggling about it.

The Spectre: ...let's be serious here.

Hawkman and Hawkgirl: Were just a TAD too self serious to be "cutting a rug" among the styles of the time. They were noted as accomplished classical dancers, the kind of couple that could draw eyes when something fancy was playing. As noted with the Nelsons above, though. It was often said that the two only ever had eyes for one another. It was running joke that the Hawks would always be the last to leave any function because they were slow dancing in each other's eyes 3 hours after the band had gone home.

Wonder Woman: Is a literal Queen. Not exactly the kind to be circling the floor at a cocktail party.

Hourman: For a born scientist, Rex Tyler was also known as particularly energetic especially in the aftermath of a battle. His wife, Wendi, being a stage actress was also trained as a dancer. Due to Rex's general lack of grace and Wendi's spontaneous, laughter prone personality however, their dancing was usually described along the lines of swinging each other around until they fell into a heap. Dr Midnite once said "It was common knowledge that any party where the Tylers only destroyed a single digit number of chairs was a sign of good fortune."

Johnny Thunder: DID dance. That does not, however, mean that he COULD dance. As the youngest and "hippest" of the JSA's number, he was always stumbling his way through the steps of this or that new dance craze that was sweeping the teenage population. He always seemed to be having fun, even if the flying debris of hands and feet made his space on any dance floor a rather wide berth.

Black Canary: I cannot describe to you the amount of a sexpot this woman was for her time. Like. Wavy hair over one eye, netted stocking, slit up both thighs, low cut, smoky eye shadow, wolf whistle, eye popping, hummina hummina AWOOGA sexy. Every single time the original Black Canary walked in the room, every monocle hit the floor and a bunch of upper class ladies discovered what lesbianism felt like. The woman could dance, and she could make the whole room WATCH her dance. But let's be clear in that no one was watching her "dance". You get me?

Mr Terrific: I mean obviously. There was not a single goddamn skill that one could quantify that Terry Sloane did not possess. All the big, fancy dance steps that people take classes for he could do inside, outside and backward inside an afternoon. Among his medals and accolades are evidently national ribbons in Salsa, Waltz AND Flamenco. He's Mr. Terrific. He could dance.

But then there's the actual ANSWER to the question.

The Flash: Jay and Joan Garrick were gaga for each other. Happily, loudly, publically, head over heels in love. The kind of love that starts a clan (which they eventually did, neither here nor there). The JSA is an organization RIFE with all time great love stories. But Jay and Joan Garrick were not a love story, they were the kind of light up the room, keep the conversation going, huddle the whole gang around the fireplace talking about nothing until sun up kind of couple. Socially, the entire JSA revolved around them.

And they danced. Boy did they DANCE. The kind of dancing that only a midwestern couple like that CAN do. The kind that got everybody up on their feet and clapping with the steps. The kind where a sweep of her simple dress somehow made her look like a twin city princess. The kind where a simple flourish and a dip made Jay seem like the most romantic leading man of all time. They danced because their happiness was infectious, and every time they did, a simple benefit party became a barn burner.

(A picture, originally secret. From Jay Garrick's bachelor party. June, 1947. For those of you wondering. That makes this June their 77th)

[0tenshi]

🌻Positive Result ~ The Eulogy of Someone Still Alive (TW: discussions of death, physical and mental illness)

HEY!! It's been a bit since I wrote one of these. I kind of wanted to do one for Neuron Explosion Show, but I feel like I don't have much good to say about it. At any rate, NES is a bit of a successor to Positive Result despite having been released first. I wrote Positive Result first and in a far longer amount of time and put a lot more thought into it, that's for sure.

