#I honestly don't even know if this makes sense oops

[oc-place]

send me a 🔀 and a pairing, and i’ll shuffle my playlist and make an au based on the first song that comes up

@jennathearcher Thanks lovely, this was fun to think about! <3

The Chase - Basixx

Sounds kind of like a classic getaway car (in the traditional meaning, rather than the Taylor song meaning pfft) kind of AU? So maybe something like the lab/army follow up on their threats (I know they were more of a thing in S1 and 2 but still) after everything has been saved? Because lbr it's not as if they can do it oops

Like the gang would have to split up and run away, going incognito until they can meet up somewhere safe to try and formulate a plan? So naturally Steve and Jen would be part of the same small group (bonus if in this AU they're either in the early stages of a relationship instead) and the adrenaline etc in regards to being on the run probably intensifies, well everything, but especially their feelings/relationship I guess? (sorry to anyone else who is potentially in their small group adfgjk) Just, yeah, the danger (because obviously there's not enough of that normally pfft), passion, and keep having to find secret spots for safety? Fun times :P

[aliceramblez]

BroZone Brothers With An Insecure S/O 😔💗

Tags: GN! Reader, Self-Deprecating Jokes, Low Self-Esteem, Abandonment Issues, Slight Body Insecurities. Fluff/Comfort.

A/N: Here we go with our first request! I really liked this idea as someone who has low self-esteem, and honestly it goes to all of y'all who think you're not good enough— cause you are! Also sorry it took a bit! I've been sick because the universe hates me 🙃

Feel free to leave a request & hope you enjoy! ^^

John Dory

At first, he doesn't really know what to make of it.

He finds it a bit strange, but doesn't question your odd sense of humor, and will sometimes even join in on the joke by saying stuff about himself, thinking it's some sort of inside thing between the two of you.

“Man, I can't believe I'm so clingy, sorry! Feel free to use me as a bad example, at least that way I won't be totally useless, haha!”

“Ha! You think that's bad? Babe, you haven't even seen me when I'm up at night just staring at the ceiling contemplating my life choices.”

It isn't until getting a good smack from Bruce and Floyd that he realizes you're actually being serious. And the prospect of that kinda puzzles him, not gonna lie.

“Look at you, tiger! Got yourself plenty of groupies already— Not surprising honestly. Don't have to worry about backups when you decide you're ready to move on, either!”

After a performance at the Pop Troll village, everyone is gushing over BroZone because of course they are. JD only barely manages to squeeze past the number of fans to get to you on the other side of the podium.

The oldest sibling looks at you in shock, and has to get closer to make sure he heard you right. “Babe, why would you say that?”

Caught off guard, you manage a nervous chuckle as you play with your hair. “I-I mean... Wow, would you look at the time! We gotta meet with Poppy and the others!”

John Dory stops you on your tracks and demands an explanation, which isn't really good for your poor heart. All you can do is kick the dirt and avoid his gaze, since that makes what you're about to say much easier to voice aloud.

“I mean... You're John Dory. You could date any troll you wanted and yet you're sticking with me. It honestly feels like a dream sometimes... And I'm scared of the day you realize you can do WAY better and decide to leave me.”

After processing this, he immediately holds your face in his hands and gives you the most serious expression you've ever seen on him. “I don't want just any random troll... I want you. You're my number one fan, and I'm yours, so don't even think about stuff like that, okay?”

After the exchange, he's always on the lookout for whenever your bad habit wants to kick in again and is ready to stop it ASAP

Spruce/Bruce

He notices it happens mostly when you're working at the cantina.

Whenever you get an order wrong, trip over your own feet or don't remember how to work one of the machines properly, you'll go into an awkward insecure flight response.

You'll say “Oops! Sorry! Clumsy Twinkle Toes, coming through!” while grinning and laughing along with the customers, but Bruce knows that it's affecting you more than you lead on.

It also happens whenever BroZone is getting ready to perform and you don't know what to do with yourself since you're “standing in the way”, despite being told multiple times that it's okay for you to be backstage with everyone else.

When he talks to you about it, you get really uncomfortable and just say that it's no big deal and that you can handle it.

“I've always been a clumsy person, so I guess that's always making me doubt myself over the smallest of things... Sorry if it's annoying.”

Bruce will then proceed to give you a huge warm hug and a kiss on the forehead as he whispers comforting words into your ear.

“Hey, I can be clumsy too! I've always been the worst out of everyone when it comes to choreography. Don't tell JD though, cause I know he'll throw a fit knowing I don't practice.”

He'll throw in other examples that may seem inconsequential to you, but you appreciate the effort nonetheless and smile and giggle through the embarrassing stories he shares.

He helps you get more confident by being there with you while taking orders at the cantina and praising you whenever you get something right— albeit in private as to not embarrass you.

Same goes with rehearsals, where he WILL drag you into the lounge area to hang with his brothers and/or Poppy and Viva when they decide to visit, too.

Overall he wants what's best for you and will try and push you out of your comfort zone, but only in a safe environment where he knows that if something does go wrong, it won't be as catastrophic as you make it out to be in your head.

You never stop thanking him for being your crutch during these times.

Clay

The moment he hears the words come out of your mouth he's completely flabbergasted.

First of all, who said those things to you? Because he swears he just wants to talk to them—

It's at a sleepover with his brothers and the gals at the Bergen Golf Course, and among the many games, snacks and movies watched, pictures are also taken.

As soon as you take a look at the array of selfies, you let out what sounds like a mix between a laugh and a sigh.

“I mean, at least it stays consistent— in photos, I look ugly. And in real life, I'm also ugly!”

As soon as those words leave your lips, Clay is at your side with an almost unreadable expression, only to snatch one of the photos from your hands. “How DARE you say that about the most attractive troll I've ever met? Shame on you!”

He then starts going around the room waving the picture around to his brothers, saying stuff like “Look how attractive my S/O is! I'm dating them!” while you're just blushing profusely and begging him to stop (even though deep down your kinda giddy about it).

After that day, Clay will do small gestures in which he reminds you how beautiful he thinks you are. Everything to outright saying it each morning, joking about it with his brothers, and even bragging about you to his friends in the Bergen Golf Course.

He's a simp and he's totally okay with that because it's you.

Clay feels like he's the luckiest troll in the world for being able to snatch someone like you since he's “the most boring and uninteresting of the bunch”, so he feels like he's hit the jackpot.

You immediately tell him that he's not boring to you and that he's the best boyfriend ever, which only causes him to smirk.

“Doesn't feel good to know the person you love feels so bad about themselves, does it?”

Finally realizing his reverse psychology, you give in with a laugh. “No, it doesn't. I guess... We can both work on that? Together?”

And so you do, and end up helping each other whenever one is feeling down in the dumps, as a sort of personal cheerleader. You truly couldn't have asked for someone better.

Floyd

You're the kind of person who's very vocal about your interests.

So it's no surprise that you have to catch yourself mid-ramble whenever you're talking about something you're either interested in or knowledgeable about. And with Floyd being such a good listener, it honestly slips your mind more times than you'd prefer.

After realizing you've been talking for too long, you turn pink in the face and start apologizing profusely.

“Sorry! You probably didn't need to hear all of that. They didn't call me ‘Chatter Box’ when I was younger for nothing! Haha...”

But Floyd could care less about any of that. He loves hearing you talk, not just because he's not much of a chatty person, but because he just finds it incredibly endearing.

He'll hold your hands in his own and give you the softest smile ever that just makes you think that it should be illegal to be THIS sweet.

