#Express Networking Specialization

[amethystarachnid]

heyy could i request marvel bingo with Natasha x fem!reader with “it was all a bet” but with a twist? so it’s like tony bets that the r and natasha can’t pose as a married couple for a mission without their feelings becoming real? If you don’t like that idea feel free to do whatever you want! Thank youu

NO PRETENDING NOW

⤷ NATASHA A. ROMANOFF

ᯓ★ Pairing: Natasha A. Romanoff x fem!reader

ᯓ★ Genre: fluff, romance

ᯓ★ Word count: 7.4k

ᯓ★ Summary: Assigned to pose as Natasha’s wife on a mission, you never expect the lines between act and reality to blur. What starts as undercover roles turns into real feelings neither of you can deny. After one night changes everything, you return to the compound knowing your life will never be the same.

ᯓ★MARVEL Love is in the air - Valentine's Day special game

ᯓ★ TW(s): Internalized sexuality denial, small spicy scene (consensual, first-time with a woman)

ᯓ★ My Masterlist

ᯓ★ MARVEL Multiverse - choose an AU, pair it with your favorite character and make a request!

ᯓ★ Songs & Superheroes tales - The Game (to make a request, follow the rules on the link!)

ᯓ★ MARVEL Bingo

ᯓ★ English isn’t my first language

The conference room smells faintly of burnt coffee and Stark’s cologne, sharp and expensive, the kind that sticks to the back of your throat. You sit with your arms folded, trying to look more awake than you feel, and you’re half-listening as Steve flips through the mission brief on the screen. Words like "infiltration," "secure intel," and "deep cover" float past you, all routine until Natasha’s name shows up next to yours on the projected file.

"—which is why the two of you will be the primary operatives," Steve says, glancing your way, then to Natasha, who sits with her legs casually crossed like this is just another Tuesday. For her, maybe it is.

You blink, straightening in your seat. "Wait. Us?"

"That’s right," he confirms, like it’s no big deal, like this isn’t the first time the two of you have ever been paired up for something like this. "You’ll be posing as a married couple."

The room goes quiet. For a moment, the only sound is Tony sipping loudly from his coffee mug, the obnoxious slurp designed to fill the silence.

Married.

The word sits there in the air, heavy and foreign, settling against your chest in a way that makes your pulse skip. You glance at Natasha, but her expression doesn’t flicker — she’s the picture of unbothered, maybe even slightly amused, as if the idea of pretending to be your wife for God knows how long is nothing more than a line item on her to-do list.

"Married," you repeat, just to be sure your brain isn’t short-circuiting.

"Yup," Tony chimes in, leaning back so his chair creaks, that shit-eating grin of his growing wider. "New identities, new rings, matching couple tattoos if you really want to sell it. I hear Vegas has some nice ones."

You open your mouth to protest, to ask why the hell it has to be you and Natasha, but Steve cuts in before you can build a sentence. "The targets only deal with other couples. They’ve got an entire social network of 'perfectly ordinary' married business partners. We’ve tried approaching them as buyers, suppliers, even security consultants. The only people who get close to the inner circle are the ones who look like they’ve got their personal lives wrapped up in a nice, boring, domestic bow."

"And you think we look domestic," you say, dry.

Natasha tilts her head, glancing sideways at you. "You clean up well."

The heat rises uninvited to your cheeks, and you quickly glance away, pretending to reread the mission summary on the tablet in front of you, but the words blur together. Married. To Natasha. For weeks, maybe months, depending on how long this mission drags.

Tony leans forward, elbows on the table. "I’ll do you one better," he says, voice practically dripping with mischief. "I bet you two can’t last the whole op without one of you catching real feelings."

Your head snaps up, and you glare at him. "That’s not how this works."

"Sure it is," he counters, all easy charm. "I’ve seen enough movies. Undercover couples, confined spaces, emotional vulnerability, a few candlelit stakeouts... hearts start doing stupid things. Science."

You scoff. "That’s the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard."

Natasha doesn’t answer immediately, just picks up her coffee and takes a slow sip, watching you over the rim of her mug. There’s a glint in her eye — that same playful, knowing look she gets when she’s already figured out how a fight is going to end before it even starts. She sets the mug down, smooth and deliberate.

"Maybe Tony’s right," she murmurs.

You whip your head toward her, fully prepared to tell her where she can shove Tony’s bet, but she’s not even looking at you now, fingers absently twisting the thin bracelet on her wrist, like she’s just making conversation.

Steve clears his throat, pulling the room back to the task at hand. "This isn’t about your feelings. It’s about getting inside the target's compound, staying invisible, and gathering intel. Keep your personal lives out of it."

"Not a problem," you mutter, leaning back in your chair.

But the thing is — your chest is still tight. Your palms still feel clammy. Because somewhere deep down, under the layers of self-control and well-practiced denial, you know Tony isn’t making that bet for his own entertainment. He’s making it because everyone else sees it. Maybe even Natasha. Everyone but you.

And maybe the most dangerous part isn’t the mission at all. Maybe it’s the fact that you’re starting to wonder if Tony’s right.

The briefing ends, but your thoughts don’t.

You’re the last to leave the room, lingering by the table, fingers tapping against the cool metal surface like the rhythm might steady your head. Natasha stays, too, but she doesn’t say anything, doesn’t move to leave. You feel her eyes on you before you hear her voice.

"Cold feet already?" she asks, soft, a little teasing.

You glance at her. She’s standing with her arms folded, leaning against the wall, relaxed in a way that makes it obvious she isn’t worried. Not about the mission. Not about pretending to be your wife. Probably not about the bet, either.

"I don’t get cold feet," you reply, a little sharper than you mean to.

"Sure," she says, pushing off the wall, closing the distance between you in slow, measured steps. "You’re just thinking about the wedding dress."

The corner of her mouth quirks up, and your stomach flips — that same damn reaction you’ve been trying to ignore since the first time she smiled at you like that, months ago. Maybe longer.

"I didn’t realize the mission came with vows," you shoot back, trying to sound unaffected.

She stops close enough that you catch the faint scent of her perfume — clean, sharp, with a hint of something darker underneath. "We’ll improvise."

You should walk away. You should say something smart and sarcastic and get the hell out of the room before your thoughts spiral any further. But you don’t move. You don’t say anything. You just stand there, letting the silence stretch between you, letting her look at you like she knows. Like she’s always known.

"See you at the fitting," she murmurs, brushing past you, and you’re left standing there, pulse hammering in your throat.

The next morning is a blur of fake IDs, forged marriage licenses, and wardrobe fittings. Stark’s tech team spares no detail — new credit histories, social security numbers, medical records. Matching bands that sit heavy on your left hand even though the metal is light, and it feels strange, wrong, like you’re wearing someone else’s life.

Natasha doesn’t flinch once.

She slides the ring onto her finger like it belongs there, like this is all just another role in her long list of identities, and maybe for her it is. But every time you catch the glint of gold on her hand, it sends your brain into another loop, because pretending to be married is one thing. Being close to her every second of the day, sharing a bed, a house, little intimate domestic details you’ve never shared with anyone — that’s something else entirely.

You tell yourself you can handle it.

You’ve lied to yourself about worse.

That night, the team gathers in the common room. The mission clock starts tomorrow, and Tony’s already got the scotch out, pouring generous glasses for anyone who wants them. You sip slowly, the burn of it a welcome distraction, until his voice cuts through the low buzz of conversation.

"Still taking bets, by the way," he announces, swirling his glass lazily. "Anyone else think our happy couple won’t make it out without falling head over heels?"

Rhodey groans. "Jesus, Tony."

But the seed’s been planted, and the others aren’t immune to curiosity. Even Steve looks faintly amused, though he tries to mask it behind a long sip of water.

"I’m serious," Tony insists, turning toward you now, eyes sharp under the humor. "You think you’ve got nerves of steel, but even the best cracks under the right conditions. I’ve seen it happen."

"I’m not the one you should be worried about," you mutter, trying to sound confident.

Natasha, lounging on the other end of the couch, lifts an eyebrow. "No?"

Her voice is light, but there’s something behind it — something that makes your chest ache and your throat go dry all at once.

"No," you repeat, steadier now, because admitting the truth — even to yourself — isn’t an option. "I know how to keep my feelings in check."

Tony lifts his glass in a mock toast. "Famous last words."

The conversation drifts, but the bet lingers, unspoken and heavy. You know Tony well enough to realize he’s not going to let it go — not until he’s proven right. And some part of you, deep down, is terrified that he will be.

Because if you’re honest with yourself, the feelings have been there all along.

You’ve just been too scared to name them.

You don’t sleep the night before the mission.

The ring digs into your finger every time you turn over, an alien weight, like your skin hasn’t accepted the lie yet. The apartment’s quiet except for the occasional hum of New York traffic bleeding through the windows, but your mind is too loud for the silence to soothe you. Images of the mission cycle on repeat — false smiles, fake dinners, pretending to be Natasha Romanoff’s wife in public and, worse, behind closed doors.

You tell yourself you’re just being thorough, that the mental rehearsals will help you slip into character once you land. But you know better. The unease isn’t about the mission.

It’s about her.

When the morning comes, you meet her at the airstrip.

Natasha’s already there when you arrive, leaning against the sleek black SUV that’s going to carry you both away from the world you know. Her hair’s pulled back, her casual clothes pressed and perfect, and her duffel slung over one shoulder. She looks like she’s done this a thousand times. She probably has.

When her eyes flick over to you, her mouth curves slightly at the corners, but there’s no teasing in it this time. Just quiet acknowledgment.

"Ready, Mrs. Romanoff?" she says, voice low, only for you.

The name knocks the air from your lungs for a second, sharp and unexpected, even though you knew it was coming. You recover fast, but not fast enough to miss the glint of something amused — or maybe something softer — in her gaze.

You clear your throat. "As I’ll ever be."

The jet’s engines hum to life as you climb aboard, and the reality of it finally locks into place. Once you land, there’s no out. No ‘just kidding.’ No walking it back. You’re her wife until the mission says otherwise.

The flight is quiet, comfortable in the way only practiced professionals can be, but the silence between you isn’t empty. It’s full of unsaid things, unacknowledged tension, the unspoken history you’ve both worked so hard to sidestep until now. You don’t talk about Tony’s bet. You don’t talk about the way her shoulder brushes against yours as you sit side by side, or how your pulse jumps every time it happens.

You focus on the mission.

You have to.

The house is tucked away in a wealthy, suburban neighborhood just outside D.C. White picket fences, manicured lawns, two-car garages — the kind of place where the neighbors are nosy and the barbecues are mandatory.

It’s picture-perfect. So perfect it makes your skin crawl.

SHIELD set up the paperwork weeks ago. The house is "yours" now. New names. New jobs. A fake history built brick by brick. You’re supposed to be recent transplants from Chicago, moving here for a fresh start. Married three years. No kids. "Madly in love" — the profile says so, clear as day.

The moment you step inside the house, the air shifts.

You drop your bags in the entryway, glancing around. It’s fully furnished, every room dressed for the part. Two toothbrushes already waiting in the bathroom. A coffee maker with two matching mugs. The bed, large enough to be convincing, sits in the master bedroom with crisp, untouched sheets.

This is where the real mission begins.

Natasha moves through the space like she’s already lived here for years, checking windows, doors, security feeds. You stand by the staircase, hands still gripping your bag like it’s the only real thing left in the world.

She glances over her shoulder at you.

"You can breathe, you know," she says lightly.

You exhale, slow and unsteady, and let the bag slip from your fingers.

"I’m fine," you lie.

Her lips tilt up, not calling you on it. She doesn’t have to. She walks past you, close enough that her shoulder brushes yours again, and you wonder how long it’ll take before you stop noticing every time she touches you.

The first few days are the easy part.

Neighborhood introductions, casual smiles, hand-holding when the eyes are on you. You learn the script — where "you met," the inside jokes "you share," the story of "your honeymoon" that Natasha tells with such perfect ease it almost convinces even you.

She’s good at this. You expected that. What you didn’t expect was how natural it feels when her hand slips into yours on cue, how your body starts to memorize the rhythm of it, how your heart doesn’t seem to understand the difference between the role and reality.

The nights are the hardest.

The bedroom is too quiet. The bed is too big. And she’s there, so close you can feel the warmth radiating off her, but not close enough to touch. You lay awake, night after night, the ceiling fan whirring overhead, your mind circling the same impossible thought:

What if Tony’s right?

A week in, the first phase of the mission finally begins.

The targets — the Callahans — host their monthly couples’ mixer, an event designed to vet potential new members of their inner circle. Suburban espionage at its finest. You dress the part: tasteful jewelry, a sleek cocktail dress, heels just tall enough to make you feel unsteady even though you’ve been through worse.

Natasha helps you zip the back of your dress. Her fingers graze the bare skin of your spine, light and unhurried, and you feel the contact like a matchstrike down your nerves.

"You’re tense," she observes.

"Thanks for the update," you reply, dry.

Her hands pause at the small of your back. The air between you stills, heavy, before she leans in just slightly, her lips brushing your ear.

"You’ll be fine," she says. "I’ve got you."

The words settle in your chest, soft and dangerous.

You wonder if she means them for the mission or for something else entirely.

The Callahans are exactly the type of people who wear fake smiles like armor. They host in their sprawling backyard, wine glasses in hand, laughter that’s a little too loud, compliments that sound rehearsed. You and Natasha fall into step effortlessly, her hand on your waist, your laugh just the right amount of affectionate when you introduce yourselves as "Nat and Y/N Romanoff."

Every time you glance at her, she’s already looking at you.

Every time your hand brushes hers, your skin buzzes like a live wire.

You start to forget the lines between the role and the truth.

It’s Natasha who anchors you through it, steady as always. She whispers little observations against the shell of your ear, her fingers idly tracing along the curve of your waist, playing the part of a lovesick wife so perfectly that, for a moment, you let yourself believe it.

And that’s the problem. You believe it too easily.

The car ride home is silent, but not empty.

Her hand rests on your thigh, casual, but her thumb moves in slow circles against the fabric of your dress, absent-minded or intentional — you can’t tell anymore. You don’t move away. You just sit there, staring out the window, pretending the flush in your cheeks is from the wine and not from her.

The days bleed together after that.

Breakfasts in a sunlit kitchen, brushing shoulders while you pretend to fight over who gets the last cup of coffee. Grocery trips, hands entwined. Laughing at something on the TV you’re not really watching because she’s lying too close, her head tipped back against your shoulder.

It’s so easy to fall into the fiction.

But every time you let your guard down, it feels less like fiction.

And that’s when the real danger starts.

It’s two weeks in when the mission takes its first sharp turn.

The Callahans extend an invitation — dinner at their private estate. Intimate, exclusive. A sign you’ve earned their trust. It’s everything you’ve been waiting for, the real start of the operation, and yet the thought of another night playing house with Natasha feels more dangerous than any weapon you’ve ever faced.

You dress carefully. So does she.

The drive is quiet, both of you braced for the night ahead. But as you pull up to the wrought-iron gates, Natasha’s hand slips into yours — not for show this time, not because anyone’s watching.

Just because.

Your fingers tighten around hers, and for once, you don’t let go.

The night is a blur of wine and veiled threats. The Callahans’ smiles stretch thinner the longer the evening drags on, and the more questions they ask about your marriage, the more you feel the walls closing in. Natasha, as always, answers effortlessly. Her hand rests on yours on the dinner table, thumb stroking slow, grounding you through every half-lie, every false story.

And the scariest part isn’t how convincing she is.

It’s how convincing you feel.

When you finally get home, the air between you is taut and heavy, stretched thin from the night’s performance. You kick off your heels, moving to the kitchen, fingers fumbling for a glass of water, but she doesn’t let you slip back into distance.

Her voice is quiet behind you.

"You were perfect tonight."

You turn, leaning against the counter, heart still thudding too hard against your ribs. "I’m just doing my job."

She steps closer, the space between you shrinking until her hand comes to rest against your jaw, her thumb brushing your cheekbone, the gesture soft and deliberate.

"Sure," she says, voice low. "If you say so."

The moment lingers, unspoken but undeniable, before she finally steps back and leaves you standing there, throat dry, the glass still empty in your hands.

You lie awake that night, staring at the ceiling, and for the first time you wonder if the lie’s already won.

Time does strange things on this mission.

The days stretch long, soaked in the kind of domestic quiet you’ve spent your life avoiding, and the nights feel shorter, heavier, loaded with unspoken tension that hums beneath every shared glance and every brush of fingers. The house you’ve been planted in feels less like a safe house and more like a cage the longer you’re in it, but the strangest part is — you don’t want to escape.

Or maybe you just don’t want to escape her.

The Callahans invite you over more often now. Casual drinks on their patio, afternoon barbecues, double dates with other couples from the neighborhood, the kind of social life designed to dig its hooks into your cover until the fiction starts feeling real. Natasha makes it look easy. You tell yourself you’re just following her lead.

But each day makes the act harder to separate from the truth.

You’re sitting on the Callahans’ back porch one warm Saturday afternoon, sunglasses perched on your nose, glass of wine balanced loosely between your fingers. The conversation hums around you, harmless on the surface — vacation plans, new furniture, which country club is worth the membership fee — but the subtext is always there, coiled beneath every perfectly polite smile.

You feel Natasha shift beside you before you see her move.

Her hand drapes lazily over your knee, thumb grazing the inside of your thigh in a way that looks casual to anyone else, but sets your pulse hammering behind your ribs. You tilt your head just slightly toward her, enough to catch her mouth tugging into the faintest smile.

One of the Callahans — Evelyn — leans forward, resting her chin on her hand, studying you both over the rim of her glass.

"You two are sickening, you know that?" she says, voice light but sharp at the edges. "Still looking at each other like it’s the honeymoon phase."

You force a smile, your throat dry, but Natasha’s voice slides in before yours can.

"Guess we’re just lucky," she says, turning her head toward you, her eyes holding yours, steady and unblinking.

And then she kisses you.

It’s soft, easy, the kind of practiced affection couples build over years, but it steals the air from your lungs all the same. Her lips move against yours with the barest hint of pressure, long enough to convince the audience, short enough to leave you wondering if it meant something more.

When she pulls back, her thumb brushes your cheek, lingering for a heartbeat too long.

You laugh, the sound brittle in your own ears, and glance back at Evelyn, who looks vaguely amused, swirling her wine.

"Disgusting," she teases.

"Can’t help it," Natasha murmurs, her voice low enough that only you can hear. "It’s the company I keep."

The conversation drifts on, but you don’t hear much of it after that. Not with your pulse still roaring in your ears, not with the ghost of her lips still lingering on yours.

It doesn’t stop there.

After that afternoon, the casual affection becomes part of the routine. Little things at first. Her hand finding yours on the armrest during dinner parties. Her fingers brushing against your jaw when you laugh at something, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. Lingering glances. Private smiles. Lips pressed to your temple when the others aren’t looking — and sometimes when they are.

The strange part is how natural it starts to feel.

Like your body is learning a new language, one you’ve never let yourself speak before. One that feels terrifying and safe all at once when it’s her.

At night, the space between you shrinks.

You still lie on opposite sides of the bed, but the gap isn’t what it used to be. Some nights your hands brush in the dark, knuckles grazing, and neither of you moves away. Sometimes her breath is close enough to stir the fine hairs on your cheek. Sometimes you fall asleep wondering what it would feel like if you closed the distance.

Sometimes you wake up wondering if you already did.

Another week passes.

