#BUT I KEEP MISPLACING THE NEEDLES

[sincerelysoda]

in the past day, i have lost two yarn needles in my bed. idk where they went. did someone steal them. pls return them😞

[tonyglowheart]

finally...hooked on? hooked off? hooked up? what is the crochet equivalent of cast on...

anyway lmao. finally uhhh started! what will be a giant bee (and... mayhaps... a beehaw? owo)

(Using this pattern)

[ya-zz]

Hiiiii! I'm making myself a scarf for next winter. How would ramattra, hanzo, and venture feel about getting a hand crocheted scarf in their favorite colors/a special pattern! (I know omnics wouldn't need scarves, but it's the thought that counts 😭)

(Also the one I'm making is the carpet pattern from The Shining, I'm absolutely bragging because I'm very proud of it)

AWH ABSOLUTELY!

(and you better show it at when it's done)

RAMATTRA

He needed a new cowl as the old one was tattered and torn.

Seeing you making your own scarf, he asked if you could make him one.

You, of course, obliged without any hesitation.

He sat with you for the first hour or so as you started, listening to the mindless mumbles that escaped your lips.

It was similar to meditation, he thought.

He didn't mind the click clacking of the needles, and the determination was evident in your eyes.

Ramattra would sit by you most days, others he would leave you alone to do it.

When you finally present it to him, holding out the bundle of yarn, he almost hesitated taking it.

It was a gift, he wanted to be cautious.

When he unfolds it, the yellow pattern among the purple makes his systems heat up.

He loves it already.

It is soft and as he puts it around his neck, the fibres tickle his neck slightly.

His chassis hums in contentment as he thanks you, a tilt of his head to show his happiness.

Ramattra knew he'd be wearing it until he needed a new one.

HANZO

Winter was always cold in Hanamura.

No matter what the archer would wear, he'd still find himself shivering.

When he found out that you could make scarves, he sheepishly asked if you would make him one, should you have the time.

The way he asked made you smile and agree to his request.

He didn't see much of you after that as you hid away from him.

You made sure to make it a navy colour, gold as accents.

It would suit him no matter what he wore and would for sure keep him warm.

When you appeared a week or so later, having worked on it non stop, you presented it to him with a small bow.

He stares at you for a moment before it hits him that he asked you to do this.

He takes it from you, letting it unravel.

A satisfied hum escaped him as he thumbs the material, fingers tracing the golden coloured accents.

He mutters a shy thank you but doesn't wear it then and there.

The next time you see the archer in his suit and coat, the scarf was wrapped around his neck, keeping him snug and warm.

VENTURE

Their last scarf got lost on their last expedition.

When they saw the one you had wrapped around your neck, they immediately asked where you got it.

After you mention that you made it yourself, Sloan then proceeded to ask if you would make them one.

You nodded, saying it would be done before they went on their next adventure.

You got to work instantly, sitting down on the sofa with the yarn by your side.

They sat next to you for a little while, legs kicking as they excitedly watched.

A few days passed before you finally gave it to Sloan, a shy look on your face.

Their hands reach out and take it, smushing it against their face as they sigh into the softness.

As they wrap it around their neck, they notice the word VENTURE inscribed into both ends.

They hold back some tears as they give you a goofy smile before hugging you tightly.

From then on, it became a treasured item, always with them and they would always panic if they misplace it.

[calaisreno]

His Favourite Jumper

Sherlock can be careless, but he always tries to make things right.

1627 words / Prompt: Eavesdropping

“What’s this?” Mrs Hudson frowns at what he’s showing her. “John’s jumper?”

“John’s favourite jumper. I need to fix it.”

She takes it in her hands and assesses the damage. It’s a nice jumper, all worsted, cabled up the front, the sleeves set in with steeks. Certainly hand knit by someone who knew what she was doing. She assumes it’s a she; there aren’t many men she knows with the patience to knit.

“What did you do to it?”

“The flat was chilly, so I was wearing it. Borrowed it. John wasn’t home. I was doing an experiment and spilled acid on it. I’ll need matching yarn, I assume. And knitting needles.”

The holes are extensive, she notes, and even a good darner would find it hard to repair such extensive damage. Still frowning, she looks up at him. “Do you know how to knit?”

“Well, no. But knitting is just interlocking loops. How hard can it be?”

She stifles a snort. The poor boy is distressed, but determined to fix what he’s ruined. No one should despise a novice effort, but…

“Sherlock, love, these are a lot of holes, and matching the colour and type of the wool is a bit harder than you might think. Even if you could find a match, even you could darn them all, it’s not going to be like new. He’ll be able to tell.”

His face falls a bit. “But he can’t know I’ve ruined it. And he’ll notice it’s gone.”

“You might buy him a new one.”

“This one was hand-made by his grandmother. It won’t be the same.”

 Nothing is the same, she wants to say. Sometimes we have to let go of things. 

But he’s looking at her so hopefully, and it’s a shame to crush that kind of hope. It’s obvious what’s happening. He’s been in love with John since they moved in together. Sherlock can be careless, but that’s because he’s heedless in his enthusiasm. This isn’t the first jumper he’s ruined, and that’s surely part of his worry. John does have a temper. 

“Just tell him. He’ll forgive you.”

“He’s always forgiving me, and I just keep ruining things. Please, Mrs Hudson. Won’t you show me how?”

Now his eyes shine with tears that threaten to fall.

She gives him a darning lesson. 

John notices the jumper is missing. She sees him going through the laundry, looking for it, and then through the bins. 

When he asks, she plays the innocent, asking him when he last wore it, whether he might have taken it off and left it somewhere. He shakes his head.

She’s watching an old movie late one night when Sherlock brings his work down to her. 

“It looks awful,” he says, slumping on her sofa. “I can’t give it to him like this.”

“I think you’re underestimating him, love. He’s not going to leave because you ruined his jumper.”

“This is not the only thing I’ve ruined,” Sherlock replies. “I broke his mug, I lost his charging cord, and I accidentally set his book on fire. It was only a paperback, but still. He must think I’m trying to drive him out.”

“No, he doesn’t.”

Sherlock’s face is pleading. “Please, Mrs Hudson. You must show me how to knit.”

“Knitting a jumper takes time.”

“How long, would you estimate?”

“Well, there’s the size. It’s not a large one, so that’s all right, and it’s a thicker yarn. Made in the round, so there won’t be much stitching up. But you’re a novice, and that adds hours. I would say… forty hours, minimum.”

“A week, then?”

“When will you find forty hours in your week to work on it?”

“John goes to bed earlier than I do, and he’s at work most days. I’ll sleep when he’s home, so I can work on it when he’s gone or asleep.”

She gives him a knitting lesson.

A skilled eavesdropper, she overhears their conversation, John asking, Sherlock giving a shrug and suggesting that if he had indexed his jumpers, maybe he wouldn’t have misplaced it. 

At night, Sherlock comes down for instruction. She shows him how to make ribbing around the bottom and cables as he travels up the body. He has good dexterity and makes quick progress.  

“He’s bought himself a new jumper,” he informs her. “Very cheap. Obviously machine-made. And the yarn is plastic!”

“Acrylic,” she says. “It has the advantage of laundering well. No shrinkage.”

“I hate it,” Sherlock replies. “But mine looks uneven. I’m not happy.”

“You have to check your gauge. You’re new to this, so it’s probably changed as you’ve become more proficient.” 

She pulls out her gauge ruler and shows him. “See? It’s narrowing. Your stitches are getting tighter.”

“How do I fix it?”

“You can either switch to larger needles, or you can recalculate, unravel, and start over. Either way, you’ll need to pull out a few rows.”

He presses his fingers against his forehead. “This is going to take years!”

“Not years.” She pats his hand. “You’ve got the hang of it. Even experienced knitters have to pull out days of work sometimes. It’s worth it to get a jumper that looks good.”

He gives a heartfelt sigh, slides the jumper off the needles, and begins pulling the stitches out.

She admires his determination. It takes him weeks to work his way to the armholes, and then she shows him how to do a steek where he will attach the needles for the sleeves. As his consulting business picks up, the weeks turn into months. 

At Christmas, John wears a dark blue jumper with an Icelandic yoke of red and white. She admires it; he smiles and tells her his grandmother made it for him. Sherlock’s eyes are on him, every time John isn’t looking. It’s not the jumper he’s admiring.

The jumper is set aside after Moriarty steals the Crown Jewels, hacks into the Bank of England, and breaks into Pentonville Prison. 

Sherlock bows out of John’s birthday, claiming he has a ‘thing.’ When she comes up to check on him, he’s finished one sleeve, ready to start the other.

She can see John is hurt that Sherlock skipped his birthday. He didn’t even get him a card. He says nothing, but the way he looks at Sherlock makes her certain; he’s in love with his flatmate.

Afterwards, an awful silence fills the flat. She can hear the floorboards creak a bit as John paces back and forth. There’s no violin to soothe him to sleep. 

It’s days before she can bear opening the door of his room, but she knows she has to put things in boxes. His brother has promised to continue paying the rent until he can collect his things. But it’s heartbreaking, looking at all the familiar clutter. She has to tidy up.

There are clothes scattered on the floor, and she gathers them for the wash. She goes through his drawers, tallying how many boxes she’ll need. In the wardrobe, all his suits and shirts hang in dry cleaner’s bags. 

As she prepares to close the wardrobe door, she spots a file box with a label reading: Experiment. Do not open!

She opens it, of course. Can’t have experiments biding their time in the wardrobe. He always had odd ideas about what was acceptable. 

Inside, she finds the jumper. He worked on it for more than a year, and it’s nearly done, just the bottom half of the second sleeve left, and he’s tidied up the ends on the inside already.

It’s a good piece of work, she decides. A long apology for something John would surely have forgiven. It’s love unspoken, words he could never say.

Such a shame, she thinks. 

That evening, she finishes the second sleeve, weaves in the final ends. It needs hand washing and blocking, so she takes on those tasks as well.  

When it’s done, it looks perfect. If she were judgemental, she would say it’s even better than the original. She folds it and wraps it in tissue paper, places it inside a Marks & Spencer shopping bag. 

John Watson is going to get his apology, even if it’s long overdue.

She finds the dismal little flat where he’s living now. Moving out hasn’t made him any happier, she can see when he opens the door. 

“Mrs Hudson,” he says, apologetic. “You didn’t have to—”

“It’s fine, John. I’ve brought you something.”

He opens the bag, reaches in. Frowning, he pulls out the jumper. 

“This,” he says, practically speechless. “It’s beautiful. It’s almost like the one…”

“The one Sherlock ruined,” she finishes. “He was so distraught over that, John. He was afraid you wouldn’t forgive him.”

“And… you made this… to replace it.” He’s feeling the wool, an incredulous smile on his face. “Mrs Hudson, this is beautiful.”

“No, love.” She smiles, the tears starting to fill her eyes. “He made it.”

For a moment he just gazes, not comprehending. “Sherlock? He made this?”

“For you. He ruined the other— it was an accident. You know him, so careless when he got caught up in things. And he wanted to make it right, so you’d forgive him. He didn’t know how, so I taught him. He did it all himself.”