“You're just so cute when you get lost in the moment like that. Besides, I love seeing you happy. By all means, I'm glad you get to do the talking for the both of us, otherwise we wouldn't get anywhere in this relationship.”

You laugh at his attempt to make you feel better and melt under the touch of his lips on your cheek.

After that, whenever you go out either just the two of you or with your group of friends, Floyd will encourage you to express yourself. He does this by either asking you a question directly or subtly incorporating you into the conversation by saying something like. “I think (y/n) knows about this kinda stuff. Don't you, love?”

Obviously this all happens with your consent beforehand, since he doesn't want to put you in a tight spot, either.

Either way, he always values whatever you have to say, since you always bring in new perspectives that maybe others didn't think about before.

He will also encourage you to be yourself and not try and match your topics of conversation with things you think other people will find interesting. You deserve to be happy by sharing what you love with the world.

Poppy and Viva are huge helps in the art of feeling confident by speaking your mind, and Floyd couldn't be happier for you.

You thank him by telling him about your day each night, in which sometimes he'll fall asleep to the soothing sound of your voice, which only warms your heart on so many levels.

“Goodnight, my prince.”

“Goodnight, my little chatter box.”

Branch

Just like Clay, this man is ready to throw hands.

Just give him a name and he'll get the job done before sunrise—

He notices that sometimes you struggle with finding outfits for different occasions, either something casual, dressy, classy, etc.

But it's not because you don't have anything in your wardrobe, on the contrary it's pretty much brimming. It's more the fact that you're not satisfied with any of them because you feel like you don't look good in them.

Branch tries to convince you otherwise, saying that you look great no matter what you wear, but you can't help but feel self-conscious in anything that isn't a good old sweatshirt.

He isn't knowledgeable in fashion (clearly) so he enlists the help of Poppy and The Snack Pack to try and cater outfits to your exact measurements, along with any other nitpicks you've had in the past with either texture or material.

I mean, Branch has backup plans to his backup plans, you think he wouldn't keep notes on what kind of stuff his S/O doesn't like— INCLUDING mundane stuff like their clothing?

He surprises you with these, and you can't help but feel attractive in them since he paid extra attending to the complaints you had from your own designs.

“I personally think you look great no matter what you wear. But if you feel so strongly about it, might as well get some stuff you'll actually enjoy wearing.” He'd said when you asked why he did it, and your heart just melted.

You vow to try and work on your self-imagine regardless, which he gets happy over and says he can't wait for you to see yourself the way he does.

[yeyinde]

lavender skies | Kyle "Gaz" Garrick x GN!Reader

Then suddenly, and all at once, there's a loudness in your head: a hundred whispers echoing in time to the same off-beat rhythm, full of memories and moments shared between you, threads woven throughout the years all buoying to the surface as you realise you're a little bit in love with him.  (And that, maybe, you've been a little bit in love with him the whole time.)

tags: friends to lovers (but the type of friends who are basically already dating and everyone knows except them - until suddenly they do), mutual pining. Slight Kent bashing, oops. Golden Girls as a coping mechanism. warnings: none. very tame, considering who I am as a person. Heavy make-out sess, though. word count: 6,6k notes: This has been sitting in my requests forever (I lost the original, but the gist was: Gaz + pining + idiots in love). You can blame a lot of this on summer rain and 80s city pop. Been going to the pier and listening to it while I wrote this. Not my best, sure, but it was fun.

The Tinder date he warned you not to go on (and seriously, mate, who uses Tinder anymore?) ends like this:

Your date, the biggest gentleman in Kent, as proclaimed in his bio (a red flag in hindsight—there's no such thing as a gentleman from Kent), sneaks his number to the waitress, and then leaves you behind in downtown Manchester to go bar hopping with a group he just met. 

It's not a great loss. All things considered, it's not even the worst date you've ever been on. It was just a spur-of-the-moment whim—equal parts anxiety and megrim: the sudden fear of being single forever (and no, despite what Kyle might say, it has nothing to do with the wedding invitation you'd gotten on Facebook, or the three others that came before it)—and therefore, there isn't much to be upset about. Not really. 

But the world doesn't work on half-hearted lies and shaky truths, and on a dank little corner in Manchester, abandoned by your ride home, your abysmal date who barely looked at you, you can't deny that it hurts. That it's a little bit of a hit to your self-esteem in a way that makes you angrier than you were before, because, honestly—he wasn't even a catch to begin with. 

Stupid. 

You should have listened to Kyle, to his immaculate wisdom and emotional maturity far beyond his years, but you hadn't because—

Well. Sometimes the world should work on little lies. If only to the ones you tell yourself. Ones like:

It's completely fine—really it is—if your friend of nearly eight years is moving on with his life. And it's totally, absolutely okay if your best friend meets some flighty barista in Amsterdam and won't stop talking about her for the meagre three weeks he's been back from his impromptu trip to the Netherlands, then to Mexico. It's fine. It's all fine. 

Because maybe you are, too. 

And maybe that's the reason you went out with David from Kent. 

From Kent? He texted, only hours before your date. (Hours because he'd been busy with this thing for his job—his boss is corrupt and the world is, too, but at least Amsterdam Barista is doing fine). You can do so much better than that, birdy.

You wanted to say, what? Like someone from Amsterdam instead? but you're doing this new thing where you try not to sound as mad as you think you are. Zen, maybe. Internal peace and happiness. So, instead, you say:

He's nice. I like him. 

Words that, of course, have come back to bite you. 

He isn't nice. He wouldn't stop staring at the waitress, and talking over you, or just generally ignoring your existence. He left you downtown, stranded without a way home. You don't like him. You really don't even think you were that interested in him. 

But it makes sense.

Kyle is moving on. Your friends are getting married. 

And where does that leave you? 

Well—

It leaves you stuck downtown with shoes that were intended to be used for aesthetics, the kind that means standing entirely still and immobile, and not walking the fifteen kilometres to your flat because you'd spent all your money on this super flattering outfit and these unfunctional shoes, and can't afford a cab or an Uber. 

Sometimes, you pretend you're a functional adult—one who knows how to navigate everything with ease, and you live in the present, the real world, where time is fluid and unchangeable, and things make sense (maths and geometry and physics) unless they don't (black holes and the vastitude of space and fate)—but moments like these remind you that you don't. That you live, instead, somewhere in the parentheses of both. 

The indigo sky, murky black and void of any stars, seems to grumble along with you as you turn toward the street, readying yourself for the long walk home. Except the groan sounds less commiserating and more ominous. A noise that seems to reverberate through the crowded street, and right into your bones.

Some have the wherewithal to find shelter. A smart move because almost a moment later, the heavens split, and a summer deluge drenches the street. It's unrelenting in its downpour, soaking everything in its path in a shrill roar. 

Caught in the middle of St Peter's Square, there are not many places to duck under for sanctuary, but you find an alcove beside a store, and dart toward it. The non-functional boots are pretty to look at, but with each step, you feel the hard synthetic rubber grind against your heel. Blisters form, break. The burn makes you inhale sharply against the pain, hobbling now on tender feet. 

The wall is slick with condensation, but you lean against it to keep your feet from taking the brunt of your weight. 

It reminds you, quite suddenly, of that night in Cardiff with Kyle. When you'd drank three-dollar margaritas at some downtrodden bar with your friends and ate rather limp-looking fish tacos (a mistake, of course, and Kyle still can't look at corn tortillas the same way), and laughed until your belly hurt at something he'd said—the words lost to alcohol and faded with time—and then leaned over, promptly throwing up in a bush. 