The mission threads itself deeper into your bones. The Callahans grow more comfortable around you. Their conversations become more relaxed, less guarded, but the danger sharpens in the spaces where they lower their smiles. You catch little fragments of the real reason you’re here: encrypted shipments, payments routed through shell companies, names that don’t appear on any official record.

You and Natasha are close. So close you can taste the finish line. But the closer you get, the harder it is to ignore the fact that the mission isn’t the only thing changing.

It’s a Thursday evening when Evelyn invites the two of you for drinks, just the four of you, no other couples, no pretense of neighborhood charm. The conversation is sharp, deliberate, the subtext clear — this is the final vetting. The last test before you’re allowed fully inside.

Halfway through the night, Evelyn leans back on the plush sofa, swirling her whiskey, eyes trained on you both.

"You know," she muses, "I’ve always been good at spotting fake couples."

Your spine stiffens, but Natasha doesn’t even blink.

"Is that so?" she asks, tilting her head slightly.

Evelyn’s lips curve into a knowing smile. "Mhm. Most people don’t even realize when the act slips. There’s always a tell. A moment when you forget to hold hands. Or your gaze doesn’t follow when they leave the room. The body knows, even when the mind’s trying to lie."

Her gaze flicks to you, sharp and assessing.

"So tell me," she purrs, "what’s your tell?"

You don’t get a chance to answer, because Natasha leans in and kisses you.

There’s nothing casual about it this time. It’s deliberate. Slow. Her hand cups your jaw, guiding your face toward hers, and her mouth moves against yours with the kind of quiet certainty that makes your head spin.

When she pulls back, her voice is soft but steady.

"We don’t have one," she says simply.

Evelyn hums, swirling her drink, and after a long moment, she leans back with a satisfied smile, like she’s found what she was looking for.

"Good answer."

The conversation moves on. You’re not sure how. You’re not sure when you start breathing again. But the whole drive home, Natasha doesn’t speak. And neither do you.

When you get back to the house, you stand in the dark of the entryway, the front door clicking shut behind you, your heart still racing.

"That was risky," you say finally.

Natasha’s standing by the staircase, her expression unreadable. "It worked."

"Yeah," you murmur. "It did."

She starts up the stairs, but her voice floats back to you before she disappears from sight.

"You kissed me back."

And you can’t argue with that.

The next day is quiet.

You go through the motions. Morning coffee, light conversation, casual touches. The routine you’ve spent weeks perfecting. But the air between you feels different, stretched thin and humming with something you’re not ready to name.

By the time night falls, the silence is suffocating.

You stand in the bathroom, brushing your teeth, staring at your own reflection like you might find answers there. You don’t. You never do.

When you step into the bedroom, Natasha’s already lying on her side of the bed, one arm tucked beneath her head, eyes half-lidded but awake. Watching you.

The space feels smaller than usual.

You slide under the covers, lying flat on your back, staring at the ceiling.

"Nat," you say, barely above a whisper.

She hums, a soft acknowledgment, waiting.

"You didn’t have to kiss me like that."

A pause. Long. Heavy.

Her voice is quiet when it finally comes.

"I know."

You swallow, your throat dry, heart pounding in your chest. "So why did you?"

You feel her shift beside you. Closer. Close enough that her hand finds yours beneath the covers, her fingers sliding between yours, warm and steady.

"Because I wanted to," she says.

And for the first time in weeks, you stop pretending.

The mission doesn’t slow down, but the lies do.

Every day you spend in that house, every smile you fake for the Callahans, every staged moment of affection you put on for the world outside — it all starts to blend into something you can’t separate from the real thing. The glances aren’t rehearsed anymore. The touches linger longer. The kisses, when they happen, aren’t always part of the job.

And the scariest part is you don’t care.

You’re not sure when it happens, exactly. Maybe it’s the night you fall asleep tangled together, her breath warm against your neck, her hand resting low on your waist. Maybe it’s the morning you wake up and her lips press against your bare shoulder before you’ve even opened your eyes. Maybe it’s every moment in between.

But at some point, the mission stops feeling like the dangerous part.

And your feelings start to do the rest.

You know the mission is almost over.

You can feel it in the way the Callahans act around you now — the easy smiles that no longer hold suspicion, the conversations that slip from surface-level charm into quiet confessions. You’ve done your job. You’ve won their trust. Any day now, the op will reach its end, and the files you’re after will be in your hands.

But the thought of the mission ending doesn’t feel like victory.

It feels like loss.

Because when the mission ends, the world snaps back into place — and this, whatever this is between you and Natasha, will disappear with it.

That night, the air inside the house is heavy. Too quiet. The kind of stillness that presses against your chest and makes you restless.

You’re curled on the living room sofa, barefoot, wearing one of her old T-shirts — part of the cover, you told yourself at first, but the comfort is real, the way it smells like her is real. Natasha sits on the other end, one leg tucked under herself, thumbing through her phone without really looking at it.

It’s late, but neither of you moves to go upstairs. The TV plays some muted documentary you stopped paying attention to twenty minutes ago. You sip your wine slowly, trying to drown the nerves coiled tight in your stomach.

She notices.

"Talk to me," she says softly.

You glance over at her, meeting her eyes, the glow of the TV catching the warm flecks of green in them. The words stick in your throat, the weight of everything you’ve spent weeks burying pressing too hard for you to swallow.

"You keep looking at me like that," you say, your voice low and a little shaky, "and I’m going to start thinking you mean it."

Her lips twitch, just slightly, but her gaze doesn’t waver.

"What if I do?" she murmurs.

The room tilts. Or maybe it’s just your heart, tripping over itself. You set your glass down, your fingers unsteady, and force yourself to breathe. The silence stretches, the space between you shrinking without either of you moving.

"You’ve done this before," you say. It’s not a question.

"Done what?"

"This," you gesture, your voice softer now. "Falling for someone during a mission. Blurring lines. Pretending until it stops feeling like a lie."

Her head tips to the side, studying you like she’s seeing through every deflection, every wall you’ve ever built.

"I’ve had my share of mistakes," she admits. "But this isn’t one of them."

The words settle deep, heavier than you expect. Because you’ve never let yourself think about it in those terms — not the mission, not her, not yourself.

But here you are. And here she is. And there’s nothing left between you but the truth.

You stand, legs unsteady, crossing the space to her, your heart thudding so hard you’re sure she can hear it. When you stop in front of her, her hands reach for your hips, guiding you gently into her lap. You straddle her, your hands curling against her shoulders, your forehead resting against hers.

"This is different for me," you whisper. "You know that, right?"

Her hands slide along your waist, steady and slow, her touch grounding you.

"I know," she says quietly. "I’ve known since the beginning."

And then her lips find yours.

It’s soft at first — a question, not a demand. Her mouth moves against yours with unhurried care, coaxing you to relax into the moment. You kiss her back, tasting the unspoken promises in the way her lips part for you, the way her hand slides to the back of your neck, fingers threading through your hair.

When she deepens the kiss, your heart stutters, and a soft sound escapes you before you can stop it. Her other hand traces the curve of your back, anchoring you against her, your bodies fitting together like the final piece of a puzzle you’ve spent your whole life pretending didn’t exist.

When she finally pulls back, her breath is warm against your cheek.

"We don’t have to do anything you don’t want to," she says softly.

You shake your head, your voice a whisper. "I want to."

Her thumb strokes along your jaw, slow and patient. "Are you sure?"

And you are. Even if your chest feels too tight, even if your hands shake a little. Because it’s her. Because it’s always been her.

You nod.

She kisses you again, slower this time, deeper, her hands guiding you gently. She doesn’t rush — she never does. Everything about her is patient, steady, like she understands the way your mind is spinning and knows exactly how to quiet it. Her lips trail from your mouth to your neck, soft and lingering, and your body arches toward her without conscious thought.

When she stands, lifting you easily in her arms, you let out a breathless laugh, your hands clinging to her shoulders.

She carries you upstairs, the house silent except for the soft sounds of your breathing, the pulse pounding in your ears. The bedroom feels different when you step inside, like the walls themselves are holding their breath.

She lays you down on the bed, hovering over you, her hand brushing your hair back from your face.

"You okay?" she murmurs.

You nod, your voice barely steady. "Yeah."

Her lips curve into a soft smile, one you’ve never seen from her on a mission before. It’s real. All of it is real.

Her hands map your body slowly, tracing the lines of your figure like she’s memorizing every inch. Clothes slip away, layer by layer, and every brush of her skin against yours sends sparks through your veins. She takes her time, coaxing every sound from your lips, reading your body like a language you never knew you could speak.

It’s overwhelming. But it’s perfect.

And when she finally makes you fall apart beneath her hands, beneath her mouth, you don’t feel scared. You don’t feel unsure. You feel safe.

You feel wanted.

When it’s over, you lie tangled together in the soft dark, your head resting against her chest, her fingers idly tracing patterns on your back.

"I’ve never..." you start, your voice soft, unsteady. "With anyone. I’ve never done this. Not like that. Not with—"

"A woman," she finishes for you, voice gentle. "I know."

You tilt your head, looking up at her. Her expression is open, unguarded, and there’s no judgment in her eyes. Just quiet understanding.

"I didn’t think it’d ever happen," you admit. "I didn’t think I’d ever want it to."

Her hand brushes along your cheek, thumb stroking the corner of your mouth.

"You just didn’t meet the right person yet."

And you think, maybe, that she’s right.

The next morning, the mission ends.

It happens quietly. Efficiently. The intel drops into your hands on a flash drive, the Callahans none the wiser, and SHIELD pulls the plug before the sun even sets. There’s no fight, no fireworks, no dramatic farewell.

Just a text.

Extraction in 2 hours. Pack light.

You sit on the edge of the bed, staring at the message, your chest heavy. Natasha’s quiet as she folds the last of her things into her duffel, her movements precise, practiced. But when she glances over at you, her eyes soften.

"You okay?" she asks.

You nod, even though you’re not sure. "Yeah."

But you both know the truth. The mission ending isn’t what’s making your hands tremble. It’s the question you’ve been avoiding since the moment you let her touch you.

What happens now?

She crosses the room, standing between your knees, her hands resting on your shoulders. You tip your head back, meeting her gaze, searching for something — reassurance, an answer, anything.

"This doesn’t have to be the end," she says softly.

Your throat tightens. "You don’t have to say that."

"I’m not saying it because I have to." She leans in, brushing her lips against your forehead. "I’m saying it because I want to."

And for the first time, you let yourself believe it.

The compound feels like another life when you step back through its doors.

No more matching coffee mugs. No more sunlit kitchen mornings. No more pretending to be Natasha Romanoff’s wife.

But the space between you doesn’t snap back the way you expected.

She still stands close. Her hand still brushes yours when you pass each other in the hallway. Her glances still linger, heavy and unspoken, and yours do too.

And when Tony greets you both in the briefing room, all smug and self-satisfied, you know he can see it written all over your face.

"Well, well," he drawls, folding his arms over his chest. "Look at you two. Almost makes me wonder who owes who money."

Natasha’s mouth curves into a knowing smile, her gaze flicking to yours for a split second before she answers.

"Let’s just say," she says, voice smooth, "the mission was a success."

And as her hand brushes yours under the table, fingers curling lightly around your own, you know it wasn’t the mission she meant.

It was everything else.

The days after the mission feel like waking up from a long, strange dream.

Everything’s back to normal on the surface: briefing rooms, morning runs, mission debriefs, shared dinners with the team that taste like old habits. But underneath it all, something lingers. Something warm and unfamiliar.

She lingers.

Natasha doesn’t push. She never does. She just waits, steady as gravity, her presence as easy and quiet as it was back in the safe house — only now there’s no act to lean on, no neighborhood barbecues or suburban smiles. Just you, her, and the weight of everything unsaid.

You find yourself looking for her more than usual. Not because you need to. Because you want to.

And every time your eyes meet hers, you feel it all over again. That night. Her hands, her mouth, the way her voice had wrapped around your name like it was something precious.

You’re sitting on the compound’s rooftop three nights later when she finds you. The air is cool, the city stretching quiet and endless beyond the edge of the building. You hear her before you see her — the soft scuff of boots on concrete, the familiar weight of her presence sliding in beside you.

Neither of you speaks for a long moment. The silence isn’t awkward, though. It’s comfortable, the kind that sits between two people who already know the conversation is coming, but neither wants to force it.

Finally, she breaks it, voice low and careful.

"You’ve been avoiding me."

You glance at her, meeting those sharp green eyes, and even now — even with everything that’s already passed between you — she still makes your heart trip over itself.

"Not avoiding," you say softly. "Just… thinking."

Her lips twitch at the corner, but there’s no judgment in her expression.

"About us?"

The word sits heavy between you. Us.

You nod, looking back out at the skyline.

"I don’t know how to do this," you admit, your voice barely more than a whisper. "I’ve never done this. Not like this."

Her hand moves, slow and unhurried, resting on top of yours. Her thumb strokes the back of your hand, steady and warm, grounding you the way she always does.

"You don’t have to know," she murmurs. "You just have to want to."

You let out a quiet breath, one you hadn’t realized you’d been holding.

"I do."

And just like that, the tension slips from your shoulders.

She shifts closer, her knee brushing against yours, her fingers sliding between your own.

"So do I."

The simplicity of it knocks the air out of your chest. Because for all the nights you spent lying awake, trying to make sense of your feelings, trying to pretend they weren’t real — she’s known. She’s always known. And she’s never once rushed you.

You tilt your head, studying her in the soft moonlight, and the question tumbles out before you can stop it.

"What happens now?"

Her smile is slow and easy, but her gaze is steady, unwavering.

"Now we stop pretending."

She leans in, her hand cupping your jaw, thumb brushing along your cheek. The kiss is soft, unhurried, tasting of unspoken promises. When she pulls back, her forehead rests lightly against yours.

"Now I get to take you out on a real date," she says, her voice low and teasing, "and kiss you like I’ve been wanting to since day one."

Your breath catches, heat curling in your stomach, your body leaning into hers before you even realize it.

"And here I thought you were already doing a pretty good job at that."

Her fingers trail down your neck, her touch featherlight but loaded with intent.

"That was just the warm-up, sweetheart."

The flush rises hot on your skin, but you don’t pull away. Not this time. You tip your head slightly, giving her the silent invitation you’ve been too scared to voice for days.

She takes it.

Her lips find yours again, deeper this time, slow but certain. The kind of kiss that’s meant to undo you, and it does. Your hands tangle in her hair, pulling her closer, your body arching into hers as the kiss turns hungrier, the space between you dissolving.

When she finally pulls back, both of you breathless, her voice dips lower, her thumb tracing lazy circles on your thigh.

"I want this to be real," she says. "Not just a mission. Not just one night. You. Me."

Your chest tightens, but this time it’s not fear. It’s hope.

"Okay," you whisper, voice soft but steady. "I want that too."

And just like that, it’s decided.

She leans in again, pressing a kiss to your neck, slow and lingering, making your stomach twist and your breath hitch. Her hand slips beneath the hem of your shirt, palm splayed against your skin, and the warmth of her touch sends sparks through you.

"Then let me take you inside," she murmurs against your skin. "Let me remind you exactly how real this is."

Your heart stumbles, your body answering before your voice does, your fingers tightening in her hair, pulling her mouth back to yours.

The kiss is all heat and wanting, all slow teasing and quiet desperation, the rooftop air cool against your flushed skin. When she finally pulls away, her breath is ragged, her eyes dark and hungry.

She stands, offering her hand, and you take it without hesitation.

The walk back to her room is quiet, your hands laced together, the air between you humming with unspoken promises.

The moment the door clicks shut, her mouth is back on yours, her hands framing your face, holding you steady as your world tilts around her. Your fingers fumble at the hem of her shirt, and she lets you take your time, guiding your hands, her patience making your heart ache.

When her shirt slips away, you step back for just a second, your gaze roaming over her, equal parts nerves and awe. She watches you, her lips curving into the softest smile.

"You’re allowed to look," she teases, her voice low, sultry, but tender underneath. "I’m not going anywhere."

You close the space between you, pressing your lips to her shoulder, tasting her skin, your hands finding their way along the curve of her waist. She shivers beneath your touch, and the quiet, breathy sound she lets out sends heat pooling deep in your stomach.

She takes her time with you, undressing you like it’s an art, like every piece of clothing is a boundary falling away. When you’re finally bare beneath her, stretched out on her bed, her body covering yours, her lips brushing along your throat, the nerves melt away — leaving only want.

Her hands map the shape of you, relearning you, coaxing every soft sound from your lips with each lingering kiss, each slow slide of her fingers. And when her mouth trails lower, her lips and tongue replacing her hands, your body arches into her without shame.

It’s different this time. Not rushed. Not born from the mission’s pressure.

It’s real.

And when you fall apart beneath her, breathless and shaking, her name the only thing you can manage, you realize you’ve never felt more wanted, more known, more safe.

After, you lie tangled together in the quiet, her fingers brushing lazily along your bare arm, your cheek resting on her shoulder, your heart still racing.

"So," you murmur, your voice low and sleep-heavy. "Does this make you my girlfriend?"

You feel her laugh more than you hear it, soft and warm against your skin.

"If you’ll have me," she says, pressing a kiss to the top of your head.

You tilt your face up, meeting her eyes, your smile soft and unguarded.

"I already do."

She kisses you, slow and sweet, her fingers threading through yours under the sheets.

And for the first time, there’s no pretending. Just you, her, and the beginning of something real.

help I hope this Makes sense...

[for-yoongi0309]

Severance Hospital and SUGA are establishing a specialized treatment center to support the treatment and social independence of patients with autism

On the 23rd, Severance Hospital held a groundbreaking ceremony for the 'Min Yoon-ki Treatment Center' for the treatment of children and adolescents with autism spectrum disorder on the first floor of Jejungwan. This center will support the mental health of children and adolescents through language, psychological, and behavioral therapies, and will operate various programs that link clinical and research. Even while promoting with BTS, Suga has consistently engaged in charity work and has shown a continued interest in mental health, psychological and behavioral issues, and especially depression in adolescents. He has sought ways to help through his talent and ability in music.

Last November, Suga had the opportunity to communicate with Professor Chun Geun-ah of the Department of Pediatrics at Severance Hospital, an authority in the field of pediatric psychiatry. Through several meetings since then, he learned that patients with autism spectrum disorder require customized treatment that fits their life cycle, but that this is difficult to achieve with existing short-term therapeutic interventions. He also agreed that in order to bring about positive changes in the symptoms of autism spectrum disorder, it is necessary to establish a specialized treatment center that can provide short term and even long-term treatments. It was also revealed that SUGA has donated 5 Billion Won ($3mil+) to Severance Hospital to help them for the next 10 years. This is the largest donation ever made by an artist, not only to Severance Children's Hospital but also to the entire Yonsei Medical Center.

Since then, Professor Chun and Suga have discussed the establishment of a treatment center and social skills training using music for children and adolescents with autism spectrum disorder from the end of last year to the beginning of this year. Based on this, they developed the 'MIND' program, a social skills group program that combines musical content with existing social skills training programs. The MIND program is an acronym that contains the meaning of 'enhancing interaction and sensory experiences through music (Music), encountering opportunities to form social relationships and communicate (Interaction), learning the process of naturally forming relationships through a community (Network), and learning about a society that respects individual diversity and gets along together (Diversity).' Children who participate in this program play instruments, sing songs, write to music, and express their emotions and thoughts through music and writing. From March to June of this year, Suga spent weekends meeting with children with autism spectrum disorder and participated in the development of the program. He played instruments such as the guitar himself, guiding the children to match rhythm and harmony, interact with music, and expand their emotional expression. He even went so far as to teach the children to play instruments themselves. This program has been shown to be effective in helping children with autism spectrum disorder with limited language ability form social relationships. In the future, the Min Yoongi Treatment Center plans to further develop the MIND program and establish a self-sufficient music project model.