This song has been a long time coming for me. I'm not super open about my own mental state online as a safety measure since I am still young, but my music has always been a way for me to... unleash what I feel without guilt, if that makes sense. I'm quite a reserved person despite wearing my heart on my sleeve, but the lack of pressure with music really draws me to the craft as a whole. After all, most of my listeners do not know me on a personal level (nor should they). Those who do know me, however, are able to get a better insight on me through listening to what I have to say in a way that doesn't put as much direct burden on them as talking face to face would. Perhaps my mindset isn't the healthiest, I am aware that it's cowardly. But it's one of the only ways I am able to process my own emotions, trauma, and regrets while I navigate my young adulthood as of now.

That being said, I'd like to talk as openly as I can about the meaning of Positive Result here. This song features a feeling that I know all too well: pure, unfiltered panic. Powerlessness. An extreme sense of mortality.

I was officially diagnosed with OCD when I was around thirteen, but my symptoms started at a very young age, manifesting mostly in the form of health anxiety. The first instance of this I can recall was how at six years old I would check my lung capacity over and over again, convinced that my breathing was constrained and there was something wrong with me. Checking myself mentally and physically for symptoms of something arbitrary and untrue was routine for so long, for so many years, that I thought it to be normal until I discovered the nature of OCD. The disorder is ravenous. It's time consuming. At times, it is inescapable. It is scary. It is completely irrational. And it's shaped me and my personality in many ways.

"I can't halt the fear

To appreciate

everything I seem

seem to have today

(Now I am contorting wildly, feelings clashing, overwhelming)

And I can't control

what's controlling me and

living while I'm dying every day

(Understanding math so vague, I graph a picture of a morbid day)"

Positive Result features my struggle with the part of my OCD that makes me fear contracting and dying of a physical illness. A lot of the lyrics allude to cancer specifically, ("Even though I cannot sense it, I can tell that my cells are revolting/Turning paradigms to sickness"). The imagery of physical cells "revolting" is something I wanted to portray sickeningly straightforward. I considered using the word "turning" as well, like rotting, or like a multiplying cancer, but "revolting" felt more akin to the betrayal I feel when my mind tries to convince me that my "paradigms" are turning to sickness. In this case, "paradigms" also refers to cell mitosis and the multiplication of cancer cells. "Felt only by these hands of mine" refers to the sense of feeling something or seeing something, a symptom, an imperfection, anything, that isn't actually there.

My episodes of panic with my OCD have lasted me months at a time before. At times, they leave me feeling that my fear will last an eternity.

"With a fear that lasts an eternity, counting one, two, three, to the metronome of destiny

In love with earthly frequencies, the ripping sound of frantic waves

It's growing, flowers exploding, round and round, they're breathing, eating me alive"

Now, the visceral earthly imagery in the chorus is more evocative than meaningful. The thought of a flower exploding, wrapping around you, breathing and eating you alive is an uncanny enough thought. But it's the way mortality feels to me. It's the way I imagine slowly dying. Even though I have never been close to that state physically (knock on wood) getting a very scary phone call from a doctor some years ago got me well acquainted with the proximity that we as animals have to the dirt beneath us. ("Letting go and letting blood can never be rehearsed/Oh, you know I'm gonna claim that I'm only getting worse!") That last line in the yelling section in particular refers to the endless requests for reassurance about my own potential, unreal conditions and my inability to believe the people that told me I would be okay.

I'm also really proud of the next little section where the lines, "This survival rate, forever it is plummeting/these statistics aren't re-re-reassuring me," pop up. This refers specifically to checking compulsions via looking up symptoms on the internet/checking survival rates for various illnesses (I used to do that a lot.) This section also alludes to the loss of control, which, in reality, might be the scariest part of the fear of illness for me.

Also, notice the repeated rhyming of "me" with itself. ("Can't you answer me/those looking down on me"... "These statistics aren't re-re-reassuring me"..."Heal me"). When you're stuck in your head, it's quite impossible to live outside of yourself.