You still can't drink tequila without giggling (and gagging) at nothing, a phantom memory, and the thought presses against a tender spot in your chest in all the wrong ways. 

Time is fluid. An unavoidable truism that you can't escape. 

There are people you've known since you were a child whose faces you can barely remember. Ones you promised the world to, to always be together, who you hardly think of anymore. 

Moving on. Moving forward. 

You think, then, of Kyle. Of the distance that lingers between you both, widening each day. It's nothing you've done, nor he; it's just—

Life. Concurrent. Everpresent. 

It hurts to lose a friend, you'd always think. A small moment of grief, of loss. But not like this. Never like this. 

Stuck in a downpour in the middle of Manchester, you realise you miss him. Have been missing him. 

Huddling under an awning, you fish your phone from your soaked pocket, and pull up the only person you want to be around right now, in this moment of vulnerability. Loneliness. 

You send him a quick text, date was a bust. Stuck downtown. Are you busy?

Kyle's reply comes three breaths later. For you? Never. Send me your location. 

You send him your pin. 

Another message pops up: stay put. I'm on my way. 

You met Kyle Garrick at university. 

It's one of those things in life that just sometimes happens. A happy accident. An eventuality that makes the world feel a little less daunting. A lock and key sliding into place. Sunsets in pretty ochre. 

Someone you knew and someone he knew (two people who are now best man and groom in the upcoming wedding) decided to invite all of their friends out for a night, and it was then, slightly tipsy on cheap ale when you realised the boy in the back—a head taller than everyone else and more befitting inside the glossy pages of a magazine—was different, somehow, from anyone else you'd ever met. 

It started when some stupid kids decided to pick on another. A smaller boy with a blue cap. 

Kyle was the only one who noticed. The only one who seemed to care. 

It was his anger that drew you to him in the first place. Moth to a flame. It's quick—the sizzling flame of a lit match: suddenly burning the wick and nearly uncontrollable. But it's short. A flickering star, burning bright, burning hot, and then being tempered and swallowed down until it's smouldering. Still hot, still dangerous, but—

Managed. 

It was a snap. He was laughing, jovial. Telling jokes, and having fun, but still maintaining that enviable enigmatic persona: reserved but kind. Funny, but mature. And then it crumpled in an instant, folded away into anger. Bright and blistering. He walked to them, eyes blazing, and didn't wait for any excuses when the kids noticed him, just quickly decimated their foundations, and crushed their feeble lies between his teeth. 

"Bullyin'? That's a pretty foul thing to do, innit, mate?" 

And that was that. 

He handed the kid back his hat—the one the others knocked off into the gutter—and told him, clipped, that he was better than them. 

Just keep your chin up, yeah? Fuckin' losers, that lot. Don't go messing about with them anymore. Fucking pricks. That's a nice hat, too. Where'd you get it? Really? Oh, that's mint—

It was that moment when, unprompted and unnoticed, he easily slipped away from the group to help some kid he didn't even know that you realised you were very keen to get to know him. 

"Fancy a kebab, hero?" You asked, smirking up at him. 

A grin broke across his face. Sharp, feral. "I could always go to a lamb kebab."

The rest, really, just came quite naturally. Your best friend. The person you go to for anything—even terrible dates that leave you stranded in the rain. 

You just wish you knew when it all began to change, to fall apart. 

Kyle meets you near St Peter's Square. 

You spot him first from your hiding spot beneath the awning, catching sight of his form moving through the (now) empty streets, hands shoved in the pockets of his denim trousers, the bottoms tucked, sensibly, into his fawn-coloured boots. 

Even with the hood of his windbreaker pulled low over his brow, you can pick him out of a crowd with an ease that is as warming as it is jarring. 

You wave him over when he stops on the mouth of Mount Street, looking in toward the Starbucks on the corner. 

He finds you just as easily. And oh, his expression makes your toes curl in your misshapen boots. 

Anger pinches the corner of his mouth, and hangs off the furrow of his brow, the divot between his eyes. 

"Unbelievable," he huffs when he reaches you in the middle of the street, and sucks his teeth when you open your mouth to protest. 

"It is what it is," you offer, playing the peacekeeper. You fall into step with him, trying not to wince. "I'm over it." 

"Yeah?" The shadows across his brow deepen. "Are you sure? 'Cause… I'll fuck him up for you." 

Setting your friend on a man from Kent feels entirely too vindictive, despite how much of a rush you get at the thought of seeing the man cowed a little bit. You shake your head, playing the part of a reasonable adult. 

"It's okay. I'm just—I'm just, over this, yeah? Can we—"

Kyle stops you with his hand against your shoulder. "You alright?"

"My feet hurt," your smile is strained. "Terrible shoes." 

"Take 'em off."

"Are you crazy—?"

"I brought slides for you. Figured you'd wear something stupid." 

"Okay, fair. But—ouch? We can't all be crazy good-looking Armani models. Some of us have to work for it." 

Kyle snorts. "Just take your shoes off, yeah? Throw 'em in my bag."

You can't deny it feels blissful when you lean against the slick wall outside of a shop, toeing off your tight boots. Aching feet freed from their prison. The sigh you let out makes him glance up at you from the pavement, bent over the rucksack he brought. 

There's disapproval in his gaze—maybe at your choice. Choices. The date he warned you about. The boots. The socks he spots are stained with blood on the knob of your foot. 

He tuts. A soft admonishment that cuts through the silence of the empty square. But it's all he says. He swallows the rest and drops the shoes he grabbed on the pavement in front of you, slowly pushing them forward with the tip of his toe.

You try not to grin when you see them.

Crocs. The ugliest ones you could find in Schuh. You'd bullied him into getting a matching pair with you. Neon yellow adorned with little clips. 

You slip them on as Kyle reaches down to grab your boots. He pauses with them in his hand, eying them with something that taints the air with his disdain. 

"When did you buy these?"

"On Friday." When he was sleeping off his impromptu trip to Chicago. He brought you home deep-dish pizza, frozen, and promised that it tasted much better fresh. "For the date."

"Why?" Is all he asks. 

You shrug. "They're cute…?"

His eyes stray to your shoulders. The wet fabric of your shirt. His chin lowers slightly, but his eyes stay fixed on your flesh, on the goosebumps that bubble to the surface, spreading over your exposed skin. Eyes flicker, catching a droplet of water you can feel running down from behind your ear, falling over the slope of your neck. It breaks against your collarbone. He watches it all. 

There's tension in the air. Static. The pressure builds and reeks of ozone when it presses into you, knuckles digging into the hollow of your throat. It renders you unable to speak—locked in a paradigm where the world beyond the honeycomb of his eyes ceases to matter, to exist almost. Thick honey ensnares you. Molasses. It clots against reason, logic, and makes you feel weightless. Floating, unmoored, in this unfamiliar abyss that closes in around you. 

Except—

It isn’t. 

There’s something aberrant about it, anomalous, that you can’t ignore; but beneath it sits a preternatural sense of familiarity that bends the paradox into knowns. Into tangibles. Concretes. 

This is the same tension that has been simmering—festering, almost—since before he joined the miliary. In Cardiff when he leaned against you in the taxi, boney shoulder digging into your arm, and said, ‘dunno what I'd do without you, y’know? 

It was the hazy smear of neon from the shops perched on the street. An ethereal gold hue streamed in from the window, cutting across the tenebrous in an asymmetrical chiaroscuro. The light was soaked up by him. Warm honey, the perfect compliment to his eyes, to the soft pink of his lips. 

How could you possibly describe the feeling that spumes in the pit of your stomach outside of undiluted comfort? 