[astrologydray]

Fama In The Houses 🏡

🌬️Fama is asteroid 408, named after the Roman goddess of fame, rumor, and reputation. In your chart, Fama shows where your name travels, how you’re remembered or talked about, and whether that recognition comes from truth, gossip, or legacy. It’s your “echo chamber”—the space where the world hears or repeats your story.

🏠 Fama in the Houses:

1st House: Your identity becomes your calling card. People recognize your presence, looks, or style—you are your own brand. Even without trying, you might attract attention just for being you.

2nd House: Your values, voice, or possessions can make you famous. Fama here brings recognition through self-worth, talents, or the way you handle money—you’re remembered for what you build or own.

3rd House: Fame through speech, writing, teaching, or social media. You might be known for how you communicate or for something you said that went viral. Watch for both praise and gossip.

4th House: A legacy tied to your roots, family name, or private life. You might be famous within your hometown, or your family’s reputation follows you. Fama here can also signal ancestral fame or inherited notoriety.

5th House: Recognition through creativity, performance, or romantic flair. You might gain fame for your self-expression, children, or playful charm. You shine when you let your inner artist out.

6th House: Known for your work ethic, service, or skills. You could build a reputation in a specialized field or become a quietly respected expert. People talk about how dependable or talented you are in what you do.

7th House: Your fame may come through partnerships, collaborators, or public-facing relationships. You’re known as someone’s other half or as part of a power duo. Your connections make you visible.

8th House: Infamous or magnetic—Fama here points to mystery, taboo, or transformation. Your name might carry a sense of depth or secrecy. Recognition could come through crisis, healing, or occult themes.

9th House: You’re known across borders, philosophies, or teachings. Fama here gives you a platform through publishing, travel, education, or belief systems. Your words may reach far corners of the world.

10th House: A powerful placement—your career, public role, or legacy becomes what you’re known for. Whether celebrated or criticized, your name echoes in the public sphere. Fame is likely here.

11th House: Fame through communities, causes, or online spaces. You’re known in your networks or for something futuristic, rebellious, or humanitarian. Social media could be your megaphone.

12th House: A hidden or spiritual fame—your name may be whispered rather than shouted. Known for what’s behind the scenes, or even after your time. Fama here suggests a quiet legacy with deep impact.

[cherryblossombankai]

HIIII

I love youuu

Could you maybe Write headcanons about how Hawks, Dabi, All Might, Enji, Shigaraki, Present Mic and Eraser Head eat pussy? It would be amazing!

You rock my world, baby girl!

Warnings: oral (f receiving), mentions of somnophilia, quirks used for kinky stuff

Taglist: @pixelcafe-network (message me to be added to my taglist!)

Hawks

Hawks is playful at first. He likes teasing you, making you get all flustered for him. This will be achieved by blowing on your pussy or sucking gently on your folds.

Once he really gets into it though, his demeanor changes completely. He almost seems to relax from going down on you. His body goes a little slack and his eyes flutter closed. 

Every so often when you whine his name, he’ll look up at you lazily, his eyes just rolling open to meet yours before closing again. 

He could honestly just stay there with his head between your thighs, suckling and licking at you all night. 

You’ll have to push him away to avoid being overstimulated. 

Dabi 

You have to beg him to go down on you. Not because he doesn’t want to, but because he loves hearing you beg. 

This becomes even more apparent when he has you spread open for him. His tongue is lapping at nearly every part of your pussy EXCEPT where you need him most. 

He’ll have your thighs shaking and you’re whining by the time his tongue finally touches your clit.

He’ll spend ages edging you, only to turn right back around and overstimulate you. 

It’s safe to say Dabi decides when you’re done cumming. 

All Might 

His experience with women is pretty limited, so be prepared to spend time having to teach him how to lick pussy. 

One thing about Toshinori though, he is very eager to learn and even more eager to put what he learns to good use to please the special lady in his life.

He’s very gentle at first, but it doesn’t take much for him to get a little too excited. 

As he laps up your nectar, he’ll let out little groans and growls. He gets very into it.

 If he’s lying on the bed, he’ll be grinding against the mattress the whole time. It’s not uncommon for him to accidentally make himself cum this way.

Endeavor

Enji is a very busy man, and he can’t always take the time to indulge with you. So, when he indulges in your body he makes the most of it. 

He’ll get a little nasty about it because he just has to be the best, and nothing gets him harder than hearing you scream his name. 

Any position works for him, even eating you out from behind. He’s particularly fond of having you sit on his face. His hands will be full of your ass, guiding you to ride his face. 

He makes a little bit of noise, mostly growling. 

Sometimes when he gets a bit too worked up he’ll start smoking from his quirk getting activated. He’s even sparked a little before, which of course didn’t go well. 

Shigaraki

He wants to go unhinged. The desire to spread you open and devour your pussy like it’s the nectar of a goddess is unbearable. But because of his quirk, he has to be so careful. 

Having to use so much care and caution whenever he touches you, drives him insane. He can never truly lose himself in you the way he desires. 

So instead, he expresses himself through grunting and growling against your pussy. He may not be able to touch you with all of his fingers but the ones he can use are digging into the meat of your thighs. 

“Tastes so good,” he groans between lapping at your pussy. 

He loves making you feel good. The way you praise him so sweetly and swear he’s the only one who can make you feel this way, it gives him purpose. 

Present Mic 

Let’s just get this out of the way: he’s basically a sex god. 

Present Mic is adventurous and fearless in his pursuit of bringing you pleasure. 

One of his go to moves is to hum against your pussy, using his quirk to make the vibrations intense. His mouth basically becomes a vibrator, and he’ll do this while sucking on your little clit. 

He’s really down to eat you out anytime and anywhere. Kitchen counter, classroom, even in the bathroom stall of  your favorite club. 

His skills are unmatched. Once he’s gone down on you, you’ll never be the same. 

Eraser Head

Aizawa loves eating you out just as much as you love getting eaten out. 

It’s sort of how he unwinds at the end of a day. After going through the domestic dinner routine with you, he drags you to bed. 

He can and will go down on your until he falls asleep suckling on your clit. 

Then he wakes up in the middle of the night, his head on your thigh, and starts all over again. 

He enjoys waking you up with oral, watching your sleepy face contort with pleasure. 

[22ayla21]

Fathers and Their Children Part I

The Twisted Wonderland boys as fathers.

Third year Second year First year

Trey Clover

Trey will be very attentive to his children, always trying to create a safe and comfortable environment for them. He will always be there to support, guide and help, especially in difficult situations.

He will love his sons with all his heart, but will show it through actions rather than words. He is not one to over-express emotions, but his love and care will be evident in his daily actions.

Trey will try to be a good mentor to his sons, passing on his wisdom and life experience to them. He will try to teach them to be independent, responsible and honest, while not forgetting to show tolerance and understanding for their mistakes. He will patiently explain and repeat important things, but if his children cross the line, he will show that there are consequences. However, he will approach this with thoughtfulness and consideration, avoiding harsh punishments.

Trey will try to set a good example for his children. He will teach them honesty, responsibility, hard work, but also the importance of rest and not forgetting about fun and simple pleasures in life.

He will probably be actively involved in creating family traditions. These can be shared activities, such as baking or going for walks, which will strengthen family bonds and create an atmosphere of comfort. Despite his reserved nature, Trey loves to add playfulness to his relationships with children. He may be the one who will arrange little pranks or jokes to amuse his sons, adding an element of lightness to their lives.

Trey will always plan for the future of his sons, providing them not only with everything they need, but also preparing them for adulthood. He may be the one who helps with their studies, practical skills and moral values.

When his sons face difficulties or worries, Trey will always be there to listen and support. He will show the importance of openly sharing your feelings and not being afraid to show vulnerability.

Cater Diamond

Cater would try his best to be the coolest and funniest father for his daughter. He would arrange joint photo shoots with her, shoot funny videos and could even start her own Magicam account (under strict control, of course). His daughter would definitely know all the memes and trends thanks to him.

If his daughter wants to take a beautiful photo, Cater will set up a real mini-photo studio with perfect lighting and angles. And if she is a teenager and is embarrassed to be photographed, he will patiently wait for the moment when she herself asks him for a photo.

If someone offends his daughter, Cater will not get into a fight, but he will be able to put the person in their place with words so carefully and subtly that the offender will not have a chance. He can also twist the situation on social networks so that the offender himself will regret his behavior.

Cater knows how to make any event special. Whether it's a birthday, graduation, or just a tough day, he'll find a way to cheer up his daughter, whether it's a cute gift, an unexpected picnic, or a whole surprise party.

Cater is a sensitive person, and he always notices if his daughter is in a bad mood. He won't pressure her, but he'll gently lead her into a conversation or just offer to spend time together until she decides to share her worries.

He'll definitely be the dad who buys his daughter a teddy bear the size of a room or suddenly brings her her favorite dessert just because "that's how he felt." But if she starts to be capricious or demanding too much, Cater will find a clever way to explain why this is not an option without abruptly prohibiting her.

His daughter will definitely inherit his love for jokes and sarcasm. They can organize mini-competitions for the funniest memes or come up with funny pranks for family and friends.

Does your daughter want to be an artist? Cater will find her the best materials. Want to become a musician? Here's a cool guitar! The main thing is that she's happy.

Leona Kingscholar

Leona was initially reluctant to become a father. He doubted that he would succeed, and in general did not see any particular need for it. However, when the children were born, his attitude gradually changed... Fate laughed at him and gave him not one child, but two - twins. And although he always says that he treats them equally, it is noticeable that he has a special weakness for his daughter.

Leona loves to play chess with the children, but never gives in. They lose time after time, get angry, sometimes even cry, but each time they demand revenge. He is proud of their stubbornness, but does not say it out loud. The twins inherited his cunning and ability to manipulate, and when they want to get something, they act subtly and harmoniously, but Leona always sees through them.

He does not like it when children scream loudly or demand attention. Usually he just silently picks them up and sits them down next to him, sometimes even lazily throwing them over his shoulder if they are too active.

Cheka used to be the nephew who pestered Leona, and now Farena suffers from the pranks of his nephews. "It's karma," Farena says with a chuckle, watching the children make insidious plans against their uncle.

The cutest moment in the house is when all three lions (Leona and the twins) simultaneously turn their heads to the sound of their mother's voice, and everyone's right ear twitches in unison.

Leona is not particularly strict, but if someone dares to offend his children, he will turn into a real beast. Once, one of his peers teased his daughter - after that, the child never appeared in the Kingskolar family's field of vision again.

Leona can be tough and serious, but when it comes to sleep, the children have no problem climbing into his lap, settling down like on a pillow. At first he grumbled, but then he resigned himself. When the kids cause chaos, he will never admit that it was his idea. Even if it is written on his face that it was his idea.

Vil Schoenheit

Vil surrounds his daughter with care and love, but at the same time brings her up with discipline. He does not tolerate sloppiness, laziness or rudeness, so from childhood he instills in her a sense of responsibility.

His daughter's clothes are always impeccably chosen: only high-quality fabrics, stylish styles and no "childish tasteless kitsch". Even if it's just pajamas, they fit perfectly and emphasize her refined taste (according to Vil).

From early childhood, he teaches her how to properly care for her skin and hair. For example, before going to bed, they have a special ritual: soft creams, combing her hair and, of course, a bedtime story (but not just a story, but something from the classics, with an aesthetic style).

Vil can be strict and even a little demanding, but if someone offends his daughter, that person will regret it. He will not tolerate rudeness, rudeness or, God forbid, bullying towards her. If necessary, he will personally talk to the parents of the "offender" or even the teachers.

Vil will not force her to pursue a career in the fashion industry, but he will definitely teach her a sense of taste and style. If she wants to become someone far from the arts, he will support her, but will still nag a little if her clothes are "non-expressive".

Despite his majestic image, when he is alone with his daughter, he can allow himself to be soft and even a little silly. If she asks, he can dress up in a crown and participate in tea parties with stuffed animals.

Although he always holds himself proudly and gracefully, there are times when he just sits and watches his daughter sleep, realizing how quickly she is growing up. Sometimes he wishes she could remain his little girl for a little while longer.

Everyone thinks that Vil is the boss in their family. But in reality, his little princess can get anything from him - if she approaches with the right approach. He often tells her that she should value herself, never settle for less, and be independent. Vil wants his daughter to grow up to be a strong, elegant, and respected woman who knows her worth.

Rook Hunt

Rook is a father who admires every achievement of his children, even the most insignificant ones. First step? "Oh, mon amour, look at this graceful hunter growing up!" First scribble? "This is a real masterpiece!" He literally turns every event into a celebration.

Like a true hunter, he teaches children not only ordinary things, but also how to be observant, to feel nature, people and the world around them. He could, for example, discreetly follow their adventures to make sure they are safe, but at the same time give them the freedom to explore.

If his son and daughter participates in competitions, concerts, even in ordinary school activities - Rook will support them as if they were the main characters of the world arena. Moreover, his applause and cries of support are so loud and heartfelt that they attract the attention of everyone around.

Rook does not impose his point of view on children, but, on the contrary, helps to reveal their natural talents. If the older child wants to be an explorer, and the younger one an artist, he will find ways to develop their abilities, creating the perfect environment for them.

He teaches his children to appreciate beauty, whether it is beauty in people, in nature, or in art. They can spend hours walking in the forest, listening to their father describe the grace of every detail, be it a flower petal or the movement of an animal.

Despite his enthusiasm, Rook can be strict if his children do something unfair or are lazy in realizing their potential. He will not yell or punish, but his disappointment will be felt more than any punishment. “Mon enfant, how can this be? Does a hunter stop when he is faced with a challenge?”

Rook allows his children to try, make mistakes, and learn. He does not limit them, but at the same time teaches them responsibility for their actions. He could let them go on an adventure, but somehow still keep an eye on their safety. Whether it's hunting trips (not necessarily actual hunting, perhaps just nature watching) or morning gatherings with a cup of tea and conversations about life, Rook will create family traditions that will be passed on to the children.

Idia Shroud

After learning that he is going to have a child, Idia will go through several stages: denial, panic, and then... total study of the issue. He will reread all possible guides, create files with parenting tactics, and even try to program Ortho as a nanny.

He will be afraid that the boy will follow in his footsteps - become just as unsociable and withdrawn. Because of this, Idia will try, albeit awkwardly, to support him in his social development. For example, instead of dissuading his son from going for walks, he will push him to go out. However, if the son refuses, he will immediately say: "Well, okay, actually it's fine at home...".

If the son gets interested in games, comics or technology, Idia will immediately become his main supplier of new products and rare collector's editions. He will justify himself by saying that he is simply "investing in his education," but in reality, he is pleased to see his son engaged.

He worries that his son will be embarrassed by him or think that he is weak. Because of this, he will occasionally try to appear "cool" - for example, by demonstrating his hacking skills or trying to play the role of a formidable parent. However, this rarely works, because his son has long known that his dad is a kind, albeit anxious genius.

If someone offends his child, Idia will first find information about this person, hack their accounts, and then come up with a cunning revenge. He will not directly deal with the offender, but will create a situation in which the offender himself will be scared. If the situation requires personal intervention, he will gather his strength and do it - even if it will make him look extremely awkward.

He can sometimes forget himself and treat his son like a playmate, and not like a child. For example, she will suggest him to scold the NPC instead of solving the problem in reality. But if his son really needs support, Idia will put all fears aside and help, even if it means leaving her comfort zone. When her son falls asleep next to her, when they just sit and are silent, when Idia understands that his boy trusts him - at such moments he feels that maybe he is not so bad at this "game" called parenthood.

Malleus Draconia

Malleus is the king of Briar Valley, and his son is the heir. He understands the importance of education and responsibility, so he will teach his child discipline, respect for others and traditions. However, he will never be cruel - if his son makes a mistake, he will not yell or scold him, but calmly explain what the mistake was.

He can calmly listen to a million questions in a row, even if it is something like "Why do I have horns, and my mother does not?" or "And if I eat a precious stone, will I become stronger?" Malleus is reserved and rarely loses his temper, so it is difficult to upset him, even if his son angers him with something.

He will not allow anyone to harm his son - not enemies of the kingdom, not magical creatures, not even overly persistent teachers. If someone dares to threaten the heir of Briar Valley... it is better to pray to them.

Malleus understands that his son has inherited the power of dragon magic from him, so he trains him from an early age. He will proudly watch the child's first spells and gently correct him if something goes wrong.

Despite his seriousness, Malleus does not miss a moment to spend time with his son. He can throw him in the air, ride him on his shoulders, or even let him pull his tail.

Malleus rarely shows his feelings in words, but he conveys them through actions. If the child is afraid of the dark or sleeps poorly, he quietly sings an ancient lullaby that his mother sang to him. Perhaps this is even a family tradition, and now this song is passed down from generation to generation.

As a king, he is busy with the affairs of the kingdom, and sometimes he has to leave the child alone. If he sees that his son is sad or lonely, his heart squeezes with guilt. He always compensates for this - brings gifts, takes his son with him to important ceremonies or just spends an evening with him, telling ancient stories.

He is the first time in this role, so sometimes he makes mistakes. He can demand too much from the child, forget that he is still little, or underestimate his emotions. But Malleus learns, listens to you (his queen) and to his son himself, trying to be a better father than he was yesterday.

Lilia Vanrouge

Lilia doesn't just educate - he makes the process fun. Need to learn to read? Great, now it's the riddles of ancient runes. Learning math? Excellent, count how many times dad dodges a pillow attack!

Who needs carriages and transport when you have a fae dad? Even if the baby can already walk, she often ends up on his shoulders, joyfully holding his hair.

He can play for hours, run and even rock the baby at night until her eyes close. But when he falls next to her on the couch, he is already unbearable.

Lilia trusts her daughter and wants her to learn from her own experience. He will not overprotect her, but if he feels that she is in real danger, it is better to run.

Whether your daughter wants to become a warrior, an artist, an inventor or just explore the world - Lilia will stand next to her and say: "Excellent! Show me how you do it! "

There is a place in the forest where they can sit for hours, chat or just lie there, looking at the stars. It is their little world, where no one is allowed except for mom, if she brings something tasty.

Her favorite "accomplice" in her pranks. While mom looks away - and Lilia is already helping her daughter hide in the closet or quietly sneak into the kitchen for a night treat.

The fae bat has his fangs for a reason! He proudly teaches her how to fly, night vision and even the ability to silently appear behind people's backs (mom is not thrilled).

He understands that his daughter is more special because of the human blood in her veins, but he will never show sadness. Instead, he makes her life happy, full of fun and adventure. After all, as long as she has dad - everything will be fine.

[glitchtricks94]

Dancing feat. One Piece Men!