"'Cause the world never pauses for the cowardly

It pushes past the plagued and pageless poet’s elegies

But after all, the only person that's without disease

is only six feet deep"

This section refers to the world seeming to move on without you when you're trapped in panic, along with a slight reassuring thought that 'everyone goes through some sort of illness.' Also this interpolates Glass Pen hey guys ahahahahha, I also reference Cryin' Cryin' with the background line "Don't try to fight what you can't see," interpolate an unreleased song with [ REDACTED ], and reference Neuron Explosion Show with "I don't think I'm gonna make it out/with an ardent voice I scream it." I may or may not be going through an inspiration phase of someone I look up to who motifs a lot ahahahhahahahahah

"BRACING FOR IMPACT, WHAT’S REAL IS PLAIN TO SEE

'THESE THOUGHTS ARE JUST PROTECTING ME'

THE BIBLIOCLAST

TO MY OWN STORY"

The line "'These thoughts are just protecting me'" being in quotes specifically refers to something I learned in therapy about the nature of OCD brains and anxiety. How your brain is constantly trying to protect you despite there being no immediate threats to speak of, sometimes none at all. Also I'm really proud of the line "The biblioclast to my own story"!!! I'm a sucker for a good big word.

And that's really the core of Positive Result as a song. I hope it resonates with y'all however you decide to interpret it! In the scope of MACHINA MORI (which you should check out RIGHT NOW BTW) I see it as staring your mortal self in the face and being afraid of what you see. There's nothing comforting about being mortal. At the same time, there's everything comforting about being mortal. But, yeah. It's scary, it is. However, for me at least, even as I live side by side with this disorder, I'm a certified Lover Of Life and no amount of fear will ever change that for me. Despite how hopeless my music has been sounding lately, I hope you are aware that I, as a person, am not one to let go of hope.

Be prepared for what I have in store for this year. Big things coming!

~Kain Angel, 2/15/25

Thank you: Mage, Io, Tomi, Olay, absolutely every one of my friends, MM TEAM

[robinvomit]

Hi 👋🏾

So I’m actually the one who asked for a list 😭. I’ve actually been reading for work for months now but never followed because when I go on a fanfic deep dive I never pay attention to the users but now I’m realizing you’re one of the few writers I always come back too.

I never thought I would app your name on the list because I’ve actually read fanfic made but ChatGPT and it was NOTHING like your work. I just want to say I’m truly sorry because I never meant to cause any harm. I just wanted to spread awareness especially after finding a fic I loved only to find out it was plagiarized.

Again I’m soooooo sorry and I hope things get better. ❤️‍🩹

Hello 💙

I have nothing against anyone being curious or paranoid by any means — we are living in a time where business and everything else use ai. Not to mention the authors who have been published and caught using it. I hold absolutely no grudge against those wanting to know or even being suspicious. However, I am against people who uses albeist and racist slurs while saying they aren't targeting people, then begging for proof and not acknowledging it.

Had she come to me and asked, I would have answered. I would have sat down, did a video, wrote something, and shown proof that way and been like; hey, it's cool, yadayada. But, one:

She decided to come onto my page and "check it" because she's apparently an accurate living god damn ai detector — must be an android, idk. — and decide my work was either """too good""" or "not good enough" without opening her fucking mouth like a civil TWENTY TWO YEAR OLD, grown ass adult would have and tbh, I truly hope wherever she's studying law finds out about her fun hobby of bullying and harassment online.

Again; there was absolutely NO reason to use the term "demented monkey". There will be no excuses made on that.

When I explained myself, even that I have posted notes, notebook scans, lives, had video calls, etc. I was told "I'm seeing a lot about writing but no proof."

Doesn't even have the balls to acknowledge the proof I posted, APOLOGIZE for being a raging fucking TWAT to the point people have deleted their blogs. Not to mention, gloating and assuming that reaction and not wanting to deal with her harassment means someone is guilty.

She refuses to actually behave like an adult in any of her replies and is acting like she's God's gift to ai writing.

She named the list "People who use ai" without a SINGLE thing to back up any of her claims besides an "indicator" list that sucks ass and doesn't even fit ANY of the blogs she listed.