Home.

It feels like like in shades; muted. A soft undercurrent that lingers inside something else, something deeper—

Moments in the foyer when he was heading back home for the evening. When he’d linger in the doorway, shoulder balanced against the frame, arms folded over his chest, and warned you not to watch Taskmaster without him. 

He’d know, he said. 

When you asked how, he just said:

“Because I know you.”

It feels like that. Like that and something more. Everything, all of it, coalesces into this. Into this moment where you can’t stop staring into the flecks of mahogany and charred birchwood in his eyes, and he can’t seem to decide where to keep his, vacillating between the slope of your neck and matching your stare. A lurch, a flash of something in your chest when your gazes meet. The deep sfumato of a bare forest in the middle of winter—rich browns, raw topaz, honey and amber in a sea of white. A sleepy hinterland. Solemnent and peaceful. Dreamy. Hypnogogic. 

The world always seems to shudder into a deep slumber whenever he’s around. 

He dips closer, swaying into you. Gravity, maybe. Tidally locked satellites on the same rung. Something bubbles in your chest. Unwinds from its dormant perch between the gaps in your ribs, and climbs up your esophagus. Ready, you think, to be free—

In the distance, tyres squeal against the pavement. 

—and all at once, the moment burst, breaks. Shatters into a million pieces, cosmic dust, and you watch them fall around you, blinking rapidly, as though you’ve just woken. 

It feels like slowly coming down to earth when you quietly gather your things, words now stuck in your throat. In their prison. 

Kyle tears his gaze away from your bare skin, clearing his throat. 

"Hardly." He murmurs after a moment and slips his jacket off his shoulders before wrapping it around yours. It smells of rainwater, wet rubber. Beneath the polymer, you can smell Kyle—vetiver, cypress, jasmine; sweet and heady—and you bury your nose in the hood when he turns back to the empty street. “Well, uh—”

You can’t speak. Not yet. 

He seems to understand. 

"Yeah," he nods, and reaches out, tugging on the end of the drawstring. "Let's get out of here." 

The rain lightens into a muted drizzle, soft droplets that fall, almost rhythmless, on the wet pavement. The town sleeps, the streets bare. Empty. The only sounds come from your slick footfalls, a horn in the distance. 

It’s an easy silence that lapses between you—not at all unlike the lulls before, when things were easy and featherlight and endless; when you could talk to him about everything, anything, and all of the worries in your life were saved for something else. Never him. Never, ever him. 

But it tugs at something in your chest. The same pressure blooms at the edges, lingering in the periphery. You think of the spell you fell under—quiet yearning—and shake your head, desperate now to break it. 

It’s just as easy to slip into familiarity. To tease, and taunt. And so, you do. 

"I'm surprised you haven't said I told you so by now. That's so impressive self-restraint."

His gaze slides over to you. "Well, you know, it's implied."

"Oh, is it, now?"

"Yeah, like when you messaged me and told me about it and I said—"

"Who even uses Tinder?"

"—that he's knobhead, and you're gonna get hurt."

You scoff. "He's from Kent, so."

"Even worse," he makes a face, derision contrasted by the jaundiced lamp spilling over the pavement. "A Tinder date with a guy from Kent? What's next? Moving to Bristol?"

"It's a nice area." 

He rolls his eyes. "Sure. As nice as Essex, maybe." 

"The two are not even comparable—"

"'Dunno why you're rushing into anything, anyway,” he angles his chin toward you. “If this is about Carver's wedding, I said I'd go with you, didn't I?"

"Yeah, but…"

"But what?"

"That's sort of—like, you just have your own thing going on. I don't want to get in the way."

"I've always had my own thing going on. So have you. But that's never stopped us before, has it? What's changed."

"What about—" you swallow down something thick, bitter that wells in the back of your throat. "You know. Amsterdam. The Barista, or whatever."

His brow knots together. "And what about David from Kent?"

You sweep your hands out, motioning morosely toward your Crocs, your damp outfit. "This is what happened with David from Kent. Not exactly the fairytale meet cute you have with Amsterdam—" he makes a noise, like he means to interrupt. You cut him off. Bury it. "And besides, you should take her. I'll just—" 

"I want to go with you."

"Why?"

Kyle falls to a stop near the Kebab shop you usually go to whenever he comes back from his missions, when he's craving good, hearty food that will rot his insides and clog his arteries. A small comfort from before, when everything he has now was just a dream, and you were struggling students in university who could barely afford a meal each and would split a lamb dinner over ale and terrible movies from the noughties back at your flat. 

The suddenness of it all makes you blink beside him, slowly angling your chin up at him. A questioning noise wells in the back of your throat, but when you finally turn your gaze to him, it does out. A snuffed flame. 

He brings his hand up, finger scratching at the soft patch of skin on the bridge of his nose where it starts to arch up. The look on his face, hidden, slightly, by the night blanketing overhead, but just illuminated enough by smears of neon and flushed street lamps for you to see it clove into something slightly flustered, hesitant. Sheepish, almost, like he hadn't meant to say what he did, and now doesn't know how to proceed forward. Cards tucked tight to his chest. Does he play his hand or fold? 

You blink. Then blink again. Struggling, almost, to take in the suddenness of his flustered state. 

Because the thing is:

Kyle doesn't get embarrassed or sheepish. 

A running gag in your mutual friend group is that Kyle is twenty-eight going on sixty-five. An old man crammed inside the body of a young adult. He runs hot—passionate about his beliefs, quick to temper when he thinks an injustice is being doled out; a disciple of loose stoicism, but of a new age variety that is half parts stereotypical stoner chillness and ripe maturity—but he rarely is ever caught unawares enough to become embarrassed by something. He just has a perfect gauge of himself and those around him, able to quickly make friends with anybody he meets, and self-aware enough to know when he's in the wrong, when he needs to dial it back. 

Being his friend for so long, you know the nuance of these expressions. His mien is ingrained in your head: known and catalogued. Nothing about Kyle is a mystery to you except the things you're barred from knowing (his second life away from home, you often joke: wholly confidential, entirety draped in secrecy). 

But the look on his face is entirely alien to you. An expression you hadn't thought him capable of making. 

It's jarring. It bludgeons into you with a ferocity that takes your breath away. 

You know the man standing beside you, but this, everything else, is so unearthly. So foreign. 

"Kyle," you hedge, taking a small step closer to him. You're not sure why. Maybe to reacquaint yourself with the man standing before you. Maybe to find something of familiarity within him to comfort the sudden crescendo of your pounding heart because even just the heady scent of his cologne—vetiver, amber—quells the sudden bloom of anxiety in the pit of your stomach. "Are you—?"

"No," he mumbles, then huffs out a soft laugh. It sounds mean, in a self-deprecating way, and your heart lurches for him. "Yeah, no. I'm alright. I just—shit, you know? 'Course I'd wanna go with you. Should be kinda obvious, no?"

Sure, you want to say. Sure, no, totally. Very obvious. And maybe had he not stopped, not made this peculiar expression on his face—like he isn't sure what to do when he always knows what he wants, what he's meant to do—you might have said them. Might let them tumble from your lips, equally self-deprecating and a touch forlorn despite never really knowing why, but that would be a lie, now. 

Because you do. 

The look on his face is upsetting—not because Kyle never makes that expression, or because he's never uncertain about anything, ever, but because you don't know it. It's not something you've ever seen before. And it hurts. 