Genre: Fluff Content Warnings: None Characters: Mihawk, Sir Crocodile, Buggy, Shanks, Zoro, Sanji, Brook, Jinbe x Reader (separate) Summary: A simple group of separate drabbles loosely tied together over one theme; dancing with them. Network: @pixelcafe-network Kick back, relax, and enjoy~

Dracule Mihawk

Dancing with Mihawk is a once in a blue moon activity, treating such a thing with you with reverence and seriousness, almost taking it to levels that rival his dedication to his swordsmanship. He rarely likes to break the soothing sound of silence with anything outside of your voice, so even convincing him to allow you to put on a record of gentle piano or the sweetened notes of a longing violin are a stretch. The occasions he allows such a thing are either special or when he’s in a very warm and affectionate mood, which is rare, as previously mentioned, but if it isn’t the sweetest thing you’ve ever experienced when he puts on a record, one you’ve noted as being your favorite many moons ago when you both just barely began sharing a homestead, of his own accord, turning to you with eyes that normally were sharp and focused now filled with saccharine sweet honey of affection. Holding out a hand, he silently asks you a question, one that you could never refuse, giving your answer to him easily in the form of your hand in his as he gently tugs you towards his frame, no resistance on your end. He’s careful, steps precise. After Mihawk learned that you tended to sway gently when you chose to embrace him for longer periods of time, he took to the potential idea that you perhaps were fond of dancing. He could never find it in his heart to deny you something so simple. He began to practice during his time away from you when his work wasn’t consuming him. You always held his heart when you both were separated, as he held yours, so one night when he returned, exhausted and worn, he allowed the small jolt of energy you often shot through him to take root, as he pulled you to his chest and began to sway with you. You instantly fell into step with him, a joyous glow glittering in your eyes, one that Mihawk made sure to commit to memory as he leaned in to steal a weary kiss.

Mihawk’s movements grew more calculated the next time he chose to pull you into a dance, his eyes watching yours carefully as you gazed up at him with sheer adoration. Satisfaction radiated off him in waves, a small smirk tugging at his lips as he expertly guided you as if you’ve both already performed this routine a million times over. He twirled you out, away and back into his grasp, moving to put you in a low dip, lips grazing your neck in a feather light kiss. “My, aren’t you turning on the charm, tonight,” you teased, taking note of the small tick of a smirk pulling at the lips of your lover. A microscopic movement, really, but if your attention to detail didn’t help you decipher this man, then you felt as though he wouldn’t be twirling you in his arms right this moment. “Perhaps such an observation is correct, my rose,” Mihawk hummed, holding you close to his chest, seeming to enjoy the feeling of your hand in his, the other resting gently on his shoulder as you both silently danced towards an open balcony. The moonlight outside bathed both of you in an ethereal glow as your dance came to a close, Mihawk once more dipping you and pressing a kiss to your neck. “Consider me under your spell, my dear,” you crooned, eyes falling half lidded as a smile painted your features, Mihawk mirroring your expression in his own, beautifully stoic way.

“Good. I would expect such a thing from my betrothed,” Mihawk hummed, pulling you back up to where your chest was pressed against his once more. He trailed a hand up your arm to gently brush his fingers along your jawline, golden eyes memorizing every detail. “What’s such a tender look doing on your face, dearest?” “I do believe that it isn’t a crime to admire how my intended looks on a night such as this one.” “Oh, such poetry!” You gasped dramatically, a laugh escaping you and a sigh from Mihawk’s nose, his head shaking at the theatrics you posed. “You’re worse than that damned clown at times, my rose.” “Now, that’s just mean,” you snickered, playfully swatting Mihawk’s shoulder as he released another chuckle from his throat. “Is that so? Then, tell me, how could I ever earn your forgiveness?” “Kiss me again?” “As you wish, my rose,” Mihawk utters before sealing his lips to yours and guiding you back inside to continue your dance of passion.

Sir Crocodile

Any kind of dancing is rare with Crocodile, but when he indulges in a dance or two, he always ensures to take your breath away. He may be a large man, but with his own skill and a dash of help from his devil fruit abilities here and there, he’ll make it feel as though you both were gliding on thin air. When Sir Crocodile dances, he often chooses a simple waltz, a particular form you had said was a favorite of yours when it came to a more romantic atmosphere, it was something simple, yet elegant. Fitting for you in his opinion, as you never gravitated towards things that were gaudy and overly expensive; refreshing if not a tad relieving. He enjoyed and relished that you reveled in his attention rather than his wallet. Attending an upscale function with other influential figures of the past decade, you on his arm looking around with a practiced eye, your gaze trailing up to his disinterested face and locking eyes with him, Crocodile effortlessly navigated the room, talking with those of interest before taking a seat at the bar with you. He always seemed to find the most exciting detail about any location to be whether or not you are beside him, his time in Impel Down only further perpetuating such a thing and drawing him closer. Tonight, he seemed to feel more bold than usual about his attachment to you, as when the provided orchestra began to play a slower tempo, he stood, looking to you with practiced ease. “Would you care for a dance, my treasure?” He asked, his voice low enough for you to hear but not draw the attention of others. You simply flashed him a brilliant smile as you stood from your position atop the barstool, stepping right into his open grasp with so much trust and confidence, Sir Crocodile could shed a sarcastic tear of pity. He truly didn’t know why you held such confidence in him to not hurt you, given you bore witness to his treatment of others when they outgrew their usefulness to him. Perhaps he should unpack that another time. Stepping out onto the dancefloor, Sir Crocodile easily pulled you to him and twirled you into a perfect position, the two of you effortlessly synching up with each other, him taking the lead. That feeling as if you were both dancing on thin air swept over you, and you found yourself unable to look away from your beloved’s face, his expression cold, and eyes barely glittering with enough warmth to be counted as a mere ember from the bonfire you had constructed from within his chest. You were utterly captivated by him and he knew it.

Oh, such a pretty gem you were, polished to perfection in the fine garb he had chosen for you to wear that evening, that glorious glimmer in your eye reminding him of mountains of gold as you lost yourself in his presence; it all dripped down and settled on Crocodile’s tongue like a finely aged wine. He simply couldn’t get enough. The dance ended with a simple bow to him, his hand never leaving yours as he returned the gesture, tucking his hook behind his back before you both stood upright once more, returning to your previous stances with you hanging off of his arm the way he preferred. The evening was folding to a close for you both, as Crocodile’s patience was beginning to crumble with those around him and you could feel your eyelids begin to grow heavier. Solitude was needed for you both. What you never expected when you returned home was for your much larger lover to pull you closer to him once more and perform a few simple steps to the waltz you performed earlier with him that very evening, eliciting a soft, sugary laugh from your throat to match the smug smile he wore on his charred face. “You’re more energetic than I thought!” You snickered, looking up at Sir Crocodile with mirth dancing in your eyes. “Savor it, my treasure, for it will not last long.” “I never said I wouldn’t, my sun,” you coo before you found your lips taken in a long, languid kiss.

Buggy The Clown ~700 words

Buggy was never really the dancing type. At least, not with all those unflashy, fancy types of moves. Buggy was made to sparkle, shine and forever be in the spotlight; the eccentricity, the wild charm, the loud, booming voice, that’s what made Buggy who he was! It was quite the contrast to when he met you, a rowdy, but rather traditional performer at some pirate pub he and his crew crashed at after a rough stint on the waters. Somehow, after the liquor and cocktails poured like waterfalls, he managed to charm you into joining his crew as the pretty little thing that hung on his disembodied arm. Buggy was honestly elated that you joined as he could hardly take his eyes off you, and the crew often went to you if they needed the clown to loosen up a bit on everyone, to which you were happy to put on the facade of the pouty lover who wanted more “Buggy time,” as you phrased it. It worked often and actually helped your beloved captain de-stress as well. It was during these days that Buggy learned more about what kind of performances you often did while back on that pint sized island you used to live on. You often loved to dance, stuff that reminded him of some prissy ballet dancers he came across ages ago, except, you seemed to blend it with older ballroom dances. Hell if he knew which ones, though, he’s a clown, he’s bright and flashy not overly fancy, and Buggy was sure as anything not about to start making fundamental changes about himself or his lifestyle. Blue eyes trailed after your spinning figure, watching you with content pooling in their gaze as a relaxed, red painted smile rested below them. Your hands were raised as if someone was holding them as you began to spin, giving Buggy an idea. His smile morphed into a playful smirk as he popped off his hands, floating them over to slot over yours. Your eyes shot up to the foreign feeling that tickled at your fingers, a smile overtaking your features seeing such familiar leather trying to anchor to your hands. So he was finally taking you up on your offer!

You easily twined your fingers with Buggy’s, hands slotting together like puzzle pieces, your eyes darting to his with a sparkle in them as you resumed dancing, twirling and tugging his hands as he pulled at your own, causing constant missteps in your little performance before starting to just use his strength to spin, pull, and maneuver you to his heart’s content, laughter filling the air. “Buggy, baby, darling, my sweet little candy coated gumdrop,” you call, playfulness dripping from your voice. Buggy groaned and looked at you with a deadpan stare for a moment before melting into a fit of giggles. “Yes, my star?” “Will you finally be allowing me to teach you bits of my routine? You know I’ve been wanting to!” You said, your tone taking on a slightly melodic quality. Buggy hummed before shrugging upon seeing you give him your infamous puppy eyes. “Alright, alright,” he huffed, no real annoyance in his voice. Getting up from his perch on a barrel, Buggy trotted over to you, a lazy smile slowly painting over his features until he stopped in front of you, raising his arms and reattaching his floating body parts to himself. “Start teaching, starlight. You got yourself a student here.” You let out a giggle as you started trying to show him how you moved through your moves so fluidly, Buggy clumsily copying your movements and grabbing onto you to keep his balance more often than he would ever dare to admit. Buggy would also never admit to purposely messing up whenever he fell down just so he could see your smile and hear your encouraging words. He’d never tell you that whenever you gifted him your beautiful praise, love and encouragement he felt as if he was tasting a sweet honey on his tongue, that he valued your words more than anyone else’s. It’s such a shame he can’t hide such things from you, but you don’t mind keeping your lips sealed. “C’mon, honey, let’s try again!”

Red-Haired Shanks

You didn’t take him for a dancer. A partier? Oh, yes, good times always rolled with Shanks. A drinker? Absolutely, you could guess he could empty twenty barrels of booze by himself. A dancer? That was unexpected. You felt a bit silly, however, as Shanks was all about having a good time and sharing the happiness with others. It was practically integral to him as a person. “You’re staring again,” came the voice of the ever so calm Benn Beckman, first mate and your most trusted confidant. “I have no idea what you’re talking ‘bout, Beck,” you drawled, sipping more rum from your glass. Beckman’s charcoal gaze met yours over the rim of your drink, an expression of exasperation being worn on his features. “What’s that look for?” “You know exactly what it’s for,” Benn huffed, pulling a cigarette from the case he often carried with him, a lighter following suit as he lit up the end and took a deep inhale. You scrunch your nose as he blew the smoke in your face upon exhaling. “No, I don’t. Please, enlighten me,” you spoke, waving your hand to clear away the excess smoke from your face. “You’ve been staring at Shanks more often than not, lately,” Benn explained, directing his attention to his old friend, who was gladly dancing with a woman, smiling and twirling her with ease. He peered at you through the corner of his eye, seeing your glare being directed at Shanks and the bar goer. If Benn knew you wouldn’t punch him, he’d say he spotted a little green in your eye. “‘Specially when the guy starts dancing around while having a good time. Hell, even when he’s just sitting and drinking with us, you hardly look away. It’s getting pathetic at this point.” “Don’t you have women to charm, Beckmann?” You asked, trying to ignore how you managed to allow Ben to call you out on your behavior. Were you really that obvious?

“Don’t you have a move to make?” “Keep your nose out of my business,” you pouted, earning a full blown laugh from him. “I’d love to, really, I would, but you keep bringing it up during our late night chats.” “Come on, you know I’m drunk when I bitch at you!” “Not drunk enough to forget him, though, right?” Benn teased, pulling genuine amusement from your flustered reactions, your face painted red from embarrassment rather than the four drinks you’ve had within the last few hours. Which is why Benn Beckman, your dear friend, didn’t mention that the reason Shanks even began taking to dancing was because he had mentioned you had told him that you used to be a traveling dancer before you decided to ultimately settle in with the crew. He only told Shanks about it after overhearing a comment on how good your footwork was during a sparring session. No one could ever rip the tones of nostalgia that rang out from your voice whenever you spoke of all the performances you gave to those on the streets of many island streets. Which is another reason why Benn chose to not tell you that Shanks was approaching the table with a determined glimmer in his eyes. “Well, well, look at you two. I’m not interrupting a lovers’ spat, am I?” Shanks teased, moving to one side so he could drape his arm across your shoulders where you sat. He let out a light chuckle when you practically jumped three feet in the air.

“Fucking hell!” You screeched, glaring at your captain now. “We need to put a bell on you or something!” Shanks pulled his arm away to raise it in mock defense. “Never meant to scare ya!” He laughed. “It’s fine,”  you sighed, running a hand down your face, noting that Benn had slipped away, leaving you alone with the captain of both your crew and your personal fantasies. “Need anything, cap?” “Oh, nothing much, maybe a dance with you?” Shanks asked casually, making you blink in surprise. You began to take note of the atmosphere in the bar; softer music was fluttering through the air as voices quieted down, a few stray couples moving about the room and occupying the dancefloor when you stole a glance at it. To top it off, the man that’s been haunting your heart in the dead of night is now standing before you, asking you to indulge in your old passion with him. You felt like you were dreaming as you mustered an awkward smile and took his hand in yours. You’ve never felt so light as you swayed gently with Shanks, his hand in yours and your other arm nearly looped around his neck. You swore that he seemed to be as elated as you were with the turn of events. As the song went on, Shanks shifted his grip, moving so his arm was wrapped around your waist, pulling you closer to him. Shanks couldn’t believe how dazzling you were while dancing, letting him to lead you about with ease, thankfully not noticing when he misstepped because he got too lost in your eyes. You were so relaxed, looked so content and felt so right in his grasp, he could hardly stand it. Alas, everything came to a close and he was left hungry for more. “Thanks for the dance,” Shank hummed, smiling warmly at you. “Mind if I get another sometime?”

Roronoa Zoro

Zoro and dancing are two words that don’t seem to mix well, much like oil and water. It never suited him, and he never held any interest. He had goals to pursue, a dream to chase, there was no time for something like dancing. Zoro felt like his world was flipped upside down when Luffy came back to the ship with you in tow. A bright smile painted Luffy’s features as he excitedly told the crew about how cool you were; how he saw you dancing while in the middle of town, practically manipulating fire to your will like his brother did, stars glittering in his eyes while you basked in the compliments with a bashful blush coloring your cheeks. It’s been a few weeks now, and Zoro, alongside the rest of the crew, have all seen your skills at work with your creative and fiery dances, the batons you twirled captivating them, the batons now doubling as your weapons with a little tune up from both Usopp and Franky. Zoro often found himself impressed by your skills, watching you perform to lively music happily composed on the spot by Brook, the sheer concentration you held earning a deep, unwavering respect from the swordsman. Eventually, Zoro began to pay closer attention to you/ First it was the way you shared different smiles with those around you; the bright ones that made your eyes crinkle shut as you laughed with Luffy, the calm, gentle grins you mimicked with Robin as you both spoke over tea on deck, the coy smirks you’d throw at Sanji when he swooned over you, and the sheepish smiles you’d give Brook when he complimented your practiced routines after finished sets, just to name a few. His favorites were the ones that you’d share with him, however. When Zoro’s around, he sees you visibly relax more, his eyes noting that you’d let him see you at your most natural, your attention on him feeling easy, feeling right, and the matching cast of expressions stilling a strange twist in his chest he got when you were with someone like Sanji. He even noticed you hanging around more when he was training, the attention feeling good. You brought in another sense of comforting routine, until a simple question hit him out of left field.

“Why don’t you let me teach you how I dance?” You asked one day, making Zoro shift his attention to you out of the corner of his eye. “I think you’d have fun.” That gave Zoro pause for a moment, the swordsman placing the weights he was using down to fully face you, his face painted in bewilderment. “Why would I do that?” “For fun?” “No. I don’t think so,” Zoro spoke, shaking his head and folding his arms over his chest. You pouted slightly before shrugging and getting to your feet. “Oh well, I guess I’ll just leave you with your shoddy footwork,” you quipped, a smirk playing on your lips while you made your way to the crow’s nest entrance. You knew you had him hooked. “Hey! What do you mean shoddy?!” Zoro barked, moving to catch up to you. You looked at him over your shoulder with a shrug. “Just saying, you might wanna focus on your footwork. The world’s future greatest swordsman needs to be kept up in top shape,” you spoke, brushing Zoro off, much to his annoyance. “I mean, I could teach you an effective way to improve, but you wouldn’t be interested.” “What’s that supposed to mean?” “What I’m saying is that I could help you improve your footwork, but you won’t like how.” “If you think you can show me a better way to improve, I’d like to see it,” Zoro huffed, reaching out and grasping your shoulder with his heavy palm. You flashed him a smile, one that made his stomach feel strange. “Hope you like cardio.” In a flash, the two of you were on the deck of the Sunny, the warm rays of sunshine bathing over you two as you demonstrated the forms for your routine, gently guiding and correcting Zoro’s stances with a patience unlike he’s ever seen you carry over to others. He could swear you were somehow calmer than Robin as you took him through each step of the dance you had performed countless times, the attention feeling charged between you somehow. Each brush of your hand seemed to electrify his skin and make a strange ache in his chest appear while simultaneously leaving Zoro craving more of it. It was both revolting and addicting, the combating feelings that surged through him clashing like sharpened blades. “Excellent stance, Zoro, it’s perfect!” Your voice snapped him out of his strange daze, his tunnel vision focus returning swiftly. He grunted in response as you beamed at him. “It’s not that difficult, anyone could do this,” he huffed. You smirked at him once more. “Oh, really?” you spoke, placing your hands on your hips. “Let’s try doing all of this to tempo now.” “Yohoho!” Brook chortled, happily strolling over to both you and Zoro at the signal of your hand, violin perched on his shoulder and bow clutched in his boney phalanges. “From the top!” You were pleased to see Zoro struggling to copy your fluid movements, it was quite the sight!

Vinsmoke Sanji

Ever the romantic, Sanji always found the act of a romantic dance filling some part of his dreams among the usual thoughts of Nami and Robin and recipe ideas he’d love to try out to win their hearts. It was just in his very nature to try and be as charming as he could be after the rushes of excitement in his blood died down, throwing on a cool smile and spouting soft, flirtatious words at whatever beauty managed to capture his attention. You and Sanji both joined the crew around the same time that Luffy, Usopp, Zoro and Nami all arrived at, and subsequently nearly destroyed, the Baratie. You, bright eyed and utterly stunning, were a scrambling, stuttering mess of a waitress desperately trying to fulfil the expectations set upon you by Zeff, and frankly, you weren’t meeting his expectations. It was almost nostalgic looking back at those days and as he saw you now, Sanji couldn’t take his eyes off you. Your bright, outgoing smile captured his heart as he felt the familiar rush of joy flood his system. You’d grown so much over the time you both sailed with Luffy and the crew, and seeing the side effects of that progress was like looking directly at the sun; warm, brilliant and blinding. You were all supposed to be docking at another island, and according to Usopp, it looked like the place was populated and gearing up for a festival. Any suspicions were confirmed as the Thousand Sunny pulled into port, the locals welcoming them with open arms to share in the spirit of generosity, everyone truly wishing to spread the very rare goodwill. Luffy, as expected, was ecstatic and instantly reciprocated. Nightfall came, and the lights of the lanterns and street poles filled the cobblestone streets, tall tiki style torches illuminating the beach where the heart of the festival took place. Sanji was in heaven as he took in the sight of so many beautiful women clad in their beachwear, compliments pouring from his mouth like a waterfall. Standing at the sidelines of the celebration, you watched the blond chef flirt and woo numerous women, the sight leaving a bad taste in your mouth. You had been wanting to try and see if Sanji would be willing to share a dance with you, and you’d been building your courage up bit by bit throughout the day. You loved dancing, you always felt so free whenever Brook or Chopper or Usopp let you hang around and try out different moves with them, often ending up in a tangled pile of limbs and laughter. Watching him get so distracted by other women, however, you felt any confidence beginning to crumble. You shook your head, washing away your thoughts.