She had the nerve to read through my page. See that I just had a DEATH in my family. That I am dealing so badly with my mental health I'm barely eating, sleeping or wanting to move and decided; "sorry if this causes you distress".

Not to mention the people in her posts like "haha all these blogs are 100% ai" — I'm sorry.. my fucking expression of how I express grief is fucking ai written? The damian posts I've done for self comfort on fucking borderline personality disorder are ai? I had to have a ROBOT write how I FEEL and deal with MY mental disorder? How the fuck would ai have the capacity to write that correctly when it doesn't have the ability to *have* a mental disorder — especially when they are so tailored to everyone outside of main symptoms for diagnosis.

She's pushing a really fucking dangerous narrative against authors that people really love and it's not going to end well when all of us up and fucking leave. AI. LEARNS AND COPIES. FROM. US. Did everything think the shit with ao3 was just funsies? Giving ai some bedtime stories? NO. It's so it gets BETTER. So it LEARNS. God, has NO ONE ever watched a single movie or TV show about AI? Go watch the new Mission Impossible, for fuck's sake.

When those of us that write and draw and do all the other crafts decide to stop, put our tools down and walk away because of halfwit people like her? I don't want to hear shit when people are left with ai.

And this isn't again YOU. I understand you meant no harm — YOU weren't out here baselessly accusing people with your quirky little look at me haha I know how ai works and these people write BETTER than me so obviously they use ai list. I fully accept your coming forward an apologizing. None of this was your fault because so what you asked — she took it too damn far. I hope you do enjoy the work I have posted, that is what it's here for.

But me? I'm done with this. I am done with all of this.

Clarifying again because I am clearly pissed; I am by NO MEANS upset with you. At all.

[baeddel]

there is as you know an association between humanity and pregnancy in ds1. twin humanities are often taken to represent pregnancy, since it was shown early on that all the corposes that held them had cloth covering their chests (we presume covering their breasts), and were thus guessably capable of childbirth. taking the twin humanities starting gift, therefore, could be used to represent playing a woman who died and entered undeath while pregnant (there was a time when i always took it on that basis; then you must say, 'do you use it for the humanity, or keep it as an object forever? which is better to her?'). this was sometimes used to interpret the Gargoyles as mother and child; although if we assume it must always bear this meaning, we must think some interesting things about Oswald, who drops it when he dies also.

but likewise Quelaag's sister is a kind of mother, nursing dead, ruined or infertile eggs which are gnawed painfully by human sprites. she is one of two living firekeepres we encounter before getting to Anor Londo and we might therefore with some justice impute a mothering role to Anastasia as well (before she can talk and we realize she is more of a frightened little girl). all firekeepers' corpses are, like the twin humanity-carrying corpses, with covered breasts, and we might again draw the same analogy. it would not be unlawful, i think, to wonder if capacity for childbirth was required of firekeepers.

then we beat Sen's Fortress and (nervously passing by the giant guardsmen we aren't sure won't attack us) meet the Darkmoon Knightess, standing, arms folded, free and unhindered, in perfect health, and shining armour, and learn, with some surprise, she is the firekeeper herself. she appraises us, as a soldier appraises an inferior soldier who has impressed him. then says something to the effect of: "rest at the bonfire. or don't. tch. i don't care." and in her manner all together she undermines what we had thought to be true of firekeepers. all that need not be true of them at all; this one is a captain in some army! and if she is caring towards us it is a fraternal care; not even a paternal care, nevermind mothering. much later we learn that she has a problematic body, of no clear composition; it is some organic mass that clings to her armour, and that's that of her. she will not give birth any time soon, we should think.

i am not saying, you understand, that the Darkmoon Knightess is transfem (she is more like Catharina Margaretha Linck than Chevalière d'Éon, say; she is a virago or ides and together with her master Gwyndolin they form a perfect complement). but she is the sole presence in the story that foregrounds the possibility of a transfem firekeeper.