It's stupid. This whole thing. It shouldn't make you feel some sense of loss when he does something you don't expect. He always does. It's his brand, now—jettisoning across the world to catch bad guys and slap the trite American sense of justice and liberty for all across the faces of anyone who tries to oppose it—and you're very much acclimated to this side of him, the one he hides away from you, giving nothing at all about where he's going, what he's doing, what he's done, until he's back in England, safe and sound, and texting you at six in the morning for an English spread because he missed home. And maybe, maybe he missed you, too. 

Those quiet moments are tucked into a cosm where it's only you and him, and greasy food, and reruns of Golden Girls together with your feet in his lap as you sit on the chaise and pick favourites (his is, of course, Rose) until the sun goes down, and he heads home because he has a debriefing in the morning in Hereford, and you have work. It's bereft of unease, of tension. Time slips through your fingers fluidly, and you hardly notice it's been hours since he first arrived. Comfortable, wholly, in his presence and in your skin. 

Soulmates, everyone used to joke. You just get each other. Near finish each other's sentences. 

Except for lately, where there has been this undeniable tension simmering between the two of you—a sense of fragility that you can't comprehend.

Growing apart, you thought. And then: guess it's time to do the same. 

It made sense to make the first move. To download Tinder—much to his chagrin—and start looking for your—

Your Barista from Amsterdam. 

And oh. 

Oh. 

Maybe it's the way the street light frames the angles and plains of his face, or the shadows that run deep lines of tenebrous across the valleys in his eyes, the sharp slope of his lips, the soft pout. The inscrutable expression that rents a jagged divot between his brow, and an unsure twist of his mouth. Maybe it's everything. Nothing. 

But the only thing you know right now is that you know him. Have known him. Deeply. Intimately. In a way that goes beyond the boundaries of bodies, of flesh and blood. Bones and marrow. You know his soul. His essence. The foundations of who he is cobbled together in a lonely kebab shop over cheap ale, commiserating on an endless stream of papers and assignments; the eventuality of ever after when you hand in the final one. Over beans and toast in the afternoon, a whole day spent lounging in your flat watching reruns of Golden Girls, and petty arguments over Taskmaster that always seem to go a little bit too far, and never far enough. Fights that end two days later when he shows up with Greggs and a complete box set of that show you said you wanted to watch but never had the time for. Bargain shopping in Tottenham on an early Saturday morning because there's this chair, you see, one that you saw on their Instagram page and you simply must have it. 

Soft moments in between, brackets where life doesn't seem to wrap its cold hands around your throat. Time spent in each other's company just for the sake of it. 

Climbing onto your roof—a thatched mess of moss and straw and broken asphalt shingles that will one day give under your weight—and watching the stars, always searching for one that rockets across the sky while he murmurs beside you, quiet in this stillness that falls like snow in the dead of night around you. A hushed whisper as he relays the places he's been—all stars, he rasps, hand brushing wide strokes across the raspberry sky, dusted with light pollution: I'll take you there one day to see. Best fucking beer I'd ever had, too, just don't tell my cousin because he thinks the shitty lager he makes for his bar is good—and you try to picture it amongst the grey clouds. A life on the opposite side of the world. Just the two of you. Always. 

And that's what it's always been, hasn't it? Just you. Just him. 

It's sometime past midnight on a street corner in Manchester. Your feet hurt from walking all night, and your clothes are damp from the rain that caught you off-guard. A summer downpour. It clings to your skin in a way that's both freeing and wholly uncomfortable, but you're not thinking about that. You're not thinking about anything at all, not now. Not really. There's a silence in your head as the world falls into pieces, breaking like the jaundiced light that cuts crevasses and canyons in the tenebrous that colours sharp valleys of his face. He turns, then, a gentle list of his head as he takes you in, breathes your silence and questions the wideness of your eyes, the soft parting of your lips. The movement makes the light spill over the arch of his nose, the slope of his brow. The dawning of a new day. A new world. The untouchable of the moon where no light shines now burning hot under the sun. 

Then suddenly, and all at once, there's a loudness in your head: a hundred whispers echoing in time to the same off-beat rhythm, full of memories and moments shared between you, threads woven throughout the years all buoying to the surface as you realise you're a little bit in love with him. 

(And maybe you've been a little bit in love with him the whole time.)

So, you say it. You whisper all the words that bubble up, impatiently waiting between your teeth, effervescent and burning white-hot as they throw themselves over bone and flesh to be free. 

Confessing goes like this: 

Molten agony in your guts as the secrets you barely understand yourself dissolve into the atmosphere, spoken aloud and born on cobblestone and petrichor. Wide-eyed shock, uncertainty, as a new quiet falls over your shoulders, louder than anything you'd ever heard. Guncotton in your nose. A million detonations in your ears. 

You've never much liked the silence. You break it, then, with your bare hands. 

"...and that's basically it." 

It isn't much. It isn't poetry. You're not even sure the words were real. A figment of your imagination, broken free because of baristas in Amsterdam and losers from Kent, abysmal dates and the unending fear of being wholly alone in a world you're not prepared for, all without the person who makes you feel a little bit better about the nothingness that permeates around you. 

And sure. Sure. You don't need him. If Kyle decided never to speak to you again, you'd cry and you'd hurt, but you wouldn't be less of a person because of his absence. He doesn't complete you in the same way you've read about in thick books with strong-willed protagonists and an abundance of petty misunderstandings, but he compliments you. Elevates the good and stifles the bad. You want to experience things with him—not because there's some grand force at play, red strings knotted around your fingers that lead you back to him—but because you like his company. His thoughts. His mind. His presence. His essence fills you with joy in the same strokes it makes you want to pull your hair out sometimes. Good and bad. You want it all. 

You want it. Want him. 

And he—

He's taking you home a little past midnight where you'll make yourself beans and toast and maybe try and sleep, or turn on the television to watch four women you're intricately connected to eat cheesecake and solve each other's problems. He could be at his own flat right now, playing that video game he said he wanted to try when he got back, or watching that movie he was supposed to with his flatmates, his friends. He could be talking to some barista in Amsterdam. 

But he isn't. 

He's here with you. Still. Still. 

"I just—," you say, or try to. 

But the rest is a muffled gasp against soft lips when he presses his against yours, stealing the words out of your mouth. 

You can feel your heart beating through your lips. Taste him on your tongue when he draws you closer, hands reaching, grasping. Pulling you into him, into his body. You fit against him, tucked safe between the parentheses of his arms. He tastes of cardamom and cornflower. Lavender notes between his molars. Hints of milk on his tongue. You drink him down and know, then, that this is what they mean they talk about love being a feast because you chase this taste for the rest of your life and never be satiated. 

He loops his arm around the small of your back, dragging you closer still. As if any atom between your bodies is an affront. There’s no hesitation in the action, in the way he burrows into your skin. No trepidation. 

And maybe it would be silly for there to be any. You know him—every iota, every inch; secrets whispered at midnight in a shallow breath and dreams uttered at noon. To be known, to know, is a powerful thing. You feel it ghost across your flesh, featherlight, and reach for it with your bare hands. Seeking, searching. You don’t stop until the tips of your fingers meet his warm skin, curling around him. Anchoring yourself to him. Stuck, now, in permanence. 

You find spots that were untouched before. Behind his ears, the dip of his brow, the curve of his nose, and the slope of his jaw. Cupping it in the palm of your hand, a plinth for him to rest his chin. 

Your canvassing makes him groan, makes him tilt down into you as he begins his own exploration, chasing you in a mad pursuit. Sliding over your valleys, your plains. Running over the rugged mountains and the steep cliffs. He scours your topography with eager, nimble fingers. It’s slow, languid. There’s no rush with this, a consensus you both seem to come to rather quickly when he pries open your mouth and tangles his tongue with yours. It’s sweet, soft. His hands mimic his chase, sliding along your body as if he means to commit the entirety of you to memory, searing it in his brain. 