You took a deep breath before strutting into the fray, making your way to Usopp, who was happily telling his stretchy stories to an awed crowd of locals, the look of wonder filling their beings being endlessly amusing to you as you knew the truth and Usopp was a rather terrible liar in your opinion. You started laughing, your smile returning and catching the attention of the blond lovecook. Everything seemed to brighten for Sanji the moment his eyes grazed a glimpse of that smile you bore, the world and other women becoming a bit duller compared to you. His gaze never left your form as you floated about the party before your eyes met and you swiftly made your way to him. “Sanji!” you cheered, stepping in front of him and taking his hands in yours, soon tugging him to follow you towards the makeshift dance floor. “C’mon, dance with me!” Sanji felt his heart crawl into his throat as he wordlessly followed you, trying to keep his composure. Where you happily moved and twirled to the music provided, Sanji followed after in time, easily stepping into the mold set before him for the roadmap of your movements. He couldn’t say this didn’t graze his ideal of a beautiful, romance fueled swing or even a hot, tension filled tango, but he couldn’t say he didn’t fully enjoy this experience with you. The night wore on, and things were slowing down, the tempo of the music dropping as the crowd began to trickle back inland. Sanji had lost track of both time and you. He figured you must have wandered off after he closed his eyes for a moment too long, your figure being swept away in the crowd. He couldn’t find you on the beach, and when rudely questioning Zoro, he learned you had left to catch your breath further inland. Sanji wasted no time searching for you, looking up and down the cobblestone pathways and streets until he found you alone on a bench, looking up at the stars. You looked peaceful under the light of the moon, and once more Sanji was captivated. 

Moving closer, he cleared his throat, throwing on a cool smile as he approached you. You turned to look at him as soon as you heard the sound. “Hey.” “Hey, couldn’t find you back on the beach.” “Oh, sorry, I got a little overwhelmed. I wanted a bit of quiet,” you explained weakly. “Mind if I join you?” Sanji asked. You smiled weakly, leading him to come sit beside you on the bench. Sanji looked up at the stars above you both. “It’s a beautiful night.” “Yeah, I guess it is…” “Are you alright?” “Yeah, ‘M fine, just…” you sighed, trying to steady yourself. “You seemed like you were having fun, why’d you look for me?” “Because I wanted to make sure you were okay. You mean a lot to me, you know,” Sanji replied, his flirtatious mask falling in favor of a semi-serious exterior. “I’m fine, like I said, but I guess, I dunno, you looked like you were having more fun around those other women.” “I was having fun, but I still enjoy my time with you. You’re every bit as lovely as any of those other beauties, you know. You’re like an angel; warm, beautiful and sweet,” Sanji said, directing his gaze to you, his visible eye filled with warmth. It made you ache. “Not really...I couldn’t even ask you to dance like a normal person, I just sort of…dragged you away into it.” “I didn’t mind! I loved it,” Sanji exclaimed, placing a hand over one of yours. “Although, if you still wanted to ask, I wouldn’t be opposed.” “But there’s no music or-” “Hush. Listen closely.”

Silence swept over the two of you, the sounds of the sea and distance tunes of a slower song filling the air blanketing over you both, causing your face to warm. “Oh,” you spoke, face warming as your mind caught up to your racing heart. You awkwardly cleared your throat and looked up at Sanji, a shy smile on your face. “Uhm, would…would you like to dance with me, Sanji?” He certainly knew you didn’t need to answer with nothing more than a nod before pulling you close. Sanji swifty slotted you against him, one hand placing itself on your lower back to pull you closer whilst his other took your hand in his, your free palm resting itself on his shoulder as he slowly began to sway. You followed him perfectly, your eyes never leaving him as you felt a trance wash over you. Sanji was a man that breathed romance and longing, it came naturally to him, and the romantic dance he was sharing with you displayed this trait perfectly as you both became lost in one another.

Soul King Brook

You and Brook blended together perfectly; a dancer from the warm islands of the South Blue, a musician from the tides of the West Blue, it felt as though you both were destined to intercept one another in a beautiful courtship ever since you stepped foot on the Thousand Sunny. All Brook wishes for is that he had met you sixty years sooner, then he could’ve been the man he honestly felt you deserved, with flesh and muscle aiding in his capabilities to show his sheer adoration for you. The skeletal musician expressed as such to you, and you gleefully chased those thoughts away with honey sweet words, warm hands on his skull and a loving kiss to his teeth before shepherding him into a sweeping swing number that always melted his nonexistent heart. Brook always counted his lucky stars whenever he was able to see you dance; it was your trade accompanied by a pretty voice befitting a siren’s croon when you sang along to the melodies he spun. He felt so lucky your little musical family was more than happy to see you off as the crew set sail away from your home island, all of them cheering for you to write and live well alongside him and his crewmates. Another day was passing as Brook listened to your voice float gently beside the notes he worked from his violin, your eyes closed and hands resting just below your throat from the barrel you claimed as your perch. The skeletal musician couldn’t help but find himself wandering through the sound of your voice, his reverie only broken by a sharp, misplaced rub of his bow and slip of his finger, causing you to falter and look at him with wide eyes. You staggered a giggle before breaking out in laughter, Brook joining in soon after. “You’re losing yourself again, maestro,” you teased, getting up and taking a few short steps to stand before your lover. “It would seem so, my muse,” Brook replied, tucking his beloved violin and bow to his chest to free his other hand and lovingly brush the tips of his phalanges over your cheekbone. “But could you really blame this old pile of bones? Why, you’re singing so sweetly you could raise the dead! Yohoho!”

Brook felt a joyful warmth spread deep through the marrow when he saw you laugh and reach for him. He gave pause when you plucked his prized instrument from his arm and placed them where you previously sat, turning back to him with a glimmer in your eye. Brook’s slightly hunched posture, born from curiosity, instantly straightened when you held out your hand to him. “Well, can your dear muse have this dance with the dead?” you asked, earning yourself another laugh from Brook. “You hardly need to ask, dearest,” he replied, easily taking your much smaller hand in his own, both of you swiftly stepping closer and beginning to fall into step, Brook expertly guiding you like he’s nearly always done, the world feeling as though it was melting away until all that could paint its canvas being the colors of your love. You looked up at Brook’s face, eyes trailing over every crevice the bones revealed to you among the wild mane that he forever wore. You cracked a humored smile. “Hm? Now just what is going through your mind, lovely?” “Oh, just the first few times we tried dancing together,” you answered, a delighted titter leaving your frame as you were gracefully twirled and pulled back to Brook’s side. “We were both so clumsy, trying to learn how to place and balance ourselves!” “Yohoho! Indeed we were! I certainly wasn’t used to a small, young thing like yourself wanting to sway with me!” Brook chortled. “Always wanting to lead was also quite fun to counter,” you felt heat creep up your face as you looked away in embarrassment as your skeletal love pulled you ever closer to him, leaning in to whisper into your ear. “You were quite the fun little challenge, muse.”

You let out a squeal after his whisper ghosted over your ear, a sharp pinch to your thigh helping ground you both back into the moment. You barked out a laugh as you pushed Brook back, the dead man stumbling as he cackled at your reaction. He knew you didn’t mind, you hardly ever did. “You little sneak!” You laughed, looking up at brook with narrowed eyes and a sharp smile, voice holding no real bite. “How dare you toy with me! I’m just your vulnerable, little muse! Your sweet dancer, your beloved siren!” Brook let out another chortle as he bowed to you, taking your hand in his and bringing it close to his teeth. “That you are, my dear. All those things and so much more,” he cooed, affection dancing in his tone before you felt the chilled, smooth press of bone against the warmth of your knuckles. “I do hope you can find it in your heart to forgive this smitten soul king.” You couldn’t stop the gentle expression that bloomed over your features, your heart fluttering like the graceful wings of a butterfly to match. “I could never stay too angry with a gentleman like you, I suppose,” you said, meeting your eyes to empty sockets. “Though, I would like you to make it up to me.” “And how may I do that, my dear?” “I think you know how, lovely,” you hummed, Brook letting out a soft ‘yohoho’ with your antics. He swiftly followed your thoughts, twirling you and sweeping you away in yet another dance, one that only you two could truly feel the music and vocals within your very souls.

First Son of the Sea Jinbe

The calm in your storm is how you would describe Jinbe. He always had a way of dragging you back down to Earth should your thundering thoughts ever send you into orbit, acting as your guide whenever you find yourself lost in the sea of a starless sky within your mind. Gentle, strong, comforting, warm, Jinbe was perhaps everything you could ever dream of having in a lover and more. It had to definitively be more given the added grace that Jinbe was attempting to carry in this awkward sway you both found yourselves in. Keyword: attempting. Deep in the night while the ship was docked and the others were on shore unwinding and enjoying themselves, you and the towering fishman were on deck, a dial emitting soft music over the dimly lit areas that populated the Thousand Sunny, the pair of you pressed close together and awkwardly trying to dance along to the romantic ambiance that you curated. Jinbe had one hand resting on your shoulder, the other carefully cradling the back of your head, your own hands resting on his much broader chest, the size difference between you two being terribly stark in this position. You never minded such a thing, you always saw just how much of a gentle giant your beloved could be, the way he carried himself and treated others being a tipping point that sent your heart overboard. Such a characteristic shone brighter than the sun with how carefully Jinbe touches you. You looked up into the beautiful purple eyes that decorated Jinbe’s features, his expression softening as he watched your growing smile glow in the soft lights around you both. Jinbe felt himself falling in love all over again whenever you look at him this way; like he had just hung your moon and stars, like he was the only person in the world, like he was all yours. And he was, and always would be. When you first brought up this little idea for a simple date for you two, Jinbe found himself unsure, as his life was dedicated to being that of a trained warrior, not a man meant to glide across a ballroom floor. Several times throughout the weeks at sea he had to remind himself that you would not be disappointed in him for failing to perfect a simple box step, you’d just look at him like you do now, beaming with delight that he simply put in the effort to try and learn a few basic steps. His heart was racing against his ribcage as he held your gaze, hoping you couldn’t feel it beneath your delicate fingertips. The potential of potentially embarrassing himself in front of you paled to the weight lying within his mind. 

The music shifted, so did Jinbe, trying to direct you as gracefully as he could, trying to hold that vision you held of him and had told him of so long ago. “You’re my rock, Jinbe,” you uttered softly into the night, your gaze fixed solidly on the ocean, eyes missing that light that had initially captivated the fishman. “You…make things feel okay. Like I can breathe even though I’m drowning.” “Do you often feel that way, little one?” “Yeah…But…” you take a breath, steadying yourself. “It’s different with you. You feel safe. Safer than the others. Don’t get me wrong, they’re wonderful, but…I don’t feel as…I don’t feel as connected to them as I do to you. You’re just different, in a good way.” Jinbe stared at you for a long while before you started speaking again. “You’re like the calm in my storm.” The night you told him that, he knew he felt the same. His own mind echoed for him to give until he could not offer anymore, demanding he scrounge up more and be the one to turn to, you included, but you never hesitated to offer what you could to him in return, and for ages now he only truly accepted your help, your aid, he always reached for you first, slowly taking the other hands extended to him by the other crew members. He relished in being a person you could rely on to bring you back to reality, and returning the favor, even in ways as small as gifting you his heart and sharing this dance with you made him feel warm. Yet it still did nothing for his nerves, even as he began to slip into smoother glides and sways to the music, leading you with his movements and practically making stars dance in your irises in sync with them. As the music began to fade, Jinbe found himself standing on the lawn of the Sunny, a contented you resting in his arms. You let out a pleased sigh as you moved your head to rest your cheek against the slightly exposed skin of his chest, resting just above the sun that marked his skin. “That was perfect, Jinbe,” you breathed, your voice carried away by the gentle wind and wrapping around his heart like a vice. Jinbe couldn’t back out, not after spending so much time living in his own head, replaying the many ways his question could be answered. He took a deep breath, garnering your attention once more as you stared up at him with a curious hum. “Thank you, my pearl. I also enjoyed our waltz,” he spoke softly, moving a hand to cup your cheek as he took a step back from you, the residual moonlight coupling with the dim glow of candle fires that still burned, bathing you in a glow Jinbe could only describe as bewitching. “However, I do feel the need to ask a favor of you.”

“What do you need, love? You can ask me anything.” Any more words you had died on your tongue as you witness Jinbe step back further, the man getting down on one knee to be eye level with you while plucking something from an inner pocket on his coat, the small box being a familiar sight you’ve only read about. Presenting his hand to you, box cradled in his massive palm, Jinbe takes another deep breath, his eyes staring deeply into the confines of your very being. “My pearl, would you do me the honor of allowing me to be by your side until the end of time?” Tears sprung to your eyes as you nodded, and Jinbe opened the box, revealing a simple ring with a pearl nestled beside two small rubies on a beautiful golden band. With a relieved, and overjoyed smile, he carefully slipped the ring on your finger and allowed you to pull him into a kiss, the mutual happiness rolling off the two of you in waves. Another dial was set, the music starting as Jinbe pulled you up into his grasp, your feet dangling over the tops of his own as he began to dance with you again, contended and delighted that he could forever be the calm in your storm and you could be the anchor in his sea.

[yugsly]

Today is David Lynch's birthday, it's been 4 days since he has passed. His family requested that fans around the world take 10 minutes at 12-noon today, to sit quietly and reflect about him, his work, and how it may have impacted you. Meditate. And so I did. And I realized, without his work, I have no idea where I would be today. There would have been no Ah, He's Sick! without his influence- and without Ah, He's Sick!, my dev partner & wonderful friend Day would have never found my work. We would have never met, never became friends, there would have been no Smile For Me. There would have been no GREAT GOD GROVE. Without a doubt, no Be Kind, My Neighbor either. Donut Canyon wouldn't have taken shape the way it had. Perhaps it would have never gotten picked up by Cartoon Network, I never would have moved to LA at that time with my friends, met all those people out there, had all those adventures. I would have never met my partner, Val, whom I love with all my heart, who I've been with for almost 5 years now. Where would I be now, I wonder? Lynch's influence was so powerful for a younger Yugo. I said before, seeing his work for the first time felt like a missing piece had finally been found. He gave me the tools to express my abstract feelings, my abstract feelings of love for life & the world, to to seek goodness, that there is prevailing happiness underneath it all. That there is real evil, too, fear. And we can't pretend it isn't out there- man is capable of twisting life into hate. But that there is nothing more powerful than love, being alive, the indominable human spirit. We should all have a chance to experience that. That ideas come from a special beautiful place inside us all, something cosmic, ethereal. Storytelling doesn't need to be objective, diegetic, it is a an idea that you give feelings. And when people see those feelings, they can look within themselves, and hold onto their own feelings & interpretation of that idea. And it's beautiful. That's what art is all about. I really wouldn't be who I am today without David Lynch and his work. Absolutely no exaggeration. I can't thank him enough :)

[heartlilith]

Jupiter & Luck in the Houses

1st House: When Jupiter is in the 1st house, your confidence, charisma, and positivity are enhanced. You attract opportunities effortlessly because of who you are. People are drawn to your positivity and optimism, bringing luck and fortune in all aspects of life. Networking and meeting new people are bound to bring you opportunity. 

2nd House: Jupiter in the 2nd house brings luck in your finances and self-worth. When you are generous, confident, and creative, abundance will find its way into your life. Make sure what you believe in and your values align with the way you gain money, as Jupiter can expand things in a negative way as well if all you focus on is material. 

3rd House: With Jupiter in the 3rd house, your intellect, communication skills, and relationships with siblings are important in finding luck and fortune in your life. Luck comes easily through networking, when you’re learning, and when you share your ideas with others. Through communication and learning, fortune will find you. 

4th House: In the 4th house, Jupiter blesses your home and family. You may come from a stable and financially secure home life, or could create one as an adult. Fortune here could be living in a large house or having kids that enhance your quality of life. When you create harmony and invest in your family, luck and fortune will knock at your door. 

5th House: Jupiter in the 5th house brings luck through creativity, self-expression, and love. Through artistic projects, romance, children, or just having fun, opportunities and luck will arise. Taking risks and following your heart will amplify the qualities that Jupiter brings to this house. 

6th House: When Jupiter is in the 6th house in the natal chart, opportunities for luck and growth come through work, health, and routine. When you follow a routine that satisfies you as well as being of service to others, abundance will find you. Take care of yourself and your health, and watch your life flourish.  You could receive recognition or promotions at work with Jupiter stationed here. 

7th House: Jupiter in the 7th house influences your relationships, bringing luck through one on one connections, whether they are romantic, platonic, or related to business. You could effortlessly attract supportive and generous people into your life, and collaborations with others are usually rewarding. You attract people who add something special to your life. 

8th House: Here, Jupiter brings fortune through shared finances or through other people’s money. When you lean in to topics that interest you, even if they’re considered taboo, you will be rewarded. After periods of transformation, hardship, and growth, you will find opportunities and luck waiting for you. Finding deeper meaning in things and trusting in something higher than yourself will bring you fortune. 

9th House: With the 9th house being Jupiter’s natural home, this energy amplifies the planet’s expansion. Luck comes through travel, learning, and spiritual growth. Exploring new perspectives, learning about other people’s cultures, and seeking higher truths brings rewards and abundance. 

10th House: Jupiter in the 10th house of a natal chart brings success in career along with a strong, positive, reputation. Opportunities for promotion, leadership, or even fame are likely. Using your natural optimism, generosity, and thirst for knowledge to your professional life will be rewarded with luck and even more opportunity. 

11th House: When Jupiter is stationed in the natal 11th house, luck comes from others as well as group activities and clubs. By being authentic to who you are, your talents, and your interests, you will be surrounded by like-minded people. Through these people, you can find exciting opportunities or even create success through collaboration. Friendships and creating a sense of community play a key role in attracting luck. 

12th House: Jupiter in the 12th house brings blessings in the form of spiritual insight, healing, and hidden support. This placement screams “divinely guided” and “protected by the Universe”. The Universe has your back, always. Try finding numbers that pop into your life, more often than they should. Watch when you go after your dreams, how the Universe supports you. Pray, meditate, and connect with your higher self. When you recognize the Universe, practice gratitude, and honor your intuition, you will receive abundance. 