He buries his face in the jumper. She can see his shoulders shaking.

“There, love. He had it nearly done, and was intending to give it to you, before… well, I know he’d want you to have it now.” She pats his shoulder. “He really loved you, John. I hope you know that. He worked on this for over a year, right up to the end. He loved you.”

Weeping, John raises his face. “I loved him too. And I forgive him.”

@lisbeth-kk @keirgreeneyes @totallysilvergirl

A knitter of jumpers myself, I imagine that Sherlock would enjoy the mathematical aspects of the craft. 🧶 💕

[florencemtrash]

Hummingbird: Chapter Three

Miguel O'Hara x Reader

What if the Earth-1610 (Miles’s universe) version of Miguel’s wife was actually Miles’s AP Art teacher?

Masterlist

Warnings: Terrible science jargon

It was almost silly how quickly the world returned to normal.

Alchemax was splashed on every local newspaper, website, social media account, and TV channel for a solid week before complaints shifted to the neverending construction on the streets of New York. The subway somehow got tighter, packed bodies grumbling about the thirty minutes added to their commute after ten subway cars had fallen through a spot and landed in the Hudson river. 

But the events never faded away from your consciousness. The only way you could fall asleep was by leaving all the lights on. It racked up your electric bill like hell, but you couldn’t stand seeing the shadows creep along the wall as nighttime descended on the city - it reminded you too much of the Spot’s blank face and how he managed to stare into your soul without eyes.

Then there was the growing problem of your forgetfulness. You’d never been the best at keeping track of belongings - Mamá always blamed it on your creative brain - but now everything was being misplaced. The alarm clock would disappear from the nightstand and appear in the kitchen, your sock collection was dwindling every day and never making it into the dirty hamper, for Christ’s sake you still hadn’t found your favorite yellow sneakers and it was irritating you to hell and back. 

I’m losing my goddamn mind. You often found yourself thinking.

You threw yourself into work, staying in the classroom late to grade and lesson plan until the night crew got used to vacuuming around your feet. You took on extra projects at the Academy, signing up to run after-school detention and volunteering for props and set design for this year’s spring musical “The Addams Family.”

Anything to stay out of your apartment. Anything to keep you from being alone.

Three empty coffee cups mocked your bleary eyes as you sat hunched over the sewing machine after hours. Cheap black lace trailed off the table, slowly shortening as you incorporated the material into Morticia’s dress.

“Fuck!” You hissed in pain and stuck your thumb in your mouth, sucking away the blood from your fourth needle prick of the night. At this rate you’d have more holes punched into you than swiss cheese.

It was time to give up for tonight.

Before you could forget you slipped the stolen Brooklyn Visions Academy uniform from your bag and hid it in the bottom-most cubby in the storage room. The sleeping bag and pillow from your apartment were also stuffed there, ready for Miles to use whenever he needed an extra break from being a superhero. You suspected Gwen had also been sneaking by to visit Miles now that she had more freedom to explore the multiverse - hence the spare uniform.

“How’s he doing?” You’d asked Miles earlier that day. Miguel’s unspoken name had lingered on the tip of your tongue, forcing the color to rise into your cheeks. Luckily Miles knew exactly who you were talking about.

A knowing grin grew on his face, “Not too bad. He seems more on edge than usual, but I hear he’s working on his temper.” 

“He’s not body slamming any more teenagers?” 

“Not that I know of.”

“Good.” You paused, “If he gives you any more trouble, send him my way. I’ll give him a piece of my mind.” 

Miles saluted you, “You got it.”

You meant it as a joke… but you also wanted a reason to see him again.

You were just about to switch the light off in your classroom when a flash of yellow caught your eye. Tucked behind a stack of newsprint, the vine charcoal rubbing away on your fingers as you carefully lifted the papers, was your prized pair of yellow converse.

It was too late to think about how they’d ended up so far from home, so you tossed them in your bag, threw out the coffee cups, and saved your muddled mind the trouble of figuring it out tonight.

The midnight subway car was filled with the usual Friday-night suspects - overworked nurses, loners just killing time, drunk party goers covered in more glitter than a kindergartener’s Valentine’s day card, and you.

You didn’t miss Richard, not really. What you really missed was coming home to someone and the feeling of another body weighing down the right side of the bed. More recently you’d been imagining what it would be like to come home to Miguel.

You kicked off your shoes at the bottom of the landing, shuffling up the steps and pulling off your clothes as you went, modesty be damned. By the time you face planted on your bed, hair still damp from the shower, it was nearing 2am and Miguel still hadn’t left your mind. He’d planted himself in your thoughts like a spider too high up on a wall for you to squash and too large for you to ignore.

Mercifully you didn’t have to endure the pains of a schoolgirl crush for very long. Sleep dragged you under and you welcomed it as your mind finally went quiet.

You awoke with a start, suffocating under the heavy blankets that you’d buried yourself in last night. You’d been dreaming again about the collider. You’d been dreaming about Miguel - this time in a feverish haze that left your mind in a puddle on the floor. 

How was it possible that a stranger could occupy so much space in your mind? It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t fair that he’d held you like you were everything and then left without saying goodbye.

But you weren’t complete strangers…

“Aren’t you his wife?” 

Miles had asked the question so innocently and Miguel hadn’t said anything against it, so it must be true. Somewhere, in some other universe, you’d been married to one another. 

Are you thinking about me too? You wondered, opening your eyes in hopes of chasing the memory of him away.

…Maybe you were still dreaming, because the last time you checked you hadn’t fallen asleep under a tree in Central Park. And even if you had, you highly doubted you could have lugged your mattress and bed frame with you all the way from Brooklyn.

Oh por el amor de Dios.

The glorious thing about New York City is that everyone knew how to mind their own business. So when people saw a high school art teacher in Star Wars pjs leap for joy upon finding a $5 bill on the ground, they didn’t question it.

You were so ecstatic about saving yourself the two-and-a-half hour walk back to Brooklyn that you didn’t remember a highly important piece of information until after you hopped off the subway - you didn’t have your keys or your phone.

Joder. 

Your forehead knocked against the front door of your apartment building with an audible clunk.

“Por el amor de la mierda, ¿por qué mi vida es así?” You muttered under your breath. 

“Y/n?” Your landlord, Mrs. Fleming, pushed her tortoise-shell glasses higher up on her face, the thick lenses magnifying her eyes to bug-like proportions. “Oh it is you, my dear.” 

You groaned, color rushing into your cheeks as you turned around sheepishly. “Good morning, Mrs. Fleming.” 

The elderly woman gave you a once-over look, crocheting needles clicking together as she rummaged around in her bag for her keys, “The old walk of shame, I see.” 

“What?! Wait, no-this isn’t-I’m not-”

She patted you on the back before unlocking the door and holding it open for you, “I only use the turn of phrase because that’s what you young folks call it. Ain’t nothing shameful in it. It’s good of you to get out there. I never did like Richard much.”

You were at a loss for words.

Mrs. Fleming, sprightly as she was for her age, followed you up to your apartment with her extra set of keys jingling merrily in her hands.

“Now, you have a good rest of your weekend, dear.” She said once you’d been graciously let into your apartment, “And don’t forget your keys next time!” 

“Thanks Mrs. Fleming.” You said. Her amused chuckle echoed through the air as she shuffled off to her own apartment.

You sprawled out on the ground where your bed should have been, trying to even out your breathing as the reality of the morning’s events crashed down around you like a house of cards. 

This can’t be happening. ¿Qué diablos me pasa?

You rolled onto your stomach, repeatedly banging your face into a spare pillow to muffle the sound of your aggravated screams. 

The pillow accepted your frustration with little complaint until something in you just snapped. 

All at once the pillow disappeared from beneath you and then blinked into existence by the closet allowing your face to crash into the floor unprotected.

You grabbed at your burning nose, eyes swimming with tears of pain as you registered what had happened. 

“No… oh no.” 

>>>

The rain beat down irregularly, fluctuating back and forth from being barely a drizzle to a torrential downpour. 

You gripped an empty to-go cup in your hand, the tea you’d hoped would calm your nerves long gone. 

It took you three hours to make it here. First you kept teleporting your keys away every time you touched them, futilely chasing them around the apartment. Then you’d nearly gotten hit by a taxi and teleported yourself to the bathroom of a tea shop on the Upper West Side. Miraculously your powers had quieted after that, allowing you to get on the subway and here without incident.

A familiar figure made its way down the block, hood up to protect from the rain.

“Miles!” You leapt up from your seat, racing across the street to the annoyed honking of two taxis. 

“Miss Y/l/n? How’re you doing?” Miles narrowed his eyes in worry, seeing the way your fingers nervously pulled at a loose string from your sweater, “What happened to your face?” The flesh around your nose was red and tender, slowly transforming into a purple bruise.

“I’m sorry for bothering you like this, but I didn’t know where else to go.” You looked around carefully before lifting the cup in the palm of your hand.

You furrowed your brow in concentration, willing that same power within you to snap into place again.

“What’s supposed to-” 

“Just-just give me a minute.”

A minute passed, and nothing. Your heartbeat quickened as you grew more and more flustered.

“Miss Y/l/n are you sure you’re ok?” Skepticism and genuine concern laced his voice.

“I’m fine!” 

Snap!

The cup blinked out of existence like an old-school television that had been turned off. Miles saw it reappear over the park across the street and land on a dog walker’s head. The man in question looked up at the sky bewildered, like he expected to find God there.

Miles’s wide eyes met yours.

“Oh shit.” 

He pulled you into the empty alleyway behind his building, using his spider webs to straighten the trash cans that rolled around on the ground and clear out a space large enough for the two of you to comfortably stand side by side. 

He hung close to the street, Gwen’s face shimmering to life above his wrist as he spoke with his back turned to you.

“Hey, Gwen. I’ve got a situation.” He whispered into the watch.

You caught snippets of their conversation, shrinking in your coat as you tried to suppress the anxiety growing in your chest. If there was anything you’d learned about your powers it was that they tended to flare up with your emotions.

“Do you think we can trust him with this? I don’t want anything to happen to her… Yeah, yeah. No, I understand. I’ll bring her in. See you later.” 

Miles turned back to you, a strained smile on his face, “Sorry about that.”

“Miles, what’s going on?” “I got to bring you into Spidey HQ. I don’t know what’s going on with you, but Miguel might.” 

He unzipped his raincoat and hoodie, exposing the black and red spider-suit beneath and tugging on his mask. 

Your heart gave a flip at the mention of your husband’s name (could you even call him that?). Would he be happy to see you again? Would things be awkward between the two of you?

A familiar watch flashed on his wrist as he began pressing buttons on the orange holographic screen. You’d seen it happen before, a portal of wild glitching colors pulsing to life in front of you, but that didn’t make it any less impressive. Miles stepped into it, dragging you along with him like he was just passing through any regular doorway.

He swept his arm outward, smiling at the expression on your face.

“Welcome to Spidey HQ, Miss Y/l/n.”

Your jaw dropped as you passed through the portal - an actual portal - to Miguel’s dimension. 