It’s only when he comes to a crossroads at your navel, pushed flush against his body, does he stop. You moan in despair at it, wanting more and more, not ready to give up this taste that curls over your tongue—saccharine sweet, salty—and Kyle echoes the noise with a groan, a quiet plea for air that both of you desperately need but can’t quite make yourself take. 

“Fuck—” he groans again, breath stuttering out in sharp, deep gasps. “Can’t bloody tell you how long I wanted to do this for, fuck—”

His words seem to peel back the dreamy gossamer of a slowly burning sensuality. It ignites in a blaze, not at all unlike the swiftness of his anger. The sharp, sudden strike of a match. The crackle and hiss of flames renting the air. 

The blaze starts at the point where your upper lip touches his, and almost immediately, it consumes you. 

It's frenzied when he kisses you again—feral and wild: all teeth and tongue and nips against your bottom lip but the moment you sink into the fervour, Kyle changes it. Slows down. Chaste pecks to your sore lips amid a sensual onslaught. A languid roll of his tongue, soothing the burn his teeth left behind. 

The way he kisses you feels like a paradox. 

It's organised chaos. Refined madness. A cluttered mess of finesse and deliberate suckles; an artist's masterstroke. 

You can't keep up. His rhythm is fierce and uncatchable. 

Each step seems to stutter. An avartan you can’t keep pace with. Elongated taals, dips. A crescendo of harmony that is matchless, unreproducible. You struggle along with his swift current, his unerring tide that sweeps you away; unmoored, adrift. The tentative exploration ends. He knows you, now. All of you. And this is his summit. His scramble to the top. It’s biting passion; roaring flames. 

You cling to him, holding tight to the liferaft he offers in a slow huff, a gust of mirth across your lips and into your lungs, slowing down to accommodate you. Malleable, now, he lets you lead, lets you take over, and move seamlessly with him. In tandem, parallel. Equilibrium brings you to heel, and you sigh into his mouth—a deep exhale of everything that has been building and building, tipping the scales around you until it was unbalanced and precarious. Teetering on the edge a precipice unknown. 

His hand roams across your known geography—hills and streams, rivers and canyons—until he reaches your hand still bracketed around his cheeks, slowly peeling it away from his flesh to slide his fingers between yours, holding tight, and—

Kissing is immaculate. Bending at an altar, and making an offering to something bigger than yourself. It’s the spark of lightning flashing overhead, static in the air. Magnets drawing closer and closer until they snap together in the middle.

But holding his hand?

It feels like coming home. 

The world tipping back into place. Amber warmth in your veins; the softness of a jasmine petal. You suck in a deep breath at the shock of it all. 

You think of missing puzzles and loose sea ice drifting alone in the vastitude of the ocean. You think of a life where he isn’t in it and find yourself shuddering at the wrongness that emanates from it. 

You want him. Want him—

It’s Kyle who pulls away first, resting his forehead against yours. You blink slowly, eyes catching dark amber, honeycomb. It draws a smile from you, full and deep. Giddy on the taste of him, of this. 

The only thought in your head is finally, finally.

You see his lips curl in response, eyes lidded and heavy. Blooming with want, affection. Adoration. 

"What, ah—," he laughs a little, then, breathless and happy, and the noise anchors itself to your breastbone, pressing into the hollow of your ribs. A place you'll keep it forever. "What now?"

He hands you the starless sky, and places it into the cup of your palm. Breathes laughter in the air, paints the moon with his joy. You think about the places he wants to take you, and the ones he swears you'll never go. You think about aeons from now when the world is gone and the stars all die out, when there's just the hazy lavender of endless abyss you can't make sense of. You think of him, and you think of you, and you wonder when it started to just make sense for there to always be two. 

Maybe that night in Cardiff when he held your shoes and gave you his coat. When he draped his arm around your shoulders, laughing at something stupid you'd said. A year before he joined this task force he makes cheeky remarks about but never goes too deeply into detail. When it was just endless summers spent working and drinking and eating good food. 

He'd asked the same thing, then, half slumped over in the taxi, and three sheets to the wind. It made his eyes darken, endless pits. Black holes. The expanse of the sky is framed by brown lashes, and drooping lids.

And you'd said—

"Beans and toast?" It feels right. It feels good. "We can—"

He huffed, too, just like he does now, and squeezes your hand once, tugging you along. 

"We're not watching Golden Girls."

You watch Golden Girls. Kyle wraps his arm around your neck, keeps you tucked in close to his side. He steals kisses from you when Sophia says something that makes you laugh until you're breathless and trembling. 

When David from Kent texts you, he grins wide, and whispers in your ear, think I've always been a little bit in love with you, you know? 

Yeah, you say, and kiss back until the taste of him is etched into the space between your teeth. Since Cardiff. For you?

"Since Uni for sure." He smiles again, sheepish and a touch flustered. It glitters on his brow and nips the apples of his cheeks. "You stole my heart when you devoured four lamb kebabs and then ate my tabbouleh. Said to myself, yeah, that's the one for me, innit?"

"On second thought, what's that Barista's number? Might try my luck instead."

"Nah, you're smitten," he presses his lips into the hollow of your throat, nips his teeth against your pulse point. "And you're all mine. No take backs."

"Ah, for fuck's sake—"

Ahhhhhhhh. Sappy romcoms are my kryptonite and it shows.

COD MASTERLIST | NAVIGATION

[r0-boat]

All right since belphie is officially out,

Some of you was asking before what he would be like as a father

Belphegor(+beleth) as a father/Belphegor and his child headcannons.

Cw: more slightly toxic family shit, This is just for fun don't have children with these clowns...

Edit: congrats Levi on being the number one worst father everyone saw this coming.

Belphegor is the lowest tier, above Leviathan but underneath Beelzebub. that's only because he's bad at actually doing the stuff he needs to do as a parent. He would be a perfect father, actually, when it comes to spending time with his kid. But I don't think you can trust him not passing out trying to do any diaper changes or feeding or preparing them or sitting through boring ass parent-teacher conferences.

The kid is definitely an oops baby. He wouldn't have wanted a kid because it would be too much work. I honestly wouldn't be surprised if he didn't like children at all. However it seemed like something changed in him when he held your child for the first time. Motherfucker was too lazy to put on a condom, lol.

Being the parents of a kid of sloth means you don't got to do much work anyway. The kid is always asleep. It doesn't cry very much, And it's deficient maintenance. Like, and I mean that baby sleeps for 75% of the day. Even then, when it comes to actually parenting and doing work for taking care of a kid, it's either you or Beleth.

In reality the kid has two dads, I sense possible favoritism when the child grows up for Beleth rather than the biological father but this ain't Jerry Springer.

AAA Belphie does not know how to hold a child. All those memes of holding children that's him all of them!!!

Beleth's not the stepfather He's the father that stepped up.

The nobles swear up and down that ever since the child was born Belphie has been working 'harder' You don't see it...

Beleth treats the child as if it was his own, fun fact. If it wasn't you who named the child he would have probably named him or her.

Belphie is that dad with a daughter who lets them do his makeup and make them all pretty while he sits there pretending to be a princess at a tea party.

Making a nation safe for not only his people but now his children that is his goal and that will never change.