Patreon

[girasois]

words for users !

ideias de palavras aleatórias para ajudar você a criar seu próprio user;

random ideas of words to help you to create your own user.

core -> aesthetic core

vlog -> daily videos

logs -> daily facts

mp3 -> audio file format

m4p -> apple audio file format

mp4 -> video file format

txt -> text format

jpeg -> image file format

jpg -> image file format

png -> image file format

gif -> animated file format

raw -> uncompressed file format

zip -> compressed archive file format

rar -> compressed archive file format

web -> internet file format

doc -> document file

pdf -> document file

vinyl -> phonograph record

film -> motion picture; photography

user -> person who utilizes a computer or network service

i2 -> "keeping it real"

self -> a person's essential being

itself -> a person's essential being

priv -> private

luv -> love's short form

tale -> a fictitious or true narrative or story

archive -> to place or store (something) in an archive

list -> connected items

tier -> a type of hierarchy

talk -> speak in order to express something

chat -> to have a conversation

post -> to announce or publish something

zone -> a subject to particular restrictions

vie -> life in french

tie -> to form a knot or bow in

on/online -> connected to a network

byte -> a group of binary digits 

bits -> a small piece, part, or quantity of something

ram -> hardware in a computing device

8bit -> computer term used to designate either color depth

pixel -> a minute area of illumination on a display screen

data -> things known or assumed as facts

series -> a number of things, events, or people of a similar kind

village -> a self-contained community within a town or city

lab -> a laboratory

lady -> a woman

miss -> a form of address to a woman

mister -> a form of address to a man

error -> something not found

art -> the various branches of creative activity

petit -> small in french

poet -> a person possessing special powers of imagination or expression

thing -> an object without a specific name

stuff -> a vague reference to additional things

vogue -> the prevailing fashion or style at a particular time

tv -> taylor's version and/or television as a system or form of media

media -> the main means of mass communication

topia -> an imagined place or state of things in which everything is perfect

saur -> forming names of extinct reptiles such as dinosaurs

tune -> a melody, one that characterizes a particular piece of music

deun -> melody in deutsch

off/offline -> disconnected from the Internet

gloss -> shine or luster on a smooth surface

fae -> a fairy, in modern fantasy fiction

[novy2sirius]

᭓ ྀུ༺ a degree theory by nikola stojanovic

please read before proceeding

important note: this is not my info. this is all from nikola stojanovic’s theory on degrees in astrology. he has books on it that i think you can find online and download for free

trigger warnings: murder, car crashes, sex, and suicide

sign degrees

zero degrees: 0°

the same characteristics as the sign it’s already placed in. example - aries venus at 0° is purely an aries venus, obviously aside from the house energy

aries degrees: 1°, 13°, and 25°

beginnings, leadership, taking action, fighting spirit, not giving oneself up to fate, struggle, war, abuse, labor, diligence, etc

taurus degrees: 2°, 14°, and 26°

food, money, stability, earth, luxuries, sound of voice, singing voice, etc

gemini degrees: 3°, 15°, and 27°

communication, self-expression, technology, books, siblings, neighbors, etc

cancer degrees: 4°, 16°, and 28°

home, traditions, nurture, loyalty, faith, mother, the ocean/water, etc

leo degrees: 5°, 17°, and 29°

life, children, attention, fame, creativity, strength, happiness, light, etc

virgo degrees: 6° and 18°

improvement, health, to diminish, routine, animals, acts of service, etc

libra degrees: 7° and 19°

harmony/fairness, charm, beauty, law, music, art, dancing, pleasures, etc

scorpio degrees: 8° and 20°

death, major transformation, wealth, jealousy, sex, secrecy, taxes, etc

sagittarius degrees: 9° and 21°

wisdom, abundance, college, travel, photography, success, beliefs, etc

capricorn degrees: 10° and 22°

hard work, fear, public attention, karma, father, boss, isolation, history, etc

aquarius degrees: 11° and 23°

unexpected experiences, technology, friendships, networking, divorce, etc

pisces degrees: 12° and 24°

spirituality, escapism, dreams, illusion, the sea, mysteries, the hidden, etc

special degree meanings

supreme power: 2°

this degree is often found in the charts of people with remarkable achievements, who had extreme power, and who were highly respected according to nikola’s research

eroticism/a fun life: 5°

many sex symbols like marilyn monroe have this in their chart. nikola believed this was the best degree in general as well. he thought it indicated lots of fun and pleasure in one’s life

suicide/divorce: 11° and 23°

according to nikola the aquarius degrees (11 and 23) both indicate divorce occurring when placed in prominent positions in the chart. 11 is the only one indicating suicide though

car accidents: 15°

nikola believed that when this degree was connected to 8th house or scorpio placements it could indicate getting into car crashes

pure evil: 18°

nikola believed that this degree indicated a negative destiny for someone. he thought it was the worst degree you could have in your chart, based on his research he thought it was solely about facing hardships and nothing more. he also believed it could indicate being an evil person with no good intentions

to kill or be killed: 22°

just as the title reads, nikola believed this degree indicates being killed or being a killer. another thing he believed it could indicate was abandonment in the area of life it’s placed

clairvoyance: 29°

nikola believed this degree indicates someone that has very good intuition and can make accurate predictions about the outcomes of events

my opinion on astrology degrees

i personally don’t believe in nikola’s theory 100%, although i do think there’s accuracy to the signs being associated with specific degrees. i have always had stronger belief in my numerstrology degree theory than anything when it comes to this subject though. i definitely do not believe 18° is fully negative like he claims since the universe is yin yang so there’s always both positive and negative ways things can manifest. these are just my thoughts though

do you believe nikola’s degree theory? comment below!

[justjensenanddean]

How to achieve work life balance? Jensen is fortune that he really loves what he does, so it doesn’t feel like work. It‘s an artistic expression. He gets a lot of joy out of it. Only downside is not being in 2 places at once. Fam gives him so much joy 2. You always need more time, so make sure 2 be present (x)

Best gift? Jensen loves the photo albums he‘s gotten that collect his cons or jobs through the years. Lots of talented people in fandom. Takes him down memory lane in a beautiful way. (x)

Exec producing, one positive, one negative experience? Jensen: positive is the collaboration early on, the mission before the script, collaborating with other artists & creative minds. Downside: dealing with the studio & network, who also have opinions. (x) The most frustrated & the most vocal Jensen got during The Winchesters was them not signing Drake, but stringing him along forever & making him do chemistry reads for Mary without him having the role secured yet. (x)

The dumbest way Jensen has ever gotten injured (reprise from 14)? Hopped onto a wet, curved planter in the dark while waiting for a cab because he didn’t realize it was curved. Has a chin scar from that. cab driver didn’t take him bc of the blood, had to call an ambulance (x)

(lizzie2110)

Panel 2

Jensen explains that sometimes the stars of shows burn bright but flame out quickly, but there’s the journeymen who work continuously. They‘re the backbone of the industry. There should be a special oscar ceremony just for them. He likes to consider himself one, Rob is one (x)

Question about ad libbing. It was encouraged on Countdown and Jensen really got to play. The rest of the cast was ready. A big reward for him is when the crew laughs at one of his lines. (x)

He also got freedom on Tracker. Justin Hartley is one of the funniest people he knows. Elwood said „what I wrote is just a suggestion, go play“. Justin has to play straight on it, but understands Comedy so well. (x)

There‘s also a lot of things that Soldier Boy has said that weren’t scripted. He can’t tell us what because that would tell us too much about him. (x)

The different ways to explain masturbation in Gen V was suppose to be one line… it ended up a split of Jensen and Kripke as they tried to outdo each other (x)

It takes Jensen and 2 costume people to put on the Soldier Boy suit. He can’t sit down in it because of the breast plate. He‘s wearing compression pants and a compression shirt underneath it. (x)

Jensen didn’t have a lot of dialogue last week, Kripke was mostly there for other people and cameos. On Gen V he and Kripke workshopped together and the crew couldn’t decide so they kept three takes in cut together. (x)

Was Jensen a teacher‘s pet or a troublemaker? He asks what grade. 1st to 4th he talked too much & was rambunctious. When he got older & in high school he was the teacher‘s pet, "just because I worked the system" (x)

(KeepFrmDrowning)

Jensen Ackles | JIBCon 2025 (Rome, April 5, 2025)

[that-hazbin]

I have some HCs from twitter I'd like to transfer here, so pspspsps come get some food

Alastor hung out with women who liked to seduce their way to success, and inadvertently picked up their body language. When he was alive, many people thought that he was intentionally seducing men and women alike, which had landed him in some hot water once or twice. There is a DIRECT correlation between this and Vox's One-sided Psychosexual Obsession with him. He is not doing it on purpose and he has no idea what his body language comes across as.

Alastor has Uber Autism, specifically the kind where he needs to listen to the same exact song 379 times before he is satisfied. Dying and going to hell was an absolute delight because he no longer has to uphold standard broadcasting procedure, and instead can do whatever the fuck he wants. Everyone in Hell believes he's attempting to torture them when he plays Duke Ellington's "It Don't Mean a Thing (If It Ain't Got That Swing)" for the 67th time. He's not, he genuinely just loves playing the same song over and over. (He also loves that magic can prevent his records from wearing out so quickly.)

Alastor likes to divulge the Deep Lore to Angel because he knows no one will EVER believe him. It does not bother him at all that Angel knows things about him that no one else does, because Angel ALSO hates the Vees and therefore is very unlikely to go around spilling any of it to anyone outside their mutual circle of merry misfits. And, again, no one would believe him anyways.

Alastor is hyperaware of other people's facial expressions, and believes this is normal, which is why he controls his own facial expressions so obsessively. He thinks it's a universal behavior to hyper analyze facial expressions and guess what goes on in people's heads that way. He has yet to figure out that it's not, even after a near century in Hell.

Vaggie reminds Alastor of Susan. He vaguely believes that if he ever pointed out the similarities to Charlie, it could possibly ruin their relationship. Which is pretty cruel even for him, so he'll be keeping his mouth shut.

Alastor built the entire radio network in Hell. Before he arrived, Hell was actually pretty far behind technologically. People were too busy suffering. Luckily for them, Alastor is Autistic and his special interest is Radio. Nothing will stop this man from indulging in his passions.

[kaces-graham-crackers]

To Die For - Halloween Special

Monster Hunter Wednesday Addams x Werewolf Reader

Summary: Y/N, a lone werewolf, finds themself hunted by none other than Wednesday Addams of the infamous Addams Family—but this isn’t a typical chase. Wednesday wants to understand them. As they set a trap for a darker creature lurking in the woods, alliances blur, and both hunter and hunted face more than they bargained for.

Word count: 5.5k

The air was thick with the scent of pine and rain as you moved through the dense forest, your breath coming in sharp bursts. The moon was high, hidden behind clouds, but you didn't need its light. Every instinct and nerve in your body was attuned to the woods around you, heightened by the curse coursing through your veins.

You stopped, catching a scent—something unfamiliar, cold. It wasn't the usual wildlife or the damp earth. It was different. And it was close. You knew what it meant. They'd sent someone after you. And that someone was closer than you expected.

A figure stood on the edge of the clearing, watching with an intensity that made the hair on the back of your neck rise. Dressed in all black, she was still as stone, her pale skin almost ghostly in the shadowed forest. Her eyes, dark and calculating, were locked on you. She wasn't afraid, and she wasn't here to run. She was here for you.

Wednesday Addams.

You'd heard the name whispered through the underground networks of the supernatural. A hunter—someone who sought out the monsters that lurked in the shadows, just like you. Most avoided her, too afraid of her family's infamous reputation, but not you. You had faced far worse than a cold-hearted girl with a knack for finding trouble. And yet, something about her unnerved you. Without taking your eyes off her, you moved back a step, your pulse quickening. But Wednesday made no move to follow. She just stood there, her hands clasped neatly behind her back, as if she had all the time in the world to watch you squirm. "Running won't help you," she said, her voice low, almost a whisper. "I'll find you either way." You swallowed hard, your heart hammering in your chest. You'd outrun hunters before. But something told you Wednesday wasn't like the others. This wasn't just a hunt. It was a game to her. "I'm not in the mood for games," you growled, your voice low and rough as you fought against the pull of the full moon's power creeping under your skin. Wednesday's expression remained unchanged, her gaze gleaming in the dark. "Who said anything about games?" You weren't sure what it was about her—her calm, almost detached demeanor or how she watched you with that piercing gaze—but it made you uneasy. And yet, there was something else, too. Something that made your chest tighten in a way you didn't want to acknowledge.

But before you could say anything more, Wednesday took a step forward, closing the distance between you in one swift motion. "I'm not here to kill you," she said softly, her voice cutting through the tension like a knife. "Not yet." The unspoken implication hung in the air, thick and heavy. You clenched your fists, fighting the instincts rising within you—the urge to run, fight, and protect yourself. "Then what do you want?" you demanded, your voice sharper than you intended. Wednesday tilted her head slightly, her dark eyes fixed on yours with a calculating gleam. "I'm here to observe you." Her words stopped you cold. You'd expected a fight, a chase, something far more dangerous. But curiosity? Curiosity from someone like her? That was something you hadn't prepared for. You narrowed your eyes, trying to gauge her intention. "Observe me?" you repeated, disbelief lacing your voice. "What am I? A science experiment to you?" Wednesday's gaze remained unwavering, unreadable. "Something like that."

The forest seemed to still be around you, the air thick with tension. You felt the full moon's pull lurking just beneath your skin, a dangerous reminder of what you were. But Wednesday stood there, completely unphased, her calm presence unsettling. "And what happens when you've finished your little study?" you asked, your voice low, challenging. Wednesday's eyes flickered, but her expression remained controlled. "That depends on what I find." You let out a slow breath, realizing you wouldn't get a straightforward answer from her. Not yet, anyway. She was too clever, too controlled. The mystery of her intentions hung in the air, thick and unspoken, but it was clear this wasn't the usual hunt. Why me?" you asked, trying to keep your voice steady despite the gnawing unease crawling up your spine. Wednesday took another step forward, her gaze sharp and unwavering. "You're different. I don't hunt monsters just because they exist. I hunt them because they interest me. And you, well… you're fascinating." The word "fascinating" sent a shiver down your spine. It wasn't exactly comforting to know you were the subject of her twisted intrigue. But there was something else in how she said it as if she saw something far beneath your surface. "Different, how?" you asked, narrowing your eyes.

Her gaze never wavered, studying you like she could dissect your essence with a glance. "You don't embrace what you are. Most werewolves lose themselves to their instincts, run wild and reckless." Her voice was calm and calculated. "You maintain control—calm, aware, even rational." You bristled at her words, unsure whether to feel insulted or complimented. She was correct; you didn't give in to the hunt as others did. While your instincts were just as strong, you managed to channel them, a level of restraint that had taken you years to develop. "I've observed creatures like you before. But none who... moderate themselves," Wednesday continued, her tone clinical. "A werewolf who seems determined to remain civil." She tilted her head slightly, eyes narrowing. "I wonder… just how far that control extends." Her words hit something deep within you, stirring a mix of pride and resentment. You knew what she meant. To a hunter, a monster was expected to behave predictably, to follow their instincts blindly. But you were neither fully human nor beast—which seemed to disturb her. "Curiosity can get you killed, Wednesday," you replied, your voice steady despite the underlying challenge. You should leave me alone. Wednesday's eyes darkened slightly, yet her expression remained as controlled as ever. "You don't really have a choice. I'm not leaving until I figure you out."

You clenched your fists at your sides, feeling the familiar heat rising in your chest as the moon's pull grew stronger. But despite the anger building inside you, there was something else—a strange pull toward her, like a dangerous curiosity of your own. She wasn't like the others who had come after you. She wasn't here to kill or capture. She was here to… understand. And somehow, that made her more dangerous. You took a step back, unsure of how to proceed. But Wednesday, ever the enigma, took the choice out of your hands.

"I'll be around," she said, her voice soft but with an edge. Turning on her heel, she disappeared into the forest's shadows, leaving you alone, heart racing, mind spinning. Watching. She'd be watching you.

Later that night, you prowled through the dense forest, your mind consumed by the routine of your werewolf form. Your senses were heightened—each sound crisp and clear—the rustling of leaves, the distant howl of a predator, the wind shifting through the trees. You moved fluidly, focused on tracking a small rabbit. Tonight was supposed to be like any other—no drama, no interruptions.

But something felt off.

You paused mid-step, your ears twitching as a strange scent drifted. It was sharp, unfamiliar, and sent a cold shiver down your spine. Instinctively, you crouched low, muscles tense, as you scanned your surroundings for the source. The forest had gone deathly silent. The wind shifted, carrying a low, guttural growl—deep and menacing. It wasn't coming from you. Your heart pounded as your eyes darted through the shadows. Just beyond the trees, something was moving. It was larger than anything you had encountered in these woods before. Its shape was indistinct, obscured by the darkness, but its eyes—glowing faint red—pierced through the black, locking onto you. You froze, every instinct screaming at you to back away. Whatever this was, it wasn't human. And it wasn't friendly. Before you could react, the creature lunged, crashing through the trees with feral speed that caught you off guard. You barely leaped aside in time, claws digging into the ground as you dodged its massive form. It landed heavily, the earth trembling beneath its weight. This thing—whatever it was—wasn't like you. It was something else entirely.

The creature turned to face you, its eyes gleaming a deep, unnatural crimson pulsing with intelligence you hadn't expected—cold, calculating, and predatory. It was far larger than any werewolf, its shape unnervingly twisted, with sinewy muscles and long, limbs that moved in an oddly graceful yet erratic manner. Completely furless, looking like it had mange. Under the dim moonlight, you could make out a distorted, warped form—a creature that seemed barely contained, as though it might burst from its own skin at any moment. And then it let out a low, rumbling growl that reverberated through the forest, vibrating through the ground beneath your feet. The sound wasn't just menacing; it was unearthly, like a warning echoing from another realm entirely. This was no ordinary beast. It felt ancient, primal, as though it had been born from something dark and forbidden, something meant to stay hidden in the forgotten parts of the world. And tonight, for reasons unknown, it had surfaced. You backed away slowly, your eyes locked onto the creature as it prowled closer, each step deliberate, its eyes tracking your every movement with an unsettling focus. But it didn't attack—at least, not yet.

Instead, it watched you, its gaze almost… knowing.

You backed away slowly, your eyes locked onto the creature as it prowled closer, each step deliberate, its eyes tracking your every movement with an unsettling focus. But it didn't attack—at least, not yet. Instead, it watched you, its gaze almost… knowing. Before you could react, the creature let out a guttural, almost amused growl, the kind that felt too close to a chuckle for comfort. The sound sent a shiver down your spine, and you braced yourself, baring your teeth, ready to lunge if it came any closer. But the creature merely tilted its head, those burning red eyes narrowing as if it were studying you. Then, to your shock, it spoke. "Don't listen to her," it snarled, the voice low, jagged, and disturbingly clear. "She's told that to the others." You stiffened, the words echoing in your mind as confusion and unease collided within you. Others? Who else had Wednesday hunted like this, and what did this beast know? Your pulse raced, the forest around you feeling darker, smaller, as if the creature's very presence warped reality. You fought to keep your voice steady, masking your unease with a low growl. "What are you?" The creature's grin widened, revealing rows of jagged teeth that gleamed in the faint moonlight. It moved closer, each step slow and deliberate, as if savoring the tension. "I'm what she can't control," it rasped, a sick enjoyment dripping from every word. "You think you're special, different—but she only tells you that to draw you in. To make you weak." It leaned forward, and you caught a faint, metallic scent that was sickeningly familiar.