Hundreds, no thousands, of Spider-People roamed the open air halls, some on two legs, some on four, some on wheels, and some just preferred to swing through the air on webs, catching and releasing the nimble strings with practiced grace from the walkways that crossed overhead like… well like a spider’s web. 

Miguel certainly hadn’t wasted the spider concept when it came to their headquarters.

“I didn’t know there was a universe composed entirely of Spider-Men…Spider-People?… Spider…” A cat hissed at your feet when you nearly stepped on its tail as you blindly followed Miles through the crowd, “Spider-Things?” 

“Sorry Spider-Cat!” Miles said as the feline grumbled, tail high in the air as it calmly leapt onto the wall and continued on its way as though gravity were only an inconvenience. 

“Actually, every world has only one Spider-Person, but the Alchemax explosion last year ended up opening holes into other universes. Miguel created this place as a hub for Spider-People while everyone tries to fix the anomalies.”

“Anomalies?”

“Yeah, beings that have accidentally gotten stuck in another world.”

“Oh… yeah that makes total sense..” Your words trailed off as a roaring laugh caught your attention, “Is that… is that a dinosaur?” 

You pointed at the group crowded around a cafeteria table howling with laughter. Burgers bounced on trays as the T-Rex doubled over to slap the table for dramatic effect.

“AY YO, REXA!” Miles shouted over your head, throwing his arms up wildly. 

Rexa exposed razor sharp teeth in a grin and waved one short arm towards you. You returned a meek wave in return. 

“That’s Rexa. She’s super funny. Just uh…” he covered his mouth before whispering in your ear, “Maybe don’t mention anything about her arms. She gets a little sensitive.”

“Oh…yeah, of course. No problem.” 

Miles continued to lead you through the building, periodically taking breaks for you to catch up as you kept your eyes trained on everything except the path he’d carved in front of you. At one point you simply disappeared from view, reappearing four stories up in a psychiatrist’s office.

A tweed-suited Spider-Man jumped in his seat, dropping the box of tissues he’d been preparing to throw to his client. 

“Oh! I… I’m so sorry.” You said, flustered at the sight of a sandy haired Peter Parker variant sobbing his eyes out into a spider plushie. You inched along the wall towards the door, “I’m just-I’m just going to make my way out.”

You closed the door as quietly as possible, turning around and coming face to face with Miles again. You jumped and snapped, this time landing on Rexa’s table, foot squishing her burger into roadkill.

You groaned and tilted your head up, watching Miles sail out the office window and swing his way down. 

This was going to take a while.

There was no shortage of Spiderpeople to steal your attention, but finally after a few (uninterrupted) turns down pristine white hallways and an elevator ride into the belly of Spidey HQ, it was just you and Miles again.

From his lair, Miguel traced your figure with his eyes. When you caught sight of the camera in the elevator, its red pupil narrowing in on you, you smiled sheepishly and waved. The small action made his stomach flip like a schoolboy who’d been given his first kiss. 

He needed to pull himself together before he saw you face to face again.

“I’m just saying, I think this is a good thing, Miguel.” Peter B. said, swinging up to the platform and wrapping an arm around Miguel’s broad shoulders. Mayday crawled out and onto the control board, pressing buttons haphazardly and closing half the screens. She clapped her hands in wonder and Miguel grumbled half-heartedly. 

Once she started walking, all bets were off. She’d be an absolute menace to Spider Society. Already she liked to treat Miguel like her personal playscape, crawling onto his shoulders and tugging at his brown curls. 

Her antics almost made him smile… almost.

“If she’s here then that can only mean something’s wrong.” Miguel said, keeping his eyes fixed on the screen and ignoring Mayday as she slumped over his back, slowly sliding down his chest and into his waiting arms with a dramatic sigh. 

You looked tired and nervous, fingers tugging at the strings of your raincoat. A purple bruise spread out from your nose, moving with the curve of your cheekbones. Had someone hurt you? 

Miguel’s blood began to boil.

“Or,” Peter bumped his hips against Miguel’s, “it could mean she wants to see you again.” 

“Stop that.” Miguel growled.

“Stop what?”

Stop giving me hope.

Miguel was about to bite back at Peter and wipe the mischievous grin on his face when the doors slid open. Miles’s voice rang through the empty space. 

“These are all those anomalies I was telling you about. Doc Oc, Rhino, Sandman, Mysterio. I don’t even want to know who that is.” 

“Why is it so dark in here?”

“Miguel likes to brood. I think he’s part vampire.” 

Miguel tossed Mayday into her father’s arms, swiftly turning around and busying himself at the control panel to distract from the pounding of his heart. A dozen screens flashed to life above the control board and Miguel concentrated on none of them.

Peter grinned like a madman. This was going great. 

“Miss Y/n!” He shouted out, throwing his hands in the air before hopping off the platform. Mayday squealed in delight and copied his actions. Miguel only cursed under his breath and rubbed his temples. Leave it to Peter to be the cause of 90% of his headaches.

“Looking good, teach!” 

“Ummm… thanks?” You responded as Mayday grabbed at you with chubby fingers. You didn’t have much choice but to hold her as Peter thrust her into your arms. Fear jolted through you like a lightning strike and you quickly handed her off to Miles, the poor girl frowning and continuing to make grabbing motions at you. The last thing you wanted was to make Mayday disappear from your arms.

Peter tipped his head to the side but for once made no comment. He continued to chat you up, pulling small smiles from your lips and ignoring the way you kept glancing at Miguel as his platform slowly lowered to the ground. 

He had his hands on his hips, bright red and blue Spider-suit cutting a striking silhouette against the dark background. 

If he’d noticed you walking into the room, he didn’t show it and you tried your best not to deflate at that realization. 

“Don’t worry. He just likes to make an entrance,” Miles whispered in your ear. And some entrance that was. He stepped off the platform, back tight and straight as he moved forward with measured, even footsteps. 

Miles took one step forward, angling his body in front of you with a weariness in his eyes. 

Miguel stopped, face betraying nothing as he looked you up and down once.

“I never thought I’d see you again.” The words would have sounded romantic coming from someone else’s lips, but from him they just sounded dry and clinical.

“Same here.” You said. The words came out breathlessly.

“What’s happened?”

His hand hovered in the air between you two before he swiftly dropped it to his side. He wanted to reach out and touch your face. He wanted to tilt your chin upwards so he could take a good look at the damage done to your nose and make sure you were ok. Perhaps if you’d been alone he would have allowed himself to do it, but as it was, they had company. 

“We need your help, Miguel.” Miles cut through the tension, “Something’s up with Miss Y/l/n. She’s got powers now - teleportation similar to the Spot’s.” 

His heart stuttered in his chest.

“Is that true?” he said, desperately looking to you for answers. The Spot’s powers had made him unstable in more ways than one and Miguel shivered to think about anything happening to you.

You nodded, “Things keep disappearing when I touch them. Sometimes I accidentally teleport to places when I’m frustrated. I didn’t realize what was going on until I woke up in Central Park last night.”

Miguel turned around, muttering under his breath as his mind raced a thousand steps ahead of him. 

Of all the people this could have happened to, it had to be you. He thought he’d done the right thing by leaving you alone, forcing himself not to portal to your dimension every night. His multiversal travels had taught him a thing or two about the ways things operated. Some figures, like Peter Parker’s Spider-Man were well represented across worlds. Some figures, like himself, were harder to come by. 

As for you? He only knew of three worlds where you existed - in one world, his actions had led to your death and the death of your daughter. In the second, Spot had murdered you in his quest to figure out Spider-Man’s identity. 

And in this one… 

Well he thought he’d been keeping you safe. 

Teleportation was a dangerous ability - unpredictable and difficult to control. Left unchecked you could find yourself in front of a car speeding down the highway or at the top of Mount Everest or in a different dimension altogether, constantly glitching as your molecules broke apa-

“Wait,” Miguel stiffened, back tightening as he swiveled around on his heels, “Where’s your watch?”

“My watch?” you glanced at your naked wrist, “I mean I usually just check my phone for the t-”

“No, your day pass watch. The thing that stabilizes you in this universe.” 

Miles’s eyes blew open. “Mierda. Sabía que había olvidado algo.”

“How long have you two been here?”

“Maybe two hours.” You guessed.

“And nothing’s happened?”

“Is something supposed to happen?” 

Even Peter B. looked concerned. Panic rose in your chest and you threatened to snap. Miguel reached out and grasped your wrist, palm sliding down until you felt the weight and warmth of his hand wrapped in yours. He led you to the med bay, Peter and Miles following closely behind.

The paper atop the padded examination table crinkled as you took a seat, watching Miguel’s broad shoulders flex and stretch as he dug an extra watch out from the back of a cabinet.

“Lyla, run a scan of Y/n.”

The woman flickered to life in front of him. “What’s the magic word?” She fluttered her eyelashes.

“Lyla.” He was in no mood for games today

“Ok, ok. Don’t be testy.” Lyla appeared in front of you, an orange scanner materializing in her hands that swept across your body with a cool touch. “Scan complete.” 

“Here you go,” Miguel felt some relief pour back into his body as he fastened the watch around your wrist, hand lingering against your pulse like he wanted further confirmation that you were alive and well.

“Hey, why does she get one of the fancy ones?” Miles protested. The watch, identical to the ones worn by Miguel, Peter, and Miles flashed its face at you. It was far too elaborate and expensive to be just a day pass.

Miguel ignored him, walking over to one of the monitors and skimming through the output data.

“It took six months for Miguel to give me one of those bad boys,” The paper crinkled again as Peter hopped onto the table beside you, whispering, “Looks like someone’s got a favorite,” and earning a glare from Miguel. 

Peter winked suggestively.

Miguel scowled.

Your cheeks turned a rosy red, your coat disappearing from around your shoulders and landing in a rumple at Miguel’s feet like the world’s worst suggestive gesture. Peter howled with laughter.

“No puedo creerlo.” Miguel whispered, his voice tinged with disbelief. “Lyla, am I looking at this right?”

“You sure are. Y/n’s DNA is perfectly stable. Not a trace of multiversal quantum poisoning to be found. And! Her radiation signature matches that of more than a thousand different universes. Bet you’ve never seen that before.”

“How is that even possible?”

“Hmmmm, let me think.” Lyla spun around in a digital office chair, waiting for her moment to break the dramatic pause. Miguel groaned - he would need to improve her code and tone down the dramatism. “Looks like packets of quantum energy from across the multiverse were released during the Alchemax hypercompact fusion explosion and merged with the only unaltered sentient lifeform in the vicinity.” 

“Dios mio.”

At the end of her explanation she bowed gracefully, arm and fur-lined coat sweeping off to the side.

“Did you get any of that?” Peter asked out of the corner of his mouth.

“Peter, I took forestry as my science gen ed in art school and barely passed so… no.”

“Uhhh, can you repeat it for the rest of the class?” Miles piped up. 

Lyla leaned forward, one hand on her hip and the other tipped her heart-shaped sunglasses onto her head. 