He's so glad that his kid is actually well behaved catching wind of the bullshit Satan and his child is doing, and Levi is trying not to get stabbed by his child with a fork. Meanwhile his cute child who always has his hands clutched with a blanket drowsily walking through the castle to find a good sunny spot to sleep in.

Wake up at 3:00 a.m. trying to get water go to the bathroom but you're being smothered by your child, your husband, and your second husband, asleep in your arms in a cuddle pile of death.

[showtoonzfan]

Now that the episode is out officially, here’s my rant review of Oops!

PROS:

- Fizz and Ozzie were adorable and I honestly love them. Despite the sex jokes, you can tell they love each other for who they are OUTSIDE of sex. While I did wish we would have seen more, (like how Ozzie took him in and fell in love) they’re still adorable to watch. They’re the better version of Stolitz, can the show be about them instead?

- Brandon’s voice acting holy shit, he really knows how to sound like he’s in tears or is broken. As much as I hate the character and feel no sympathy, he displayed genuine and broken emotion very well.

- Alex Brightman Alex Brightman

Okay that’s it. Moving on to the Cons. Bear with me, it’s a lot and I go back and forth a bit. 😭

CONS:

So for a quick short summary, this episode:

- Once again puts more focus on the filler plot rather than actually focusing on the relationships between the characters, so all we're left with is a 10 second clip of Fizz being burned while the rest of the episode is surrounded on sex jokes/petty bickering and Stolas and Ozzie sitting around.

- Completely erases what made Blitz and Fizz's dynamic interesting in the first place because it retcons it with a dumb miscommunication trope about how Fizz actually wanted to see Blitz and Blitz tried reaching out to him. Not only does this feel like a cheap attempt to make Blitz out to be sweet/sympathetic and NOT the one in the wrong so Fizz can suck up to him, but this also makes no sense within the narrative.

- Has Fizz forgive Blitz despite him being the last person anyone would think would forgive him. (So honestly ruins Fizz himself because it turned him into a soft boy who's forgiving compared to the asshole he was in Ozzie's) All because Viv would sell her whole soul before she even remotely considers painting characters like Blitz and Stolas out to be the one's in the wrong.

- Takes Stolas out of the hospital completely, erasing all the drama/tension Western Energy had and proves that that episode was utterly pointless.

- Turns Striker from an interesting complex villain to a Saturday morning cartoon goon.

- Proves to us that Crimson is just a flat tool and gives us more prove that the world building rules Viv set up in season 1 legit don't matter.

-Ruins Blitz/Barbie's feud now because now you're making Barbie look like the one in the wrong since the fire was an accident. God forbid a female characters emotions in this show are justified.

But if you want my more in depth rants, it’s under the cut! (There’s a lot so bear with me lol)

- As usual WAAY too many sex jokes and swearing. It gets annoying and repetitive at times and some of them distract from the main plot. There’s a long and I mean LONNG dragged out joke of Fizz talking about Ozzie’s dick, then later saying he’s hard when Striker has a gun to his head, as well as Blitz making a joke about him and Fizz making out once they hug. Again, Viv can’t be serious for 2 seconds without an unfunny shitty gag. I genuinely wonder if Hazbin is ganna be like this, where a character is in a life threatening situation or a deep dark serious scene happens only for the next scene to be sex related.

- This is one of those “shit happens because the plot demands it” and it shows. Crimson and Striker COINCIDENTLY meet up with each other, and Fizz and Blitz just so HAPPEN to be in the same exact area they are. Viv wonders why we call her shit a fanfic and this is what we mean, when she creates wild wacky plots and focuses more on THAT rather than the actual character writing. This entire episode hinges on a useless poorly last minute planned kidnapping plot that didn’t need to happen. Also way to once again make the characters idiots so the plot can happen, cause Fizz KNOWS Ozzie worries for him and that the Greed Ring is dangerous, yet purposefully puts the spotlight on him.

- Stolas did NOT need to be in this episode. The plot completely ignores the fact that he was in the hospital the last time we saw him, and he’s only here for Stolitz banter. You’d think that a character admitting they have feelings for someone would be a big deal but he just flat out says it and it’s so underwhelming and feels half assed with no weight to it. Fan comics have made more dedication to this than Viv has. We're supposed to believe him too despite the show failing to actually SHOW us this. Same for Blitz ranting about how “nice” Stolas has been to him, laughing at his jokes and liking his posts…hey Viv, can we actually SEE that on screen so it’s more believable? Or are you only determined to show them sexually flirting? 😑

- Once again Viv felt the need to shove a B plot into this episode and this one sucks because it’s just two characters sitting and doing fucking nothing. It felt like Viv had no idea what to do with Stolas and Ozzie, and I refuse to believe that Ozzie just sat there knowing Fizz was in danger. If anything he would have said “fuck the paperwork” and went to save Fizz himself. Way to show that gif of Ozzie getting mad as a sneak peak to get fans excited, only to see that Ozzie spends the rest of the episode sitting in a dark room LMAO what a let down.

- Ozzie is weirdly chill and cool with Stolas and it’s something I don’t get. While he did say that Stolas had the real “spirit of Lust” in S1E7, it still gave you the impression that he was also more poking fun at Stolas rather than respecting him. The whole point of House of Asmodeous was that Ozzie outs him and publicly embarrassed him. Stolas literally was intimidated just by Asmodeous’s mere name, and hid his face around him. It seemed like Stolas certainly didn’t want someone like Ozzie to know about his private life especially since they’re both part of the Ars Goetia. Now here Ozzie is just cool with him and it feels like a missed opportunity for their dynamic.

- Stolas confessing his feelings about Blitz also makes…no sense narrative wise. I thought the whole point of The Circus and the ending to Western Energy was that he was realizing that Blitz didn’t like him that way and was finally waking up. I thought that’s why he was doing this whole crystal deal in the first place, so he can let Blitz go, yet the show keeps flip flopping and insisting that these two love each other and are good for each other. It’s really making you realize how this season and the previous stuff set up is becoming nonsense because the writers retcon EVERY damn episode. Also….why the hell is Stolas telling Ozzie his feelings for Blitz? Out of all people, why is it Ozzie, the person who outed Stolas and embarrassed him. Why is Stolas even respectful of Ozzie? He has no reason to, and he’s not under the impression that he’s dating Fizz either. I get that he needs the crystal but mentioning his love for Blitz makes no sense.

- Striker and Crimson teaming up to kidnap Blitz and Fizz was such an ass puller last minute decision. It feels overwhelming and underwhelming at the same time, more because it feels like Viv has no idea what to do with these two villain characters other than give them something evil to do to start the plot. Also…why…are they working together? It feels so random.

- Striker’s character especially is all over the place. First he’s working for Stella, then he’s painted as the best assassin in hell, and now he’s…looking for more work I guess and working for Crimson? Why? Does this guy even have a motive anymore? It feels like his character is just dangling around until Viv wants to use him for another wattpad kidnap plot and it ESPECIALLY shows when Striker escapes for the THIRD fucking time. Can this character/storyline actually GO somewhere or are you just going to keep introducing him and have him run away. 🤦🏽‍♀️

— How did Crimson not know who Striker is despite him being labeled as “the most popular assassin in hell”, and how the hell does Crimson know Ozzie and know all the information about him being in a relationship with Fizz?? Oh right because we needed the plot to happen somehow. Still, even if Crimson did know that Ozzie was the "weakest" and loved Fizz, (which….what about Beezlebub?)) he still should have known he was playing with fire. I get that he's supposed to be evil and intimidating but how could he have predicted that Ozzie would actually stand down and fill out the paperwork? He could have immediately came there and killed Crimson for all he knew. It's just distracting how..not planned this shit was.