The creature's breath was warm and rancid, tinged with something that made your stomach turn. Yet it was those eyes—those ancient, intelligent eyes—that held you captive, radiating a dark amusement. "Don't you see?" it continued, its voice now a mocking whisper. "When the time comes, I'll be there to help you. To tear her apart once and for all." A chill ran down your spine, the forest suddenly feeling claustrophobic as the creature's words echoed in your mind. It seemed to drink in your reaction, reveling in the tension between you. It knew something—something about Wednesday, about you—and it enjoyed every second of the torment it was sowing. You swallowed hard, fighting the urge to back away, your instincts warring with the questions churning in your mind. "Why are you telling me this?" The creature let out another rumbling chuckle, stepping back into the shadows, its shape beginning to blur as if it were part of the darkness itself. "You'll understand… soon." And just like that, it melted into the night, leaving you standing alone, heart pounding, and mind spinning with questions. What had just happened? And what did it mean?

Upon stumbling back to your cabin, you stopped in your tracks when you saw her—Wednesday—sitting at the small table, a notepad open in front of her filled with intricate notes and sketches. An entire observation kit was laid out beside her: crossbows, silver-tipped arrows, vials filled with strange liquids, tools crafted with a precision too deliberate for casual use.

Your heart raced, the shock of seeing her in your space sending your senses into overdrive. "How did you get in here?"you snapped, barely able to keep the irritation from your voice. "You need to leave."

Wednesday's gaze lifted, her expression impassive, unphased by your outburst. "I don't leave until I get what I came for."

Your mind reeled, the creature's words still fresh. "That thing out there—it mentioned you," you said, your voice harsher than intended.

Wednesday's eyes sharpened, her mouth setting into a line. "What did it say?"

You hesitated, those chilling words echoing in your mind. "It said… it said you'd told others the same thing. That I wasn't the only one." The knot in your stomach tightened. "Whatever you're doing here, it's not just about me."

For the briefest moment, a shadow of something crossed her face, but it was gone as quickly as it appeared. She closed her notepad and stood, her focus now entirely on you.

"That thing you encountered—it's a Hyde," she said, her voice cold yet steady. "A monster driven by pure chaos and destruction. It's been following me since Nevermore."

"A Hyde?" you repeated, confusion and intrigue mingling in your tone. 

Wednesday gestured to her open kit, pulling out a crossbow and a vial of poison with practiced ease.

You stared at the crossbow in her hand, your mind reeling as you absorbed everything she was saying. "Why didn't you tell me this before?"

"Because you didn't need to know," she replied matter-of-factly, loading the crossbow with a silver-tipped arrow. "Not until now."

Your chest tightened as you processed her words. She had known this whole time—about the creature, about the danger—and hadn't said a word.

Without missing a beat, Wednesday tossed you a small vial, and you caught it just in time. “Poison,” she said calmly, her gaze unflinching. “If the Hyde comes for you again, don’t hesitate. Use it.”

You stared at the vial, unease prickling your skin. “And what if I don’t get the chance?”

Her lips pressed into a thin line, and she took a step closer, her gaze intense. “That’s why I’m here.”

The weight of her words settled over you, your heart pounding as you tried to make sense of her sudden closeness, her cold commitment to a plan she hadn’t even shared with you. You stared at the vial in your hand, its weight feeling heavier than it should.

 The reality of what was happening settled over you like a thick fog. You didn't know if you could trust Wednesday, but her words rang with an unsettling truth. The creature—the Hyde—wasn't just some random beast. It was hunting Wednesday, and now you had inserted yourself into the middle of it.

"I still don't trust you," you muttered, eyes narrowing as you pocketed the vial.

Wednesday didn't flinch at your words. In fact, she seemed almost amused, the faintest hint of a smirk tugging at her lips. "You don't have to trust me," she replied, her voice cold and precise. "You just have to survive."

Then, to your surprise, Wednesday's hand lifted, fingers cool as she brushed them along your cheek. Her gaze remained detached, yet you saw the faintest flicker of something in her eyes—an intensity just beneath the surface.

"I wouldn't want my experiment to get hurt," she murmured, her voice steady and emotionless, though her touch lingered a moment longer than it should have. 

You blinked, stepping back to regain some distance, your heart racing as the weight of her words sank in. "This isn't just an experiment," you muttered, voice strained.

Wednesday's gaze remained locked on you, unwavering, assessing. She pocketed her crossbow, securing the kit with quick, calculated movements before returning to you. "Think what you want," she said coolly, her expression unreadable. "But if you hesitate, even once, it won't end well."

Wednesday glanced away, her focus shifting to the open path between the trees as though reading an invisible trail.

"We set a trap," she said, a note of finality in her tone. "Tonight, while it's still hunting. The Hyde will come."

You swallowed, feeling the weight of her plan settle over you, the reality of the danger clearer than before. "And what's the bait?" you asked, your voice low.

Wednesday's eyes flicked back to yours, her gaze calculating. "Us."

Hours later, Wednesday moved ahead, leading you through the dense trees until you reached a small clearing, moonlight spilling down to illuminate the space. The air felt still, a heavy quiet settling over the forest as you both stopped, sizing up the open area.

"This should do," Wednesday murmured, her voice low as she took in the surroundings, her hand brushing over the crossbow at her side. She moved with a calm intensity, arranging her equipment with a precision that left no room for doubt.

You followed her lead, every nerve tingling with anticipation. The clearing felt both vulnerable and strategic, a perfect place to draw out the creature—and for a moment, the gravity of the night settled over you.

Wednesday glanced back, her expression unreadable but her eyes glinting in the pale light. "Remember, it's watching. We need to make this look real."

You nodded, heart pounding as the scene took shape around you, the forest stretching out in every direction. Here, exposed under the open sky, there was nowhere to hide. Just you, Wednesday, and the beast that hunted you both.

Your pulse quickened, but you met her gaze, unwavering. "So, we just… wait for it?"

Wednesday's expression remained steady, almost clinical. "Not quite." She walked to the other end of the clearing, placing her kit down, spreading out items with meticulous precision—a few vials, silver-tipped bolts, and herbs that gave off a faint, sharp scent. Every tool seemed perfectly positioned, each a calculated step in her plan.

"We'll make it look real," she said, a faint chill in her voice. "A fight. The Hyde craves chaos, discord. It will be drawn to the scene."

The idea of faking a battle with Wednesday unnerved you, but as you nodded, your instincts braced for what was to come. The forest grew quieter around you, the night holding its breath.

"Ready?" you asked, your voice barely above a whisper.

Wednesday's eyes narrowed. "Always."

Without another word, you lunged at her, your hand outstretched to grab her arm. Wednesday moved like a shadow, sidestepping your attack with practiced ease, her expression unreadable. You gritted your teeth and spun around, aiming a low swipe toward her legs. She leapt back, her movements fluid, almost like a dance.

"You think this is all my fault, don't you?" Wednesday spat, her voice cold as ice. "You were always too weak to handle it."

The words hit you harder than you expected, and for a moment, they felt real. You growled, pushing aside the sting of her remark as you charged again, this time with more force. "Weak? You're the one who kept this from me!" you snapped, grabbing her by the collar and shoving her backward.

Wednesday stumbled slightly, but she recovered quickly, her eyes flashing with something dark. "I didn't owe you anything," she hissed, her hand shooting up to grab your wrist and twist it painfully. "You were always just a liability."

The pain in your wrist was sharp, but it only fueled your rage. You shoved her again, harder this time, and Wednesday retaliated by slamming her elbow into your side, knocking the wind out of you. The force of her blow sent you staggering, but you caught yourself, eyes blazing with anger.

"This is all on you!" you shouted, your voice carrying through the trees. You lunged forward, tackling her again, but this time, you grabbed her crossbow from her side and tossed it to the ground. You pinned her beneath you, your heart racing as you stared down at her. For a moment, it almost felt real. The anger, the hurt—it all bubbled to the surface.

Wednesday didn't flinch. Instead, she glared up at you, her cold eyes unyielding.

 "Pathetic. You're a pitiful excuse for a beast—frail, lacking the resilience of those I’ve effortlessly dispatched. Survival? It was never in your nature,” she spat, brandishing a blade from her belt as she swiped at you.

"Fight me," you growled, your voice thick with emotion. "Or are you too afraid?"

Wednesday's eyes gleamed with a dangerous light, and for a moment, you saw something almost like pride flash across her face. She gave a small, cruel smile. "Afraid?" she whispered, her voice low and venomous. "Not of you."

That was the cue.

Without warning, Wednesday kicked you off of her, sending you sprawling to the ground. In one fluid motion, she snatched the crossbow from the dirt, her fingers moving with deadly precision as she loaded it. She raised it and aimed—right at you.

Your thumping, and for a split second, you wondered if she might actually fire. But then, just as she pulled the trigger, the bolt flew past you, into the darkness behind. A loud, guttural roar echoed through the trees.

Out of the shadows, 

the Hyde arrived, 

larger and more menacing than before, its red eyes locked onto her with a predatory gleam.

Wednesday's gaze flicked to you, her voice steady. "Now."

She fired her crossbow, the bolt finding its mark in the creature's shoulder. The Hyde let out another furious roar, lunging forward, claws raking the ground as it charged. You jumped at the beast, claws tearing into its thick hide as you dodged its ferocious strikes, its movements wild and aggressive.

. But it was stronger than anything you'd thought. Wednesday fired bolt after bolt, her shots precise, but the creature was relentless, absorbing each hit with raw, unyielding power.

As you circled the Hyde, its focus split between you and Wednesday, you caught a glimpse of her expression—a fierce determination, her eyes never leaving the target. She reloaded quickly, her movements fluid, calculated, the faintest sheen of sweat on her brow betraying the effort.

The Hyde lunged at you again, its claws slicing through the air, and this time, you couldn't move fast enough. The impact threw you backward, pain flaring as you hit the ground hard, your vision swimming. You forced yourself to rise, catching Wednesday's eye as she aimed again, this time with something stronger—a vial of poison.

In a final act of defiance, you charged the creature, gripping its shoulder and ripping a chunk of flesh away. The Hyde let out a guttural scream, stumbling back before it retreated into the darkness, leaving a trail of blood in its wake.

You dropped to the ground, exhaustion crashing over you as your vision blurred. Blood seeped from a deep wound in your side, soaking into the forest floor. Your limbs felt heavy, and the pain was radiating with each beat of your heart.

From the corner of your eye, you saw Wednesday raise her crossbow, her gaze locked on the retreating figure of the Hyde. She was ready to give chase, her cold determination unwavering. But then, she glanced back, her eyes landing on you, crumpled and bleeding on the forest floor.

In an instant, her stoic demeanor shifted. Without a word, she abandoned her pursuit of the Hyde and hurried to your side, kneeling beside you with surprising urgency. Her hands moved quickly, searching through the small pouch at her side as she pulled out a bundle of gauze and a small vial.

"Stop…" you muttered, trying to push her away with the last bit of strength you had. "The Hyde… you need to go after it."

But Wednesday ignored you, her focus entirely on your wound as she uncorked the vial and poured its contents onto the gauze. The sharp, herbal scent filled the air, and she pressed the soaked gauze firmly against your side, stemming the bleeding with practiced hands.

"Don't be an idiot," she muttered, her voice cold but edged with something you hadn't heard before—something almost like concern. "I'm not letting you bleed out on my watch."

You winced at the pressure, biting back a groan. "But the Hyde… it'll get away."

Wednesday's dark eyes flicked to yours, her expression unreadable but firm. "It's not going to get far. I'll deal with it soon enough. But I'm not letting you die here."

You tried to protest, to urge her to chase down the creature, but she held you in place, her grip unyielding. "If anyone is going to end you, it's me. Not some mindless monster," she said, her tone cold and detached, yet with a hint of something almost… protective.

Despite the pain, a faint smile tugged at the corners of your mouth.

 "That's sweet…coming from you."

Wednesday's eyes narrowed, though you caught a flicker of something that almost looked like amusement. "Save your sarcasm," she said, pressing down harder to stop the bleeding. "If you can joke, you're not dead yet."

You let out a shaky laugh, though it quickly turned into a grimace as another wave of pain surged through you. Wednesday didn't flinch, her attention unwavering as she continued to tend to your wound with surprising gentleness.

After a few tense moments, the bleeding began to slow, and the edges of the pain dulled slightly under her careful treatment. You felt your breathing steady, the worst of the pain fading, though exhaustion weighed heavily on you.

"Thank you," you murmured, barely able to keep your eyes open.

Wednesday glanced at you, her expression still cool but softened.”Don't make me regret it," she replied quietly.

You felt a warmth spread through you, despite the cold forest air and the sting of your injuries. She may not have said much, but her actions spoke louder than words. She could have left you there, but she didn't.

As you drifted in and out of consciousness, you felt her shift beside you, her hand resting lightly on your shoulder in a steadying gesture, as if anchoring you to the present. The last thing you saw before darkness claimed you was her face, framed by the shadows, a silent promise lingering in her gaze.

Back in the cabin, you and Wednesday tended to each other's wounds, the silence between you comfortable, though heavy with the exhaustion of the fight. The small flickering fire cast dancing shadows on the walls, its warm glow a sharp contrast to the cold forest outside. You could still feel the adrenaline thrumming through your veins, but a sense of relief had settled over you, knowing the Hyde was gone for now.

Without warning, there was a deafening crash as the cabin's window shattered. The Hyde barreled through, its massive, bloodied form illuminated by the firelight. You barely had time to react before it lunged, claws outstretched, its eyes fixed on you with a vengeful fury.

But in an instant, Wednesday moved, her body positioning itself between you and the beast. The Hyde's claws slashed across her side as she shielded you.

"Wednesday!" you shouted, horror flooding through you as she flew into the wall, with a sickening thud.

The sight of her blood, of her hurt, ignited something primal within you—a fierce, overwhelming rage. The Hyde barely had time to react as you felt yourself transform, the beast within you rising to the surface with a force you'd never felt before. Claws extended, senses sharpened, you lunged at the creature, every muscle fueled by your bottled instinct.

With a savage growl, you attacked, tearing into the Hyde with everything you had. Its roars echoed through the cabin, but you didn't relent, every strike more brutal than the last as your claws ripped through its thick hide. It tried to fight back, but your rage gave you strength beyond anything you'd ever known.

In a final, explosive burst, you brought your claws down one last time. The Hyde collapsed to the floor, its lifeless form finally defeated. You stood over it, chest heaving, the adrenaline fading as the weight of your actions sank in.

Turning back, you felt yourself return to your human form, exhaustion crashing over you as your gaze found Wednesday. She miraculously managed to slump herself against the wall, her hand pressed to her bleeding side, her face pale but her expression calm.

You rushed to her side, dropping to your knees as you frantically checked her wound. "Wednesday, I… I'm so sorry."

She rolled her eyes. “You're insufferably slow," she muttered, her tone sharp as she stifled a wince. "Did you somehow miss me saying it would return?”

Ignoring her words, you fumbled through her kit, searching for the vial she'd used on you before. Your hands trembled as you unscrewed the cap, but Wednesday's hand reached out, stopping you. She took the vial from you, her fingers stained with blood, and poured the medicine over her wound with practiced ease.

You watched her, still frantic, your mind racing. "You shouldn't have taken that hit… I should've protected you."

Wednesday let out a soft scoff, her gaze unwavering as she stared back at you. Then, with a surprising gentleness, she leaned forward and pressed a kiss on your lips, her touch as fleeting as it was reassuring.

"You're too dramatic," she said, her voice soft but steady. "I'd die for you any day, and besides,"—her smirk returned, edged with a warmth that softened her usual cool exterior—"I'd rather go down saving you than by any creature's hand."

The sincerity in her words caught you off guard, and you felt your heart skip a beat. You held her gaze, the intensity of the moment settling over you both like a silent promise.

For the first time in a long time, there was no danger, no threat. Just you and Wednesday, the faint light of the fire casting a soft glow over her face. You swallowed, still reeling from everything that had happened, but her words—her confession—anchored you, grounding you in a way you hadn't expected.

"Thank you," you whispered, your voice barely audible.

Wednesday gave a small, approving nod, her hand lingering on your arm for just a moment longer. "Now, can you finally help me with this wound?" she deadpanned, though the glint in her eyes betrayed her amusement.

You smiled, your relief flooding through you, and you set to work, carefully tending to her injuries. And as you worked, her steady gaze stayed on you, her words—I'd die for you any day—echoing in your mind, a reminder that, whatever came next, you would face it together.

[loveemagicpeace]

💕Astro notes🏹

☁️Capricorns and Taurus always set limits for themselves in the sense that when they decide something, they stick to it and that's how it is. They stick to certain things because they are determined.

✨Mars in fire sign in 12th -u do so many risky and fearful things but this is good for you. The more you do the things you fear, the better you feel. Many times I also notice that people who have mars in the 12th house can manifest pain or something about their appearance, in the sense that they go to get tattooed and they won't be in pain.

🥂You truly got to know someone who has Capricorn rising when you see them like three,four maybe five times. They are very secretive people and do not like to share many things about themselves. Intimacy it's a big thing for them they will not get intimate with people who they are not comfortable with.

🍸People who has pluto in their 3rd house are obsseded with cars. Also because pluto shows your obsession you can also have obsessive thoughts or obsessively thinking about someone.

⚡️People who has capricorn placements in particular (mercury, venus & mars) are big car lovers. They know a lot about them and talk a lot about them. They always have some business of their own, which includes some things related to cars. I don't know why but a lot of people with these signs drive or love BMWs haha.

❤️‍🔥People who have Venus in Leo or Sagittarius are very passionate people. They do everything they do with passion. They cannot imagine love without passion.

🌙Chiron Sextile Ascendant-you can easily find support in comunuty. Your tramums can be public or you share them with public.

🦋Uranus in 1st house makes people very special, different and interesting. And people always remember you even if they only see you once. Many times I notice that these people cannot be compared to anyone because their beauty is so unique. Many times I notice that people are jealous of them because of this.

💘The sign you have in the 8th house is the sign that will stalk you the most on social networks or in general. And it's also the sign that's most obsessed with you. All the planets that the person has in this sign will indicate that the person is obsessed with you or wants to have you for themselves.

🐚The most spiritual connection u will have with the sign in your 12th house. You can receive the most empathy and warm advice from this sign.

🍦Zodiac signs that love to eat are cancer, taurus, leos, sagittarius( they will really enjoy the food). They will always make time for good things. Meanwhile, I notice that people who have Virgo, Capricorn, Aries, Libra, Aquarius don't take time to eat or eat something small. They don't put much on food or things like that. Especially if they are surrounded by work.

🌌Having a north node in Scorpio means your life journey is all about learning to accept that change is constant. North node in virgo represents a point in your natal chart that signifies your soul's evolutionary path and the lessons you are meant to learn in this lifetime. These people are creative, artistic, sensitive, spiritual. North node in sagittarius means that in your lifetime you're meant to find your fate ,your believing system & your true meaning in this life and also growth.

📀The most healthy sign to hang out with is sign u have in your 9th house. Because the sign in this house represents everything you can learn, how you can grow into a better person. You will always have an honest and direct relationship with this person.

💡You would only understand people with first house placements if you also have them. Because if you don't have 1st house placements you will have hard time being with these people cuz people with first house placements have this confidence, can be little selfish or do things in a more selfish way. They are unbothered about a lot of things. And they can easily express themselves. And when you don't have 1st first placements it is harder for you to find compatibility with them.

🫧People with second house placements know their true value. Always when I'm around with these people it feels like I know that they value themselves & things around them. When I'm with them, I feel that they really appreciate me and somehow they will never invite me to some cheap place, but there will always be something beautiful and luxurious. I feel appreciated by them.