“Y/n absorbed energy from a ton of different universes so as far as the multiverse is concerned, she doesn’t register as an anomaly. No glitching. No dying outside of her universe without a watch. No predicted multiversal collapse.” Lyla smiled. “Predicted.”

You looked less than pleased. The last month had been filled to the brim with life-altering events from finding out Miles was a superhero, to getting kidnapped and nearly dying, to finding out your variant’s husband was an all-too-attractive, brooding Spider-Man. It was getting to be too much - you were a teacher for crying out loud! Maybe you’d have handled it better if you were a crime-fighting detective, or a fancy scientist, or a millionaire with access to the latest tech and weapons. Instead you were just… you.

“Can you fix it?” 

Miguel flinched at the look on your face. You were looking to him for help and for answers, but he couldn’t provide them in any satisfactory way. He’d never encountered anyone with your abilities. 

The confusion and fear that came with discovering your powers - that was a journey all Spider-People went through, and they usually went through it alone.

Miguel sighed, “There’s nothing to fix, Y/n.” He said the words with a softness no one had heard from him in years, perhaps ever, “This is who you are now.” 

“So I’m just going to be stuck like this forever?”

“Having powers isn’t so bad.” Peter chimed in with a small smile. “From time to time, it can actually be pretty awesome.”

You allowed a small, empty smile to grow on your lips. It was a smile Miguel was well acquainted with - the kind of smile that said I’m not fine, but I want you to believe that I am.

“I have some tests we could run.” Miguel offered up, “I can’t reverse what’s happened but maybe I can come up with something to help you control your powers, at least while you’re learning how to use them.” 

You nodded, the smile turning into something real, “I would like that. Thank you.” 

Peter was practically vibrating with excitement when he caught the look that passed between the two of you and the hint of hope on Miguel’s usually stony face. 

He clapped his hands down on Miles’s shoulders, “Well would you look at the time? I need to put Mayday down for her nap and grab some food. You’ll learn this soon enough, but being a superhero does burn the calories.” 

He hopped off the table, waltzing all the way to the door before he noticed that Miles was missing from his side. “Miles! Come join me.” 

“Actually, I was going to wait with-”

“Miles.” Peter coughed into his fist, bug eyes burning into Miles until he got the hint.

“Oh? Oh! Yeah, sorry Miss Y/l/n, I forgot I told Gwen I’d meet up with her.” 

You waved him off, “I’ll be fine, Miles. Thanks for everything.” 

“I’ll show her how to use the watch and send her home when we’re finished.” Miguel said, pulling on a lab coat that had been draped over his office chair. He rarely had time to work in the lab, more focused on his primary duty of maintaining the stability of the multiverse, but the familiar glide of the fabric over his skin did help to relax him. It reminded him of the old days when Spider-Man didn’t exist and the multiverse was just a fun theory tossed around at company lunches. 

A thin silence stretched between you two after Miles and Peter left, and you contented yourself with watching Miguel as he busily typed away at his monitor, labeled vials, and prepared the syringes. Every movement was practiced and controlled like he’d done this a million times before.

Miguel was screaming on the inside. You were close enough for his heightened senses to pick up on the honey lemon shampoo you used tinged with the woodsy scent of linseed oil. He was powerless under your gaze like an insect trapped under a microscope.

“I just need to collect some blood samples.” Miguel said, gently holding out his hand. You offered your arm up without complaint, distracting yourself from the pinch of the needle by reading the faded name tag printed on his lab coat.

You whistled low to break the tension, “Dr. O’Hara. That’s impressive. What kind of doctor are you?”

“I was a geneticist. Not the medical kind though. I worked in research at Alchemax.” 

“Is that how you got your spidey powers?”

He rolled his eyes, “They’re not spidey powers, they’re acrachno-humanoid genetic augmentations.” 

“Qué estúpido. Just call them spidey powers. You scientists just like to give things complicated names to feel superior.” The corner of Miguel’s lips quirked up every so slightly. The thrill of seeing any emotion on Miguel’s face lightened the feeling in your chest.

“Was it hard becoming Spider-Man?” You asked.

Miguel shrugged, wiping away the small bead of blood on your arm. “I had it easier than most. I was already looking into the possibility of combining human and arachnid DNA and I had the resources to study my powers.” Miguel paused. It had been a long time - too long - since he’d had a conversation like this with anyone. He could cast his mind back to talks with you his wife, but those had always been domestic in nature.

“The hardest part was not having anyone to talk to.” He said, finishing his thought.

“Sounds lonely.” You remarked, accepting the q-tip from him and swabbing the inside of your cheek. He collected the sample in a vial of greenish liquid and gave it a thorough shake, “Do you have people now that you talk to?”

“No.” His answer was short and to the point. 

You’d touched a sore spot and you decided to prod it. “Would you like someone to talk to?” 

Again, the corner of his lips twitched, “Are you offering?”

You copied his shrug from earlier, “Maybe.” 

He took a few more cheek swabs and then a strand of hair. His hand lingered by your cheek, frowning as he took in the bruise on your face. 

Now that you two were alone he dared to gently tilt your head to the side.

“You never told me what happened.” 

Your hands flew up to your face in embarrassment and Miguel saw the tips of your ears grow red. He liked it.

“I may or may not have teleported my pillow away right before smashing my face into the floor.” 

The breath left his lungs in a quiet chuckle. That sounded like something you’d do.

“But no one’s bothering you?”

“What? Oh no. No, it’s nothing like that.” 

He nodded, the tightness in his chest unraveling with that knowledge. He knew you weren’t his wife and he knew that you didn’t know him well enough yet, but that didn’t stop him from caring. The truth was he liked you from the moment you slapped his shoulder and cursed at him, and it wasn’t just because you looked like someone from his past.

“This will take some time to work through.” He tilted his head towards where the tabletop machines whirred and spun, “But if I’m right, I may be able to adjust your watch to stabilize you in a specific place, not just a specific universe. It’s not a permanent fix but you won’t be waking up in Central Park again anytime soon.” 

“That would be preferable.” 

You moved to take off the watch and hand it over to Miguel but he stopped you.

“Keep this one. In case anything happens you can contact me or the other Spider-People,” He said, walking her through the steps of using the watch, “Headquarters is always open so if anything happens, come here.” 

You nodded. With an encouraging look from Miguel you punched “Earth-1610” into the locator and then your home address. 

Just like last time the portal bloomed open beside you, scattering a few loose papers on the ground. Through the portal you caught a glimpse of your living room, citylights flashing outside your window.

“Come back next week. Until we have a better understanding of your powers it would be good for us to monitor you and check that you’re stable.” 

And it would be good for you to see her again. 

Miguel squashed the thought as soon as it popped into his brain in Peter’s voice. He really needed to stop spending so much time with him. 

You stepped through the portal and were embraced by the familiar smell of your apartment. It made you feel better about what was to come. You turned to smile at Miguel, his tired eyes lighting up ever so slightly.

“I’ll see you next week then.”

<- Previous chapter Next chapter ->

_________ Author's note: Here's the next chapter! Let me know what you guys think of the writing and where the story is going. I'm hoping to dive more deeply into Y/n x Miguel's relationship in the coming chapters so get ready for angst and fluff!

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[pervcoded]

bark and bite starring sukuna ryomen

content warning: there's a weird tension in this whole fic. some violence. cursing. threats and intimidation. sfw (minors still go away). reader refers to their chest as 'tits'.

“So I wanted it right here,” You drawl, pointing to an unmarked expanse of your skin, and Sukuna takes a moment to observe what other flesh remains untouched. You are so thoroughly marked with ink, he muses, it must also run through your veins.  He knows a bad egg when he sees one - a snake slipping down your spine, the teardrop on your cheek. Eyes like you might hurt someone. Mouth that gets you into trouble.

You stare back at him. His ear twitches ever so slightly. “You hear me, stud?”  You’re talking too much already. Your fingers run over your ribs again, and you glare pointedly in his direction.

He’s gonna get to that attitude in just a bit.

“I want it black and white. Halftone. Here’s the picture.” He doesn’t look at it long.

“Yeah,” Sukuna licks his lips, a fanged tooth poking out when he doesn’t quite smile. “I got you, pup.” 

Your fellow humans should have warned you about him. He had fostered a particular reputation in his time in the scene - beyond the rough demeanor and sweet ink. 

He’s never been too careful with humans. But who’s fault is that, hm? Your kind really ought to know better.

Your skin is too soft for his machine. You’ll struggle too much when he has to hold you in place, whimper when the needle punches your skin. You will grab onto his arm. You will cry. You will beg, and it will hurt anyway; because Sukuna does not put down the needle until he is finished. Here, you are subject to the whims of this domain.

But you act like you know. Roll your shoulders and say ‘c’mon’, like you understand what you’re getting yourself into.  You are insistent, confident even, laughed at the ‘humans, beware’ poster that hung at the back of his studio. So he laughed with you - or maybe at you - harsh and scathing and putting a pin in your misplaced joy.

Sukuna is no lap dog. His tall cropped ears stab in the direction of the ceiling, tail still and stiff at your approach. Though, now that you’ve seen him up close, you don’t think it’s there at all. His attire is off-puttingly casual, the graphic print on his chest stretched so wide across a glorious chest, that the color is starting to fade a little. You tried to keep your eyes focused on his. Ignored the claws, ignored the teeth, ignored the heat under your collar. 

The dog flicked his head to the side, gaze never leaving yours. 

“Get on the table.” 

It felt more like a threat than an invitation. You eased yourself onto the cot, Sukuna disappearing into your periphery a moment as you begin to pull your shirt up to your neck. You don’t take it off fully, and it makes his eyes narrow. As you situate yourself properly, you find his eyes drifting up your body, back to your neck. The shirt. He waits, needle in hand, staring down expectantly.

You zoned out a bit. This guy’s beside manner was just as mediocre as the wolf with the black fur that recommended him to you. Last time you take advice from a dog.

“What’s your problem, stud?” Your lip is obnoxious. You’d look much better on your knees, presenting your tongue. “Getting an eyeful of tits ain’t good enough for you is it? Fuckin’ mutt.”

You chuff, pulling your top over your head, baring your neck.  “Go on.” You goad, “You wanna take a fucking bite?” You’re scared; the scent pours off of you in waves, and Sukuna feels the barest inkling of amusement. The rush to his face and sparkling in his nerves as the flesh is so carelessly exposed. Licks his teeth.

 “Do it, you fucking do-” He doesn’t give you the chance to finish before a hands’ clamping down on the tender flesh, your words meeting their fated end at the back of your throat. You don’t have fangs, but you bare them, anyway.

“I just might, pup.” He speeks coolly, detached from your outburst. “Definetly will if you don’t shut the fuck up. And keep still.” He seems to contemplate his ink machine while you try not to struggle, gone still on the table, but you still smell nervous. Tickles his nose juuuust right.

Gets an idea. It’s a bad one, but fitting for an uppity fuck like you he thinks. Need a big strong hand to guide you? So be it. But Sukuna will make sure everyone knows who you belong to.

He thinks a different tattoo is in order. On your lower back - emblazoned in black ink: SUKUNA’S BITCH.

⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ JJK/BANNER ART by gege akutami everything written by me @ciematis, is owned by me, and you are not allowed to repost or translate my works. don't put my shit into ai generators, don't steal my shit and put it on wattpad. thank you.

[emeritus-fuckers]

the papas/seestor with an accident prone crush or s/o? inspired by the fact I kept getting hurt while sewing today, I need to watch what I'm doing 💀

- 🎠

Fun fact: all the dumb ways reader got hurt (in the ones I wrote) are based on dumb ways I've managed to get hur. Though I didn't react that dramatically lmao - Jez

All bar one of the incidents I wrote are inspired by my own tendency to trip over things, the other well you’ll see :) - Nyx

Papas and Sister Imperator with an accident prone s/o

Primo

You had good intentions. You really did. You just... got distracted.

You were supposed to help Primo get the plants on top of his shelf so he could water them.

But neither of you were tall enough to actually reach it. So you got a stepping ladder, took them off, he watered them and you put them back up. So far so good. You even got off the ladder safely!

So what happened? You picked it up without folding it all the way to the end first.

And so it kind of just... slammed on your thumb, pushing your nail into the flesh hard enough to make you bleed.

And that fucking hurt.

You ended up dropping the ladder to the ground, whimpering and holding your thumb in pain.

"Show me, show me." Primo urged gently, taking your hand in his with worry evident in his eyes.

"Ah, it's nothing too bad. It'll stop hurting you soon, my beloved." He promised, gently kissing your wounded finger.

You tried explaining to him that you're fine and you have to take the ladder back, but he already forgot all about the ladder, bringing you to the bed.

"It's alright, my darling. Would you like a bandage for reassurance?" He asks. He knows you don't need a bandage, but perhaps it would reassure you? He remembers his brothers would always need a bandaid for the smallest cuts when they were little, otherwise they would not live down their big, scary wounds.

So for years now, he'd always have band-aids and a small first-aid kit on hand.

So you explain to him that you just have a "tendency" to get into accidents.

He would chuckle softly at it, kissing your forehead.

"Don't worry, my dear. I will always be here to patch you up if you get hurt." He promised, kissing all of your fingers, being especially gentle with your hurt thumb.

Secondo

Sewing seemed like a great idea when you started, but now your fingers were more like a pin cushion and you’d once again misplaced the needle and thread.

“Amore, what are you doing?” Secondo raises an eyebrow. “Is this shirt to be dyed red by your own blood? I admire you commitment, but surely some red dye would be quicker and less painful?”

He goes over to you and gently kisses your hands. He pays particular attention to your bleeding finger. His lips brush over them soothing the pain.

"I feel I must step in and stop this masacre, come to bed with amore." His kisses move from your hands to the side of your neck. Then he’s kissing your lips, passionately insistently.

The next day he goes out early, coming back with a box to keep all your sewing stuff in. He then holds out another package wrapped in brown paper with a green ribbon. A silver thimble. “To protect your fingers, please use it from now on" He places it on the tip of your finger and grins.

You find you get much less sewing done, he'll just come over and seduce you, saving your hands from anymore injuries.

He realises you are accident prone from that event and the time you tripped over a small step.

So if there is anything where you are likely to have an accident he will sweep you up in his arms instead and carry you. When the danger is past he’ll put you down with a kiss.

Terzo

"Just to clarify..."

"Yes?"

"You put your hand into the pocket of your jeans..."

"Yeah." you nodded.

"And you managed to cut you finger on a loose thread while doing that?"

"Yeah, pretty much."

"Per l'amor di Satana, mio ​​caro…" he sighed, watching you put a bandaid around your cut finger like completely nothing happened. Like this was normal.

He thought he was clumsy with how often he tripped and fell, but considering how absolutely unothered you were, it seemed like it really was normal for you.

And so he starts to ask questions. And you tell him how you just always just kind of... got into accidents. They were never anything too bad, just very inconvenient.

And he takes that personally.

From now on, he makes sure you can't get into anymore accidents.

You still do, but you appreciate it anyway.

Copia

He first realised you were accident prone when you fell over the living room table. Book clutched to your chest water bottle in one hand you just walked straight into it. Shins hitting first and then you fell forward. With no way to stop yourself you ended up landing facedown on it the wind knocked from you.

Shock gave way to pain and embarrassment. You lay there laughing and crying all at once.

Copia appeared in the doorway, silk dressing gown on, eye mask pushed up on his forehead and his hair dishevelled from having been asleep.

“Cara mia! What happened?” He is straight over to you. Checking you over earnestly. “Are you laughing or crying?” He wipes your tears away.

“Both” you say now more embarrassed. Thankfully you’ve escaped any serious injury as he looks at the table.

“Bad table” he gives it a smack with his hand and looks back at you grinning “is that better Tesoro?" You start to laugh properly, smiling and nodding.

Now he always keeps an eye out for any possible mishaps. He is getting very good at catching you when you trip while out walking together.

He wants to bubble wrap his whole room to keep you safe, but thats a bit impractical. So he’s had the Ghouls make sure there are no sharp edges you can walk into (like the corner of the kitchen work surface, which is hip height, and very painful that one time you did).

Old Nihil

You had joined the band for a sound check. What could possibly go wrong?

He is surprisingly fast, for an old man.

He even drops his saxaphone as he sees you, inches from the edge of the stage.

He grabs the front of your t-shirt as you start to fall backwards. He then gets his arms around you pulling you close to him, and holding you tight. He takes a few steps back to safety.

"You can't die before me." He says panicked, he doesn't let you go.

You are in shock as you realise what nearly happened. He strokes your hair, and shhs you to calm you down. It's slightly awkward but he's doing his best.

"My father fell off the stage, his father, his father's father, his father's father's father" His voice goes to mumbling as you place a hand over his mouth.

"None of them died Papa. But you have saved me from a nasty fall. Thank you" You kiss him on the cheek and the mubling stops. When you pull your hand away he is grinning at you.

"Yessss cara" he turns you away from the edge of the stage. "Yesss you are right." He gazes at you totally besotted.

Although he was fast enough to save you then, he knows he won't always be. So he tasks the Ghouls with keeping watch.

Whenever you get near to having an accident a ghoul appears from seemingly nowhere and saves you. Most of the time.

If they can't, they are getting very good at cuddling you, and helping you with any injuries.

Young Nihil

"I mean... how is this even possible?" Nihil's shoes are all you can see as he stands in front of you.

"Owwww" is all you can say as you lie on the wet grass. How you ended up face down on someone's front lawn is beyond you.

It's Halloween, Nihil likes to go out dressed as himself and scare people.

"You fell over a decoration" He helps you sit up and points behind you. There is a skelaton's hand bursting out of the ground.

"Did anyone see?" You rub your sore knee as Nihil passes you a hip flask, sitting down next to you.

"No just me." He puts an arm around you and starts luaghing.

"It's not funny." You take a large swig of his vodka. It numbs the pain, but it makes you more likely to fall over again.

"It is a little" he grins at you. Such a goofy one you can't help but laugh along.

He lifts the hand up and waves it in front of your face making ghost noises "bewaaaare the dead Papa's of the past, they will emerge from the ground to pull you down to them, to drag you down to heelllll!!" he giggles like a little kid.

You roll your eyes, and stick your tongue out at him. You've forgotten the pain, the embarrasment.

"Come on" He says with a smile you just can't resist. He tosses the hand behind him. "Let's go and find a party." He's up on his feet holding his hand out to you. "Let this current Papa show you how life should be lived." A lacivious smile replaces the mischevious one, and you are pulled to your feet.

Young Sister Imperator

"How did you even hit yourself on that? It's always been there. You know that."

"I didn't." You whined, rubbing the back of your head after you hit in on a shelf.

"You helped me put it there." She chuckled, observing you from her desk.

"Is bullying me funny to you?"

"A little bit."

You'd pout at her and she'd chuckled before she finally got up and wrap her arms around your neck, pulling you for a sweet kiss.

She'd tease you about it, calling you hopeless or a baby, but she'd also take care of you.

She'd order someone to get you your favorite hit drink and your favorite snack.

If she's not too busy, she's gonna let you lay your head on her lap as she plays with your hair.

If she is busy, however, she gets you a small spa trip until she has more time.

Old Sister Imperator

"Oh, darling, I told you to be careful..." She sighed softly, yet seemed slightly amused.

"I was trying to help you." You pouted, rubbing the back of your head.

A pen fell from Sister's desk and you went to pick it up... Only to hit your head on the very edge of her desk. It was a miracle you didn't bleed.

"Yes, and I appreciate that. Now come here, let me see." She chuckled, and you obediently moved to kneel on the floor in front of her as she checked your head. "Well, thankfully, you don't look too damaged. How do you feel?"

"Like I banged my head on the edge of the desk..." You pouted, a few pained tears slipping down your cheeks.

"Oh, you pour baby..." She cooed at you, wiping your tears and kissing the top of your head. "How about we watch a movie, hm? Would you like that, dear?"

You nodded, so she carefully guided you to sit on the couch while she prepared a movie night for the two of you, abandoning her work for now. After all, who would scold her? Nobody. Not a single soul would dare.

And besides, she needs a day off. You need to be taken care of. Two birds, one stone.

~

Papas II, IV, old and young Nihil written by Nyx.

Papas I, III, old and young Sister Imperator written by Jez.

Taglist: @sirlsplayland @firefirevampire @mamacarlyle @thatoddboy @ouijaboardemo @lightbluuestars @mybotanicaldemise @emo-mess @copias-fluffy-asscheeks @lunarsromantichomicide @randodummy @tuttifuckinfruttifriday @natoncesaid @igodownjustlikeholymary @strawberriiblossoms (send an ask if you'd like to be added! read the pinned post before asking!)

[mightymizora]

Also I planned this and shared with some folks and others might find this interesting!

In my little canon world Gortash has many lovers, and I compiled a little list of his favourites!

Everybody listed here happened multiple times over a time period, so people like Haarlep which was a very set period and one off seductions like Liria (the name I gave to the elf whose head can be found in the workshop in Moonrise) don't count here.

Neither technically does Manva Warhelm, though she sits on top for always being on his mind sue me.

Putting under the cut because Enver Gortash is a bad, bad, bad man.

Bane. I mean this goes without saying. Visits from his God are always eventful. 

Musahn Mensahn (Human) a Calishite importer of people who docks every few months. One of the few people Enver is actually fond of, Musahn is a shrewd, cultured man who spins a good yarn and is an attentive, gentle presence in his life. Afternoons with him are like a little holiday.

Del Dawnstar (Dwarf) A young employee at Mistress Yare’s flophouse in The Wide, Enver has been seeing them since they were a teenager starting out. Their position fluctuates; on the one hand they will do anything he asks of them as long as their price is met and he has been able to shape them to his tastes, but on the other hand, sometimes he likes a bit more of a fight (features in Let Me Adorn You)

Hester Ashenheart (Dwarf) A servant in Gortash’s household. He knows Hester does not like him, but that is part of the appeal on both sides. She has found herself in his bed on a number of occasions, often when he has received a less than pleasing letter - and she bears the brunt of the worst of his temper (Features in The Portrait)

Franc Peartree (Human, deceased) Franc and Enver have been working together for around a decade and have been lovers for almost all of that time. Franc has been a close supporter of Enver’s rise across business, politics, and religion, and their affair has always been one of a mutual understanding of his place.