🌊🔥People with fire/water placements are very passionate, emotional, intense. Water is always getting into emotions seeing things for emotional side & they can quickly feel things through emotions. And fire is a about passion,anger and about doing. They will not be just emotional ,they will be angry emotional(crying out of anger) also they can do some really crazy things -sometimes I feel like they black out and when they are angry they are completely different person is like they got blinded by the anger. They can also be emotionally impulsive.

-Rebekah📀☁️🫧💘

[saphiccarma]

- The Red Means I Love You

Relationships - Mob Boss!WandaNat x Reader

Summary - Natasha and you have some fun before a rather serious trip to the Danvers' estate.

Warnings: Smut. Side character death. lemme know if i missed any

A/N: I lowkey hate this chapter, but i've rewritten it several times and this was the best one so here you go.

Pt.1 Pt. 2 Pt. 3

You soon learned that the woman who held a knife to your neck was named Rio. More commonly known as Lady Death. Her reputation was one that you had heard whispers of from Kate and Yelena, sometimes Bucky, but you never bothered to question it. She was one of the most renowned killers in the mob network, hence her name. Rather than using a gun, she used a knife, a custom-made one that had her initials carved onto it, yet no one knew her last name.

She was even more of an enigma than Natasha. Rio worked for Agatha, the latter being the brains with Rio as the brawn. She executed the kills all according to plan. To your understanding, they were the biggest threat to Wanda and Natsha.

Wanda had deduced it to that pretty quickly, letting you know one night you were over. Rio was married to Agatha, who was Wanda's ex. Sort of. You weren't given the whole story, but Agatha used Wanda while she was with Rio- it was a whole complicated mess you didn't bother to remember.

It was then you learned there were four major groups in this world. They all had their specialties and together would be unstoppable but remained divided. There was Natasha and Wanda's, your personal favorite, and the most powerful. Natasha excelled in combat. Then there was Agatha, which Kate playfully called 'the witches'. They were known for their trickery. Stark was known for his money. Danvers for her skill in trade, able to get anything from anywhere.

Every group specialized in something but were also good at everything. They had to be.

The main thing you retained from that conversation was that Rio and Agatha were dangerous, enough so that made Natasha the slightest bit concerned. It was hard to tell with her, Natasha always had a perfect mask slipped over her face.

Whether it was the mask of the of a perfect girlfriend who was composed and careful, but also sweet and caring. Who woke you up with a kiss on the forehead and a warm cup of coffee while she got dressed for work.

 Or if it was the hard, cold persona she wore when directing her people around, voice collected and stern. With a no-nonsense attitude and if you dared to test her, you would regret it.

At home when she was just the slightest bit whiney with her wife, hiding cheeky smiles behind her hand and being a brat, but those moments were few and far between. It didn't matter what mask she wore, there was always one and you had no idea who the real Natasha was.

But, there were little cracks in her mask, parts of her personality that were present in each of her personas. They were hardly noticeable, but you had learned to pick up on them over the months.

The little furrow of her brow when she was concerned and the way her lips twisted down into a scowl. There were little things you had begun to notice over the course of your time with her that helped you find the real her.

And now, you could tell she was pissed, anger radiating off her like a furnace. It was the subtle tilt of her chin as she cupped her chin. Her fingernails, freshly painted a deep red, dug into her cheek as she feigned interest. A man sat in front of her desk, rambling frantically in a thick Italian accent and gesturing wildly with his hands and making absurd facial expressions. He had been brought in by Kate, who claimed that he was waiting outside her apartment when she woke up.

None of the pieces clicked into place as you stood off the side, arms crossed, and listened to him talk. It was hard to keep up, but you picked up little pieces. He had worked for Stark, in the tech department, and was kidnapped some time ago. Not all his sentences were coherent, and you had to string some pieces of jumbled words together. He was held by someone, but he had no idea who.

"Stop," Natasha ordered, holding her hand up, "You are telling me that you work for Stark and were kidnapped?"

"Yes," the man nodded, his Italian accent dripping from his words. He seemed completely oblivious to Natasha's tight tone.

"What happened while you were being held captive?"

He flinched at her words and hands twisted together on top of the desk. Leaning forward, the man tipped his face forward and glanced around as if he were about to share a big secret, "Money," he whispered, "'Stop Stark's money, work day and night." His English wasn't very good.

Natasha hummed, her hand moving to fold in her lap, but not before gesturing vaguely towards the door. You took the hint, moving from your spot, and grabbing the man by the arm. He spluttered, his arms flying wildly as he tried to return to his seat, but you held firm. Dragging him towards the door, you yanked it open, toeing it the rest of the way with your foot. Kate and Yelena stood outside, chatting casually as you tossed him towards them.

Yelena caught him with a smirk, and no words were exchanged as they took him away. You didn't bother asking, Yelena knew you well and knew her sister even better, she would know what to do with him without asking. Kate gave you a playful salute and you returned it with a small before shutting the door again and meandering back over to Natasha's desk.

Her signature "pissed off" look had disappeared, the furrow in her brows were smoothed out and she was smiling faintly. Rounding her desk as Natahsa pushed her chair back slightly, you sat on it, leaning against the hard wood.

"What happened to him?" You mused, your gaze drifting off the side, "Who took him?" Your hands were shoved in your pockets, fidgeting with a stray string that was loose. While you worried over what he wanted, why he came to Natasha instead of Stark, you completely missed the look on Natasha's face. Your mind was swirling with all the possibilities. None of it made sense.

Before you had time to ponder it more, Natasha grabbed you by the collar tugging you down and planting a firm kiss onto lips. After letting out a surprised yelp, you melted into her lips and her hands tugged you down further until you fell to your knees and now Natasha was the one leaning down.

"It's been a long day," she whispered, against your lips.

You caught onto her innuendo pretty quick, your own lips curling into a smirk as you sank further into the floor and ignoring the harsh way the wood dug into your skin. Gripping onto the hem of her pants, you tugged them down and she lifted her hips to help, her boxers coming with. You slipped further under her desk as Natasha spread her legs and slid forward. Tentatively, you placed a soft kiss on her thigh. Her skin was soft, a few scars littering it from over the years and you lingered on those spots for longer, being sure to suck enough to leave a new mark. Trailing your lips up and so close to where you knew she wanted you, before skipping right over it and moving to the other thigh, your teeth grazing her skin.

Before you had a chance to continue, Natasha hand was yanking on your hair, shoving your face into her heat.

"Don't fucking tease," she hissed, pushing you further into her and holding you there. Her thighs bracketed your head, and you poked your tongue out, running it through her folds. You moaned at the taste of her, the vibrations causing her to let out a moan of her own. Your tongue circled her clit, and you latched your lips onto it, lightly sucking. Natasha's hand tightened in your hair, but her thighs loosened their grip around your head.

It allowed you to hear her moans all the more and the soft whines she let out. Grazing your teeth against her clit and sucking even harder and her sounds were music to your ears, only egging you on further as your tongue swirled. Your hand came up and you inserted two fingers, slowly pumping in and out as you played with her clit. Her hands tugged on your hair as you picked up pace, not exactly harsh but not gentle either.

You could feel her thighs start trembling as your fingers curled just right and you pumped in and out, your tongue swirling around her clit and lips wrapped tightly. She let out a sound that was a mix of a groan and whine. Slyly you looked up at her through her lashes, and her eyes were screwed tightly shut, head thrown back and mouth parted. The sight spurred you on even more, and with one more tight suck and curl of your fingers, Natasha was cumming all over you.

Her hips bucked into your face as her orgasm washed over her and you lapped up all her juices greedily. Natasha whined as she came down from her high and you didn't stop. As she pushed your face away, you matched her whine, giving her a pleading look. Laughing softly at your pouty lips, Natasha tapped your cheek and smoothed down your ruffled hair, not that it helped much. She reached down, and for a brief second you hoped she was going to pull you up into her lap, but instead she just tugged her pants up.

Then her foot slid in between your legs, the tip of her boot pressing right up against your core. You whined, pressing down on her shoe desperately, hoping for some help, but she only smirked down you.

"You're not getting any help with this one, pretty girl," She smiled, mocking and cruel, "You wanted to try and tease.” A loud whine escaped your lips before you could stop it, but all Natasha did was laugh softly.  

Your hands found her knees for purchase, using them to keep you steady as you bounced up and down on her shoe. The hard tip of it was right up where you needed it, and yet it wasn't enough. Frantically, you ground down, searching for friction that Natasha wouldn't give and you let out a needy whine. She ignored you, instead leaning further back and crossing her arms, a sinister smirk planted on her lips as she watched you whine and squirm beneath her.

It hardly registered in your head when the door was opened, Wand sauntering in. She raised an unamused eyebrow at the situation, but didn't say anything about it.

"I talked to that man, says there was a gold star on the door of the basement he was being kept in, and only one person brands themselves with gold stars," There was a proud tone to Wanda's words. Natasha’s foot jerked upwards and you let out a startled yelp. "Let's pay Danvers a visit, shall we?"

You had just started to find a good pace, aside from Natasha’s sudden disruption, and the coil in your stomach tightening when Natasha's foot pulled away. Keeping loudly, you pouted up at her and tugged on her hands.

She offered you a smile of faux pity, "Sorry sweet girl, we have stuff to do."

^________________^

You were rather sulky as you trailed behind Wanda and Natasha, Bucky and Yelena standing next to you. All three of you were in standard clothing for tactical outings like these, but Wanda and Natasha were dressed rather elegantly. Your core throbbed with need from being left wanting, but you shoved that away for the sake of focusing, even though it was hard.

You were approaching a large building and as you got closer a gold star was carved onto the door. It was a nice house, with a grey tiled roof and a dark door, but there were scarcely any windows. Bucky signaled for you to hold back, and you obeyed, hand moving to rest on your gun, ready to tear it out at a moment’s notice. Smoothing down the front of her shirt for invisible wrinkles, Natasha kicked open the door, not caring if it was unlocked.

"Danvers!" she called, "We have some problems!"

A woman rounded the corner, dressed in black slacks and a pale colored blouse, star earrings dangling from her ears. Blonde hair was pulled back into a half-ponytail, the rest falling just above her shoulders. She raised a brow. Annoyance was written all over her face, yet her posture said otherwise. Hands tucked into her pockets and shoulders slouched, you would’ve guessed that she was seeing friends.

"Romanoff. Nice to see you too." Danvers smiled coyly, the edges of it sharp and fake. She tipped her head inwards, "Have a seat?"

Cautiously, you followed as she led your group into a room where a couple of others were waiting. Both men. One short and a little chubby, the other tall and lanky, complete opposites. Your hand tightened on your gun.

There were two plush couches, both a pale shade of blue with a white carpet settled beneath them. It hardly matched the aesthetic of the rest of the room, but who were you to judge? Your apartment was crap before you joined Natasha.

"You were expecting us," Wanda's voice cut through the tension, her voice silky smooth. Danvers smirked, nodding and gestured towards the couch. Wanda and Natasha took delicate seats across from Danver as you stood behind them, Bucky and Yelena at your side. "You kidnapped a man."

Shrugging, Danvers waved her hand, "We all have."

Bucky tapped your arm and you dropped your hand from your gun, albeit reluctantly and with a glare. He nodded in approval before fixing his gaze straight across the room, almost robotic.

"You kidnapped one of Stark's men. Why?"

If you watched close enough, you could see surprise flicker across Danvers' face, just barely there and hardly noticeable. It was the slight part of her lips that gave her away. Rather than admitting to her confusion, Danvers shrugged casually.

"I needed his help." She stared at her nails, seemingly unfazed by the two intimidating women across from her.

Natasha's jaw clenched with frustration, "With?"

"You think I would just give that to you?" Danvers laughed, "That's cute. What will I get in return?"

For a brief moment, Natasha pretended to think about it, before she snapped her fingers. Bucky had his gun out before you could blink and shot one of the people at Danvers' side. Blood splashed on the furniture and spilled out on the white carpet as the person dropped dead. The three women were unphased by it as Danvers leaned closer, her chin resting on her hand.

"You think that's going to convince me?" Her gaze drifted over to you, eyes scanning you up and down, "I'll take her."

Your heart froze in your ribcage as you processed her words and any reply you had caught in your throat. Anxiously, you glanced at Natasha. Would she actually give you up?

"No." She said firmly, shaking her head, "She's not for sale." The anxiety that had began coursing through your veins, red hot, cooled at her words and you let out a silent exhale.

The blonde woman hummed, her eyes trailing over you once more before returning to Natasha. You tried to ignore the man that was still bleeding all over the carpet, his blood staining it a deep red, and yet no one seemed to care. It was as if he had never died.

Natasha and Danvers seemed to be having a silent conversation, words unsaid yet understood. Eventually, Danvers sighed and leaned back into her chair.

"I don't have the information you want Romanoff, I'm not the right source. Try Agatha, I've been hearing some rumors about her lately." She cast a fleeting glance to the dead man on the floor, "And next time, don't kill anyone for show please? It'll be a pain to clean up."

Their casualty with death baffled you. A man was dead, just like that. He could have had a family, a wife, kids. Or maybe a sister, or maybe- Who knows. Granted, most people wouldn't be here if they had something worth living for. But you didn't want to be here and was dragged into this whole mob business because of your father and Natsha threatened your mother. You hadn't seen her in forever and she was probably worried sick.

Natasha stood from the couch, flashing Danvers a predatory smile that was all teeth, before leaving. The rest of you followed after her obediently, but even after you left, you couldn't stop your mind from wandering to the dead body and how no one seemed to care.

^______________^

You lay in bed with Natasha and Wanda, both on either side of you. You were spread across their laps, feet in Wanda's as she trailed her nails up and down your ankles, and Natsha carded her hands through your hair. Sighing in content, you were grateful for the moment of peace, even though you knew it was brief.

A show was on the TV but you were hardly paying attention. Two deaths in just a few days. The first  was the first time you had ever killed, but you knew it wouldn't be the last. Just thinking about it made your stomach churn again and bile rise in your throat.

"Do you ever get used to the death?" you blurted, regretting the question the moment it left your mouth.

Wanda's hand tightened on your ankle like a chain, but you found it grounding as Natasha looked down at you, her lips pursed.

She shrugged, "Yeah. Some of them still hurt, but you'll get used to it. You have to in this business." She said the words so casually, unaware that you were having an entire internal debate over it. How could she not care? Killing was taking someone else's life and who was she, or you, to decide whether someone lived or died? It wasn't your place. Still, Natasha killed left and right, seemingly uncaring for the lives she took and unbothered by the consequences they had.

Wanda traced a circle onto your ankle, "Close of your heart," she whispered, "As movie like that sounds, it helps."

You swallowed thicky, but nodded, training your eyes onto the TV. Close your heart.

Taglist: @macaroni676 @gaylorvader @ashadash0904 @sunshine-makes-flowers-grow @wolfangnight @rosekjsses

[grison-in-space]

When Adriana arrived at the holiday party with her mother, she waved meekly and introduced herself, “I’m the autistic one.” She wore winged eyeliner, bright red lipstick, black high heels, and a knitted sweater that depicted two penguins kissing. Her mother, Ingrid, set down a small lemon tart from Trader Joe’s and made a beeline for the lumpy chaise lounge in the back of the living room; she was, in that rare moment, painfully not autistic. Ingrid kept to herself and did not engage with the other guests, most of whom were autistic and members of the Autistic Self Advocacy Network. Like a bored mother waiting at the playground, she quietly tinkered on her phone for the full duration of the party. Adriana, however, was wide-eyed and in awe. It was apparent that she seldom socialized with other autistic people. Adriana entered a festive scene at Ash’s apartment. Some were playing a game of Apples to Apples around the coffee table, which was adorned with a bright red runner. A fat black cat lumbered around the crowded room. In the kitchen, there was an assortment of eclectic snacks, including a frozen gluten-free cheese-free cheesecake, a plastic container of thick brown purée, a pre-opened box of chocolate donut balls, a blue tin of Danish butter cookies, and cranberry Sierra Mist. In the invitation, Ash had encouraged attendees to accommodate special dietary needs—and to avoid scented products to respect others’ sensitivities. Adriana hinged her arms close to her body and her limp hands rhythmically flapped as she bounced in place (this is stereotypy, “repetition, rigidity, and invariance” behaviors common among autistic people).1 Although she had introduced herself as the “autistic one” upon her arrival, she was “astounded” that the other guests recognized her autistic traits intuitively. Perhaps she thought she was hiding it well, or perhaps she did not know how autism usually presents. She asked a guest, Rachel, how she knew. Rachel said that some autistic people have a particular way of speaking that sounds similar to a Scandinavian accent. Others identified subtle characteristics, like body language and prosopagnosia (also known as “face blindness”). These were delicate signs that they had learned to identify from being around autistic others. Adriana was giddy. She could not get enough, and she incessantly demanded further explanation from the guests—how could they tell? How did they know? Rachel got annoyed with Adriana’s repetitive questions and defensively snapped back: What was wrong with appearing autistic? Was it such a bad thing? She told Adriana that these concerns about appearing autistic stemmed from a narrow definition of normal. Agreeing with Rachel, the others assured her that it is not a bad thing to appear or to be autistic. Adriana said she had a hard time maintaining friendships and that her mother said she made people “miserable.” Suddenly, all eyes turned back to Ingrid. She looked up from her paper plate of lemon tart crumbs, frozen with embarrassment. Adriana said people thought she was weird and that her family did not like her bouncing and hand flapping. Ash commiserated: their therapists used to tell them to suppress those movements and have “quiet hands.” This hit a nerve. The group expressed their collective disapproval of behavioral therapy. Again, Adriana kept insisting: How could they tell? How did they know? Having cooled off, Rachel told her that people have a natural ability to identify others who share their “culture”—and Adriana clearly shared their culture.

Spaces on the spectrum: How autism movements resist experts and create knowledge, Catherine Tan. 2024.

This is a really interesting book in that its project lies in comparing and contrasting autism rights movement groups like @autisticadvocacy with fringe paramedical cure-oriented groups like the vaccine skeptics RFK has so aggressively allied himself. Tan is not autistic and came to the paired movements as an outsider, but has clearly done the work to understand both communities and has pretty much the same take I do.

But that's not why I wanted to excerpt this bit. I wanted to excerpt it because the whole scene is so comfortably familiar to me: well-meaning but ignorant person who is desperately hoping to find someone else who sees and affirms them finds a group and starts seeking association. Long-term community member finds aspects of the new person's habitual mindset offensive and irritating, corrects the rude implication directly... and when the new person is apologetic, explain an alternate way to think that can allow the new person to help let go of the shame driving the obnoxious behavior. It's such important and familiar and comforting work, and it's such an autistic way to handle it: confront the underlying assumption and verbalize it, using directness to bring it into the open where it can be examined and considered on its (dubious) merits. And then, when the idea has been discussed and brought into the open, inviting the new insecure person in: you can belong here, we don't think you're inherently annoying (what the hell), the wrongheaded ideas you have been fed don't define who you are. Your choices defined who you are, and you're welcome here if you choose to come and listen.

(I also find the sudden judgemental attention on the mother to be absolutely hilarious. What's good for the goose must be good for the gander, after all, and many people respond to autistic people by helpfully informing them of every perceived faux pas. Since these assessments conflict even among neurotypicals, this well-meaning "advice" and interest often creates exactly the kind of frustrated shame that Adriana is expressing.)

This is the kind of space I grew up in, the kind of space that shaped the adult I am today. I am so grateful to every adult who has helped to make a space like it, and I wanted to pick up its pressed blossom and share it so other people could reminisce or examine the context too.