Kruugar (Half-Orc, deceased) Kru is a mercenary who has worked for Enver across jobs. This one is pretty much just physical, and Kru has a prosthetic that Gortash fitted himself as a prototype (having also cut off his arm)

Kerrie Lovelace (Half-Elf) Gortash traded Kerrie and her brother Ellyan from Calimshan, and let her be bought by Karlach Cliffgate in what he saw as a very funny and misplaced moment of chivalry. She went on to become Ulder Ravengard’s mistress, which then sparked his interest; he blackmails her for her company when he feels he wants that particular feeling of power, and she cries all the way through, which is exactly what he is looking for (features in The Portrait and Ammunition)

Ivo Thorngrove (Halfling) A very shrewd moneylender, Ivo has been working with Enver for decades. They had a much more physical relationship when both men were younger, which has petered out into something more familial for the most part, though Ivo can sometimes be persuaded…

Helsik (Dwarf) A completely transactional, only occasional relationship when he wants something. He admires her business sense. 

Wisteria Jannath (Human, deceased) Another transactional relationship, Enver nonetheless enjoys her sharp wit and warmth, and her understanding of what their relationship is.

Ettvard Needle (Human) Editor of Baldur’s Mouth. Enver met Ettvard when working on improvements to the efficiency of print and they formed a close working relationship which became closer when he joined the Banite church. 

Ffion Goldgrind (Dwarf, deceased) Another working relationship, he sees Ffion when he needs a heavy reset.

Fariza Linnaker (Human) Technically his wife. Fariza was kidnapped and held as collateral for ransom to attempt to get Lady Ruth to hand over some of the family’s gold. She did not play ball, a move that Gortash deeply admired, and instead suggested that he keep her if he really wants the investment of the Linnakers. She has gone from locked up in a safehouse, visited only by Manva who “trained” her in what to expect should she live, to being locked up in his estate. He loathes her weakness.

Avery Sonshal (Human) Avery is a recent addition, an ambitious young man who is a Banite “friend of Gortash.” Enver doesn’t think much of him, but he takes a cock well and is eager to please, so is also easy to subjugate.

[mumms-the-word]

I think it's an unspoken cry. An unresolved sexual tension, a misplaced book on a perfect shelf…. You can't be living in desire, in platonic passion, in smut reverie…. Gale is out there… somewhere IRL and we need to find him. I propose a casting call to find the perfect Gale. What can you come up with to create the perfect casting call to find our needle Gale in the vast haystack of the world?

So idk how to answer this because as a demi/ace gal I’d probably just awkwardly wave to any Gale I saw in real life sooo…

In other news, Smut Reverie is now the name of the new band my bard Tav just joined. Keep an eye out for bangers like “Riding the Gale” and “Till You See Stars” and “99 Mage Hands”

Their first album is set to release in early 2025 but you can pre-book tickets to all their Baldur’s Gate and Waterdeep shows later this year ✌🏻

[granulesofsand]

Institutional Use of Numbers

🗝️🏷️ RAMCOA, mostly OA, institutional abuse, assigning codes

I am mildly concerned about institutions using numbers to identify people. Not necessarily if it’s just when you scan your ID or do paperwork, but when you’re called by your number and sorted by that number. When your number is placeholder for or more important than your name.

We have alters that came from schools and offices because they took that number as being given a new identity. We were used to having alters programmed by alphanumeric codes, so a few more were nothing new.

They were treated similarly in the schools, albeit to a lesser degree. They were taught not to respond to any previous name, punished if they didn’t recognize their number in a string or couldn’t recite it on command. They weren’t allowed nicknames, only the last four digits of their codes if it was a ‘private’ situation.

Our local public schools identified students with the acronym for the school system and their number. In classrooms, you went either by the number on your desk or the number on your computer depending on location. There were spreadsheets indicating which numbers were the same kid.

Our college identifies what you are with a letter (undergrad student, grad student, teacher, other staff) and your number. They make you write it differently depending on the circumstance and don’t tell you which is allowed. If you get it wrong, they proceed as though you took no action.

We used to be taken to labs, sometimes for legit ethical studies or experiments, and we were assigned a subject number we went by there. If there were multiple locations, you were labeled by your home center. Sometimes they specified age or sex.

It was (vaguely) the same as being trafficked? We weren’t treated with dignity or as people at all. Telling someone your legal name was risky and a sign of closeness, and sometimes you misplaced your trust and got hurt.

The public school mostly did PE drills to the point of causing long term damage, but they used military drills for obedience and uniformity too. The university won’t acknowledge you until you present your number, but so far we’ve never had a reason to refuse.

The labs would scold you or give you a time-out style discipline, or else assign you to an undesirable task, so long as they were operating under the law. Otherwise it might be straight up torture, needles or electricity or whatever else they had on hand plus their creativity.

It comes with an assumption that you’re less than, a different kind of person or even not a person. None of those places allowed negotiation over rules or practices, and all of them used some purposeful consequence to keep us in line.

Sometimes it’s convenient, but convenience should never outweigh humane treatment. Institutional abuse is organized abuse, and that should be enough to keep well meaning people out.

[bomberqueen17]

productivity

so this old laptop i'm using, it took me a bit to get used to the keyboard again, and its battery life is not great and it can only charge when plugged in at a specific outlet which isn't near any comfortable places to sit, no i don't know why it's like that either. i was going to just pick up my shit on my way back past Rochester on Sunday enroute to the farm to save myself three hours and 120 miles of driving but MM is apparently out of town on the weekend and would rather I didn't (I was willing to have her leave my shit in a box on her porch, but she wasn't comfortable doing that), so. I'm going to spend most of tomorrow driving to Rochester and back, I guess, so I'd better scale back what I can expect to get done this week.

I wasn't getting that much done anyway. I've cut out several garments, but only done a tiny bit of sewing. i managed to have the tension knob entirely fall off one of the needle threads of the serger i'm borrowing, and i've figured out how it goes back on but there's a nut that clearly fell off into the guts of the machine, so i have to figure out how to get the cover off to retrieve it. I've managed to peel the cover back but there must be a screw or something holding it somewhere, argh.

(My own serger remains stubbornly unfixable. Don't buy new sergers, apparently. Vintage is where it's at.)

But I have been managing some writing. Someone helpfully told me to think of having misplaced my laptop as a screen break, and I do appreciate the sentiment behind it, but I had spent the entire week previous with so little free time to look at my computer that I hadn't even half-discharged the battery. When writing is your primary hobby, and you do it on a screen, a "screen break" in that context really means "don't do the thing you are most deeply called to do". I could cheerfully throw my phone in a lake, as mostly it distracts me and I could use a detox from it one of these years when I'm not clinging to survival by its dim glow (my friends live in there, I can't give that up, but I might just delete instagram the way i did tumblr and twitter-- and no i never let facebook on there at all), but I write on my laptop, and most of my time is spent too busy to write.

But anyway. This old clunker of a laptop has answered the call and I'm lucky to have it, for sure. I'm finally making progress on the next bit of the Peace-Tied series, which has been bogged down for ages-- months and months-- first by my need to rewrite two-year-old scenes to fit the new continuity, and now by the logistics of a rather complicated sex scene. Yes, it's going there! Ha.

i was going to do a snippet post but then I was whining about my life instead and I shoudl get back to work before this battery runs out again. I'll do one later, I still think it will be a bit before the chapter is ready to post.

Yes there's more typos on this laptop-- half of it is the strange action of the very old keyboard, and half of it is that the screen doesn't keep up with the typing very well so i'm often typing blind. c'est la vie sorry.

[quietwingsinthesky]

1 or 34 for the master pls thank u :333!!!!!!!

extremely funny to me how quickly this got away from me alsjfjfkskkdj. i started thinking too hard about okay but Who could bring the master to his knees. the doctor? hey wait remember that time ten had a god complex for a little bit. what if he got worse about that, actually. and then it just kept going-

This is not the Doctor whose arms he died in.

Oh, the face is the same, but the eyes are all wrong. Still ancient, as old as the Master is, but they’ve gone hard like bone. He doesn’t spare a glance around the room at the cowering scientists or the politician that wanted to use the Master, who gave him such easy access to a perfect plan before the Doctor landed his TARDIS on top of the machine and crushed it. Only to one human, the one assigned to hold the Master’s leash.

“Give him to me,” he says. The Master curls his fingers. A step closer, and he’ll let the Doctor taste lightning again.

His assigned guard all but throws the leash at the Doctor. (They’re all terrified. Something’s… wrong, there. Not a misplaced sympathy of his own — let them fear their betters — but it’s the Doctor, it’s how he ignores them, how he holds himself like. He looks every bit a Time Lord.) The Doctor catches it, turns it in his hand, and yanks. The Master feigns a stumble, energy surging through his skin and bones, rattling up dangerously until-

The Doctor pulls harder, knocking him off-balance and to his knees. He twists, but there’s a hand in his hair, painfully dragging his head back until his neck screams in pain. The pinprick of a needle is barely a whisper above it, but the sluggish cold that spreads from the injection spreads no matter how he struggles. The Doctor grips his hair tighter.

“There. You’re stabilized,” the Doctor notes. The Master pants, his limbs growing heavier. “And sedated. You have to be so difficult.” For the first time, the Doctor’s voice falters from the detached tone he’s taken so far. It’s harsh, as thick with accusation as with self-reproach, “I asked you to come with me.” The Master is having a hard time ordering his thoughts. They stretch too far for him to see the whole of them, his sense of time and of himself going numb.

“How?” he lands on, more important than any other question. The Doctor’s grip begins to loosen, letting his head sag forward. His body wants to follow. His vision of the floor he’s kneeling on blurs.

“You were living on borrowed time,” the Doctor says. “I have all of it to work with at my fingertips. When I saw you again…” There’s the absent trail of fingers through his hair. The Master recoils from it instinctively, though that sends him further down, barely holding himself up on his hands. The collar draws tight around his throat when he falls, forcing out a gasp, but it loosens again. “It only took a few decades. I’d have given more to you.” The Master lifts his hand, slowly, and forces it out in front of him. It’s humiliating to crawl, but his limbs can barely keep his weight. He barely moves himself forward a few inches before the collar is a hard barrier against his breath again, and this time, he doesn’t receive any slack. He has to scoot back towards the Doctor.

“You’re going to live,” the Doctor says, without mercy. He steps around the Master, the leash dragging along the floor with a mocking hiss.

“And the rest of you,” the Doctor’s voice grows louder. It becomes a proclamation, a warning. “I won’t hurt you. It’s a stupid and dangerous thing you were doing, but that’s… that’s what you love most, humans. Stupid, dangerous things.” Where’s the sickening fondness, the Master wonders. Where’s the disappointment, even, in his favorite pet species? All he can hear in the Doctor’s voice is carefully controlled anger. “I’m not going to hurt you for putting the whole world in danger,” he repeats, as though he’s reminding himself of that fact, and then, the Master can hear him smile. Regeneration after regeneration, and the Doctor always talks different when he’s smiling. “I don’t have to. If you ever try anything like this again, you won’t have existed in the first place to come up with the idea. I will take you out of this timeline.” He pauses. “Or maybe I’ll just make you kinder. Buy you a coffee on a bad day and change your life forever. You can exist, just not like this.”

He sounds powerful, and worse, he doesn’t sound scared of it. The Master uses the last of his strength to drag himself back up to his knees. The Doctor is surveying the room, memorizing faces, lost in thought about time to tamper with. The Master puts a hand around his own leash. He tries to pull.

All that does is get the Doctor’s attention.

His eyes. The Master is afraid of his eyes.

“Sorry,” the Doctor says, “I’m not going to carry you. You’ll have to crawl.” The Master is searching for anything familiar in him. And what there is, what little there is that he recognizes, is only because of how easily he could have seen it in a mirror instead. “If you pass out, I’ll drag you,” the Doctor offers like a compromise. He turns away from the Master, snaps his fingers, and the doors to the TARDIS burst open.

He takes the Master prisoner. He saves the world. They are both, after all, the Doctor’s alone to decide what to do with.

[whump prompt]

[mikuni14]

Last Twilight Ep 6

Watching this episode, I felt like someone was sticking thousands of tiny needles into my heart. And something tells me that's how Mhok felt all along. I'm constantly amazed at how wonderful Mhok is, literally everything about him is perfect. What I love most about him is how unwaveringly protective he is, how he always puts Day and the other people he loves above everything else, above his own needs. I'm constantly amazed by all his small gestures that improve the quality and comfort of Day's life. His quietness, suppression of negative feelings, showing positive feelings. Or that his jealousy and heartbreak never hurt Day, or even August. I love like he's not giving up. The entire episode was Mhok knowing he was losing his crush, and yet Mhok is still HERE, still hopeful, still flirting with Day, still enjoying every, even the smallest, lovely moment with Day and even when he finally breaks down, he still comes back with a flower.

I absolutely loved conveying feelings, dealing with Day's heartbreak, through a passionate kiss.

I really liked Mhok's conversation with Night, because 1) Mark 👑 2) Mhok is nice, civil and not biased.

I know it's weird, but I like August, what an interesting character 🤔. His motivation, while cruel and his intentions - completely misplaced, still seems understandable to me considering August's likely sense of guilt and his sincere want to "help" and "do a good deed" for Day. Both he and Day are still very young and make stupid mistakes by hurting other people, but that doesn't mean they are bad. (and the actor is very handsome, I swear, lately Thailandai keeps throwing pretty boys at me, I have nowhere to hide 🥺)

This was another very good episode.

[turtlesocksv2]

Liveblogging Dead Friend Forever Ep 4

Here we go!

No shit White can't thread a needle with you pointing a gun at him, Fluke! Hell, it takes me like 50 tries in optimal conditions.

"It's alright you're safe with me" because Phi is one of the killers. so he won't let the other killers get Jin. So smart knocking the coffin over to escape.

"We all are sad you know" bullshit. none of you care about Non at all except you're scared of it getting out and facing consequences. anyway, Fluke still has bloody hands despite saying earlier he was going to wash them. You can't wash away what you did, Fluke!

now we've got another uncle in a mysterious newspaper clip. Tee keeping secrets from White. What does it say? It wasn't angled properly for my Google Translate to get. something about something costing 300 baht I think?

"three years ago we did that to him that's why Non -" Fluke is ready to fucking shoot Top so he doesn't spill the beans around White. what the fuck did you guys do!!!!!

love the reveal over the walkie talkies. also, if it turns out there's really a ghost or demon or whatever possessing people I'm gonna laugh so hard. Way to go White, hitting Top like that. You might just survive! RIP Por, maybe in the next life don't hang out in Creepy Cult Woods.

Fluke, no one gives a shit about your reputation, and in fact you won't HAVE a reputation or a career if you can't leave! worry about that later, you're spiraling! I do feel a bit bad for him here even despite the crazy and misplaced priorities. He just lost his first patient! Who was his friend! that's gotta be a mindfuck. But for real dude, get it together.

Ooo, Fluke dropping secrets. Trying to distance himself from the rest of the older group I see. This friendgroup absolutely does NOT actually like each other as people, they are just bonded by evil deeds. Fluke is straight up accusing Tee of being a killer and the worst of them. Also, if I was the guy on the other end of the walkie talkie I'd be so suspicious.

Flashback episode next! I KNEW IT! I knew that they weren't Non's friends and were just using him!!! I cracked the case it was me!

[deepdonutkid]

Matching wounds

Pair: Katniss Everdeen x Peeta Mellark (forever everlark)

Requested: none

Warnings: ptsd, nightmares, needles, tattoos, thought of self-harm

Summary:  During the Victory Tour, she is more than just temped to seek Peeta’s comfort once more. Yesterday, she asked him to stay with her and he did. She doesn’t want to keep bothering him again with her horrors, because she knows, he would do it without batting an eye and she already feels guilty using him like that. But after one terrifying nightmare, her longing surpasses her conscience. Just when she sneaks to his train compartment, she is witnessing his very own pain.

A/N:

This is my first THG fic, please be gentle with me, I’m still unsure, how to portrait the characters. It’s not beta read!

it’s absolutely innocent but doesn’t feel like… Somehow it came out more sexual than I had imagined, but the analogy was right there

The fic takes place in CF after Katniss had the nightmare on the Victory Tour and Peeta helped her with it. I kept it mostly canon compliant, but u know… she felt guilty for sharing a bed with Peeta and I thought, well she would have been a little more resistant at first.

Also I have this headcanon, Peeta loves all kinds of art. Painting, drawing, body art, architecture… stuff like that

gif from @everlarking-always​

By now I should be used to wake up sweaty, shaky and screaming, but I wasn’t. After all those years, one would come to think, it got easier, how wonderfully wrong one could be. I couldn’t handle this on my own accord and it was noticeable. Cinna, my styling team and finally Effie were giving me concerned looks.

The issue was handled Capitol Style. Effie shoved a pillbox in my direction, told me how much to take and send me off to sleep. Normally, I would trust medicine. It helped me a lot in the arena, the remedy for my physical pain. The burns, the cut, the stings, all of this went away with a cream or a plant or something else.

But when I had the first pill in my hand and rolled it around with my fingers, doubts were sneaking in. The bright pink pearl felt heavy, almost like a burden. Then I wondered, if I should lay my internal pain into the Capitol’s hands. Should I really do it their way? Just numb the symptoms instead of treating the cause.

Well, unfortunately, I didn’t have the luxury to think about this further. I had to function tomorrow. Hold a speech and smile for the camera. Look happy, act happy, but don’t actually be happy. Snow had me right there were he wanted me to. By holding hostage of my loved ones, he ensured, I would do anything he wanted me to. Even if it was against my very own belief.

And I was better at following orders, when I got a decent amount of sleep. It was really sad in a way, I’m not able to describe, but that was harder to swallow than that pill Effie gave me.

Of course, it didn’t help. Maybe that’s why I was so conscious about it in the first place. Or maybe I was just lacking the faith for things to get better in order to be better.

Just yesterday, I finally found relief. When I got up in the morning, was looking fresh and almost healthy. The dark circles under my eyes were gone and I was able to read my speech without any mistakes. However, on the inside I was still itching. Something bothered me and I couldn’t point it out until dinner.

My remedy smiled at me across the table, asking me, if I was enjoying my food. Something about the way he looked at me, made me uncomfortable. At first, I misplaced it as the usual amount of awkwardness between us, whenever he exuded his undying love for me, but I was wrong.

It was worse. Guilt was eating me alive. Nibbling on my soul. Then, it hit me. I was doing him wrong once more. Yesterday had been a mistake. Again, I was feeding him false hope. Not sending him away, when he lay next to me, was like poking at his wounds. Maybe even more cruel. Sticking the knife right back in, after he started to get over it.

We were avoiding each other since we got home. Now, we were making some progress again, I blew that all over the place by being so… needy for comfort. Any comfort, no… his comfort. It had to be his. Nobody knew how to help me but him. I didn’t even need to tell him, he just the right thing without being asked to.

That’s why, I shouldn’t slither in old habits. He kept me warm during the Games, not more, not less. By staying with him, I would only hurt him. And I couldn’t see his heart breaking again. At the train tracks in the middle of nowhere, he left something behind, something that was good and pure.

“No”, I kept whispering to myself, while walking in circles in my room. I shouldn’t, but I wanted. And this pressing feeling in my chest was crushing me more with every syllable coming from my mouth. Really, I was forcing myself to stay, and I was losing that fight.

My urge to feel safe once more was stronger than any coherent thought that crossed my mind. So, I stumbled through the dark train in my pajama, searching for him. Every noise that late at night was scary and every light was burning my eyes.

It took me back to a time, where I was little and my father was still alive.  The house was so quiet and moonlight paved my way through the darkness. Then I would sneak into my parent’s bed. My father would grown and my mother sigh, but they took me in nevertheless. It was a bit cramped up there, with all of us in one bed. I never felt safer than.

Perhaps, I was longing to recreate that moment ever since.

Barefooted and brave, I was fighting the darkness. My steps echoed through the corridor, only being muffled once I reached the carpeted area before his compartment.

This need kept me going, even when doubts and worries tried to take me back. These thoughts were trying to bring me to reality, but failed. Only the sound of his muted pant could. Suddenly, I was very aware of my surroundings.

Before I knew, what I was doing, my hand was at the door knob and pulling it aside. The revelation was both, scaring and confusing at the same time. In the glimpse of a second, I had thought about every possible threat and I was ready to deal with any opponent.

However, nothing in my life had prepared me for this scene before my eyes. He was lying in bed, half-naked by the way, and was jabbing his leg with a thick needle. And even in this glim dose of light, I noticed how his fair skin was smeared with his own blood.

While I was still processing, what I just had witnessed, he was pulling the blanket over his leg.

“Katniss”, he hissed with worried eyes: “Why didn’t you knock?” He didn’t even seem surprised to see me in the middle of the night, but he was certainly concerned that I entered without making myself known first.

Well, I thought, he probably wanted to cover up himself. No… his mess. The things he did to himself and all the pain he has been going through since leaving the arena. I know, he must have been suffering just like I did. We had matching wounds… physically and mentally and while those on our bodies have washed away, the others would burden us for the rest of our lives.

But still, I couldn’t understand. Why would he hurt himself like this?  After the Games, after everything, why add more pain?

I walked over to him and pulled the blanket away. He was gripping it tight, but eventually gave in once I breathed: “Why?”

All the sudden, he was wrapping his arms around me. His hand was patting my back. Then I realized, I was crying. Tears were running down my cheeks. Once again, he was comforting my pain, swallowing his own.

“It’s nothing.”, he whispered against my hairline.

I sought this, but not like this. So, I shoved him away and snarled: “It’s not nothing!”

One second to the next, his eyes drew dark. He bit his lip and gulped, while avoiding my gaze.

After a while, he said: “Well, then it’s not like you think it is.”

“I know, what I saw, Peeta.”, I argued, crossing my hands before my chest: “You were hurting yourself. There was blood for fucks sake!”

Instead of answering, he just chuckled, which made me incredibly mad, and then he turned around to the lamp on his nightstand. The flash of light was filling the room and burning my eyes at the same time.

Once I got used to the brightness, I looked at him again. He was really just wearing his underwear. I turned on him.

Technically I had seen him with less, but this felt way more private then next to a river, while he was literally dying. This was intimate in a way I had not expected.

“Look at me!”, he insisted loud and instant, but I shuddered so hard, I heard him say pleading: “If you want to know the truth…”

I pushed the last doubts away and glared over my shoulder. Peeta was way too close to me. All those details I could see. Yes, all those scars were gone. Even Cato’s slash on the upper left leg, which I treated so frantically, was now perfectly normal skin. Maybe that’s why the black stain just above where the injury used to be stood out so much.

My hand was reducing the distance between us inch by inch. Finally, I placed my fingertips on his hip, felt his skin on mine. He let out a hiss, but didn’t move.

“Why is it black?”, I wondered, still looking at the wound. There was a darker line, which was even puffier than the rest.

Peeta blinked. Once, twice. Then he laughed again. I pulled my hand away, while he retorted: “It’s ink. I’m bored. I can’t sleep and the pain keeps me focused.”

Now I was the one to be lost in translation. “Katniss, it’s a tattoo.”, he chuckled: “It’s really not that bad. I swear, I wouldn’t do anything serious and leave you all by yourself.”

That was a lot to take in. I had a thousand questions, but I had to start somewhere. “What’s the idea? I mean… what are you trying to draw there?” My fingers are itching to touch him again. Somewhere in the depts of my mind, I still hear him panting.

He was suggesting me to sit down next to him. So, I did, even though I wasn’t as close to him, as I wished to be. “Don’t freak out, but…  it’s going to be an arrow.”, he confessed.

“Like my arrows?”

“Yes, like the one that saved me from bleeding to death.”

I frowned. Coming to think of it, all I did was trying to forget the Games, but he was putting a reminder of his worst moment there on his body. Like a constant warning. “Why?”

He took my hand and rubbed it with his thumb, which he had done before a million times, but only with cameras around. This was probably the first time he was showing me affection not meant for the public eye. His bright blue eyes were piercing me with a soft and tender look, when he spoke: “I want to appreciate surviving.”

How could he keep saying stuff like that? I couldn’t quite grasp it and started raising my eyebrows at him. Without any words from my part, he explained: “My immediate thought after Reaping was… I am not going to survive this. The only thing I could manage to do was to help you get out of the arena. And everybody else seemed to agree with me on that, whether it was my mother or Haymitch, Ceasar or even the Game makers. Except you.”

A gulp went down my throat. That was the very talk I feared. The next sweeping declaration of love was on his lips.

“I’m grateful to live, even with the tour, even with the uprisings, even with Snow threatening us and all the nightmares… because just months ago I was very convinced, I would be rotting in a grave right now. Somehow, I’m not. And sure, I wasn’t too excited, when you told me, what you did in the arena, but you still managed the unthinkable. By accident you proved all of them wrong, who said, the only thing I can do for you is die.

And when I thought of this, I realized what I had to do. As somewhat of an artist, I bleed ink and paint. So, I just grabbed a needle and started a while ago with two letters. K and E.”

At least he did not mention love, but he did put my initials on his body. I had no answer to all of this. There was just this big relief, he wasn’t hurting himself.

Peeta took a tissue and cleaned the spot on his hips with a bit of water. After a moment of silence, I fumbled for words to say: “It doesn’t look like the tattoos from the Capitol… I like it.”

“Yeah, didn’t you know, there are different styles of tattoos. Some of them are ancient.”, Peeta beamed: “I have a book about it back home. My friends gave it to me for my fifteenth birthday and I hid it under my bed most of the time, because I was afraid my mom would find out.” A nervous chuckle left his lips. “I only read it at night, but I always wanted a tattoo. Just not like the ones from Capitol.”

I didn’t know, he was so into that topic. Slowly, I began to relax, while an idea was forming in my head. “Can you give me one as well?”, I asked with a smile.

His eyes widened with surprise. “You want me to give a tattoo?”

“Yes, I think that’s what I said.”, I nodded.

“Which motive do you have in mind?”

Now I had to think. I was sure, he would try to stop me, but somehow, I really wanted to know, what it feels like. Having a reminder like this on your skin. But what I liked to be reminded of? Peeta chose his survival, maybe I should choose mine. Not from the arena of course, but the one, that made me who I am.

“Can you do a little loaf of bread?”, I wondered. A part of me was pleased with the idea, getting a tattoo similar to his. Just like our matching wounds. “And two letters… P and M.”

Suddenly he got up from the bed and walking around. Then he stopped, turning to me, he reassured himself: “You want this?”

“I do, Peeta”, I insisted: “Now hurry up, we don’t have much time left before sunrise.”

“Let me just…”, he mumbled, while running around in his compartment: “grab my utensils and we can start right away.”

Curiously I watched his movements. He was quick, but he sure knew what he was doing. “Where do you want to get it?”

The sound of low thinking left my lips. “Uhmm… I don’t know… nobody where my mother can see it… or Effie. I assumed you would to it on the same spot as yours. On the hip.”

Peeta cleaned his needle with alcohol and grinned goofily at me. “What?”

“You know you’ll have to undress yourself for that… procedure.”

Blood flushed my cheeks and I tried to hide it by looking away. “It’s no problem”, I said, like a liar and started peeling down my pajama pants.

Revealing my legs like that, made me squirm internally. On the outside, I played it down.

When he came back to the bed again, I opened my mouth to say something, but no words escaped. They were stolen from me. “Now lay down and try to relax.”, he demanded.

I tried to follow but while I was robbing over the sheets, my thighs got so warm. It was probably just the flurry. Once again, I gulped.

His hand reached my chin and was caressing it with such tender. “I promise it won’t hurt that much.”, he uttered: “I could never hurt you, not in a million years you know that.”

The sound of his voice ran shivers over my entire body. “No.”, I pleaded: “I’m ready.”

With the utmost care he hovered his hands over my chest, finally placing his fingers on my hip. A moan escaped my throat involuntarily.

He laid down between my legs. “Should it face you or me?” It was a weak attempt to calm me down, but it was helping me regaining my focus.

“Me”, I whimpered, mentally preparing myself of the pain to come. At first, I tried to look away, but then I was to curious, how it would look like. A needle entering my skin.

Heavy breaths shook my chest. Apparently so much, he noticed and glared up with a concerned expression. “We don’t have to do this, you know? Maybe you need time to think about this. It can’t be undone.”

I lift myself up a bit and protested: “No, I want to do this. I really do and there is no better time than now.” Every bit of me is possessed with the desire to understand him. His pain, especially. After all the things he did for me, I owe him at least that.

Peeta nodded firmly and lean back down. His underarm was resting on the inside of my thigh. Once the needle was soaked with ink, he put it in. There was somewhat of a resistance at first, but one the needle passed, it went right through. Since I was prepared, I didn’t flinch. My muscle tensed nevertheless.

There was this pain, not strong and overtaking like the tracker jacker stings, but exciting and new. It gave me goosebumps all over my body. So that was, what Peeta was feeling like. He covered it up, so nobody could see it.

But he showed it to me. Now we had a dark secret. One that only belonged to us and nobody else.

Bravely, I clung to the silk sheets of his bed as he proceeded. With every stich of the needle, I became more and more sure, this was what I wanted. What I needed. A companion in the darkness and who would be better than the boy with the bread, whose wounds matched mine.

After the tattoo was done, I was unable to move and fell asleep with Peeta next to me. He wrapped his hands around me and I felt safe once more. Once I stopped thinking about guilt and shame, it was ridiculously easy. This time I came to stay.

[yourgamemasterthewhiterabbit]

Gremlin update supplemental September 12th 2024

It's September and it was getting really cool at night so I was under the impression I could take my air conditioner out for the year...

Wrong.

It's over 30 degrees in here and I was already sweating because of the pain I am in.

Had to put the stupid thing back in with every joint in my hands and wrists swollen to all fuck.

I got a call from my landlord today because they somehow already misplaced my registration e-mail and were trying to let me know that if they needed entry in an emergency or otherwise, they're only willing to e-mail me about it for warning, even being told I don't check my email even daily, let alone often enough for an emergency.

Really hoping this isn't step one of them pulling some bullshit.

Still trying to watch through all the old x-men cartoons and movies at once while recovering from full body gout and the dermatomayositis.

Mostly, I wake up with slightly sore knees and wrists and hands that are swollen to all fuck. I do not know what my hands think they are doing, but my left wrist was so swollen this morning I kept getting pins and needles in my fingers.

The blister on the back of my finger is an inflated blister again. It seems to fluctuate with hydration levels, but it isn't bothering me.

I am eager to get back to doing some serious cleaning and organizing again. At least I have been doing laundry to get that all caught up with the machine, but from the moment I was like "okay this step is done and it looks presentable so I can chill for a bit now" I have been horribly sick with autoimmune attack and gout and that doesn't feel very fucking much like taking a break... And yet... And yet I am chomping at the bit to be able to just do something fucking useful with my body because it has been uncooperative for so long.

At least i don't have to do laundry in the sink anymore.

I shrank the list of "life improvement purchases" down to 1 batch under 500, and a secondary batch for good storage options I haven't gotten yet, but probably will once I downsize more [also under 500]. The rest I may never get -at least not living here- because there isn't room between the cabinets for most counter top dishwashers, and other things like that. So, really under one month's rent to fix every problem I have that can be fixed by throwing money at it, including all my pants being threadbare and beyond any reasonable repair. Without dipping into savings for that or my winter groceries.

And yeah, I was getting a kick out of repairing the same 3-4 pairs of fast fashion pants for over 10 years and simply refusing to ever buy more... But they were getting threadbare enough that too much flexing any muscle or moving around would tear them back open along new lines, and yes, if my hands were working I could keep repairing them and I could keep wearing stretch leggings under them so my ass doesn't show, but at some point you are just walking around in full werewolf aesthetic because it is obvious you have ripped out of your clothes like 20+ times and it just starts to become absurd not to buy new clothes.

I got to buy men's jeans this time. No they are not cut to fit my body but I can sew. I mean I am still going to do some elaborate patching of the other 4 pairs of pants, but at this point those other pants pretty much ARE the patches for the next set I ruin.

I was doing so good last time until i had to lift my cart into the house. I still plan on making a ramp but that's going to take time.

I am so fucking tired and my nerves are raw from being in screaming pain all over my body for about a month on end now... But I have been enjoying many fried proteins and home-cut fries.

I'm recovering, really, just not nearly as fast as I used to and it makes me cranky and I am sorry. I promise I am still fun and chill T~T