- Fuck this episode for calling Striker a supremacist. It makes no sense?? Viv is trying SO hard to villainize him despite him being the one in the right and it pisses me off. He has every right to be mad at the upper class, he’s part of the lower class that we’re said Hell takes advantage of, but god forbid we call out Rich and powerful Stolas because that would mean he’s a b-bad person and we can’t have that complex morality! This is so not a “eat the rich” story and it shows bc Vivzie is rich as hell. Striker as a character deserves so much better man. Congrats writers, you had an interesting character and motive set up for him, now he’s nothing but a silly goon that you might as well kill off already cause you clearly don’t care about him. Crimson meanwhile is just a piece of paper, a boring plot device I could give less of a shit about. I thought his motive was to go after Moxxie, now he’s just doing fuck whatever because this show desperately wants a bad guy for their filler fanfic plots.

- We get more world building issues, Ozzie and Fizz are so determined to hide their relationship for obvious reasons, but then at the end of the episode just say “fuck it, no one would dare tell anyway”. So now they’re being open about their relationship and lmao I told y’all the newspaper scene of Ozzie being called out for being a hypocrite wouldn’t go anywhere. Even if Ozzie did threaten his workers to not tell, they can’t be so sure that someone wouldn’t see or snitch, it’s kinda a retcon too cause they were pretty lovey dovey in Ozzie’s. Still, it makes the characters look dumb and it makes the rules Viv set up for Hell once again not mean anything.

- We finally get to see Fizz’s backstory in action and it’s executed in the most underwhelming way possible. It’s literally a fucking 10 second clip of what went down, and rather than experiencing the event for ourselves, it’s in flashback mode but with Fizz’s voice talking over it. That’s it. I’ve seen fan comics/fanart that built this shit up better than Viv did, that actually took the slow time and dedication it needed, and here it feels like such an afterthought, like Viv could care less. Maybe if this actually was a character driven show like Viv claims, Stolas, Striker, and Crimson would be taken out of the picture and then that would leave us with PLENTY time to actually explore and develop Blitz/Fizz, bc most of this episode is just them pettily bickering and Stolas and Ozzie sitting around. But nah, we gatta have our fanfic kidnapping plot. Same goes for the reveal of Blitzo’s mom dying in the same fire. Glad to know that she got the same treatment Moxxie’s mom did, where we don’t even know her and yet we’re supposed to feel moved and care about her death. You nailed that one Viv. 👍

- I predicted that this episode would victimize Blitz and have the fire incident be an accident, (because Viv is a pussy writer and can’t make her characters actually do bad things like god forbid) but I never thought they’d actually have the balls to have Fizz forgive Blitz immediately in the same episode and pull the “actually turns out that horrible thing you did to me helped me in a way”- trope. Biggest flaw of the episode, fuck you Viv. I was actually going to applaud Blitz for taking accountability, but then the dialogue reminds you that an abuser wrote this, and he shifts his apology to “okay but I lost something too see so it’s not all about you” as if he’s fucking dismissing Fizz’s trauma and making it about himself. “I love flawed characters” my fucking ass. I would have smacked a bitch if I was Fizz because Blitzo loosing his mother in the fire too isn’t an excuse?? Fizz lost his fucking ARMS AND LEGS, and at the end of the day Blitzo STILL KNEW HE WAS HELPLESS IN THE FIRE BUT LEFT HIM BEHIND. He could have gotten help and came back, but didn’t. If this were a good show Fizz would have threw that apology back in Blitzo’s face and said “I don’t care if it was an accident or not, you still left me there and then proceeded to loathe me for years”. This is why Helluva will never be Bojack cause at least characters in that show who got treated horribly by him knew when to say “no, fuck you.”

- The episode retcons again, this time they make it out to be that Blitz TRIED contacting Fizz the years they were apart but no one would let him see him. Then they say that Fizz actually WANTED to see Blitz but assumed he didn’t want to, so their entire feud was solely because of miscommunication?? Number one, show don’t fucking tell omg. And number two, that makes ZERO sense. Blitz talked badly about Fizz in Loo Loo Land, and when they finally reunited in Ozzie’s, it was clear they fucking loathed each other. You got the impression that Blitz was petty and jealous just because Fizz was more popular, and Fizz not only loathed him for the accident, but liked to rub in his face about how much of a big shot he was. They literally do that in this episode too, so the episode is literally contradicting itself. Blitz and Fizz had multiple chances to meet up with each other, you can’t just say “oh they couldn’t because no one would let them”- So which is it? Did they hate each other because of bad blood, petty drama, or that they thought the other didn’t want to see them? Pick ONE Viv and stick to it, but she never does. Their feud was interesting and now you ruined it just to have some sweet happy ending. “Adult mature show” my ass lol.

-Bottom line is Fizz shouldn’t have forgave Blitz so easily, or forgave him period. I find it funny how he says “it’s hard to just forgive you” and then he literally does lol. I feel so bad for Fizz fans, him and Blitz’s feud was honestly interesting, so to see all of this go down in a half-assed piss poor way as if this was Care Bears is….wow. The fan interpretations had more thought and care put into this storyline but what else is new lol.

- I’m really tired of these shitty annoying songs. If you’re going to get Broadway actors, please put effort into your songwriting and actually have them sing something good, not something that’s literally nonsense. This Fizz song sounds like it took less than a minute to write and Sam Haft was just thinking of anything he could think of at the top of his head. Also Why the fuck are Striker and Crimson just STANDING there while Fizz sings. They look like idiots, just SHOOT them omg. If this were a funny show, Fizz would have started his first note and Crimson just rolls his eyes and pulls his gun out.

- Fizz and Ozzie kill the lawyer but not…Crimson? Despite Fizz knowing what ring he’s in and even Ozzie knowing what he looks like? Same for Blitz, he doesn’t try to make sure Striker is dead. I get that the plot demands for these two to still be around, but there’s a way to keep them alive without making the main characters look like fucking idiots. Also Stolas just leaves without doing or contributing anything to the plot yay.

- Fizz: “Let him have it, you could say he’s earned it”— Uhm….Nope. Blitz did NOT earn shit. He didn’t even earn Fizz’s forgiveness. Last time I checked, the moment Blitz cried and said it was an accident, Fizz forgave him, knowing he didn’t mean it. What effort did Blitz do to “earn” that as well as the crystal? Because he saved Fizz and didn’t leave him behind for the SECOND time near the end?? Cause if so than the bar is extremely low. That’s the bare minimum, just because Blitz cried and felt bad about it doesn’t mean he should be let off the hook Viv. I hate this so much, what a shitty conclusion, it feels forced just so Blitz can have the crystal and just so the writers can once again paint him as the one in the right. It’s almost insulting that they make it seem like Fizz was in the wrong for assuming Blitz starting the fire too, same for Barbie.

God what a shitty day it is to be a Fizz fan, I’m sorry. The episode did NOT do him justice. Fizzarolli deserved better than that half assed gaslighting apology for someone who lost their arms and legs man, and I’m tired of the show letting every character suck up to Blitz and Stolas for their horrible treatment just because they feel bad. Not only that but the episode (as most recent HB episodes) was a huge time waster. Everyone was really hoping for an in depth walkthrough of his character/backstory but again, when he’s not with Ozzie, the rest/most of his screen time is dedicated to him being helpless and pointlessly arguing with Blitz, plus a long dragged out nonsense song that didn’t need to happen. It felt like SO much time was wasted when we could have used the runtime we have to dive deeper and see more, like….again it would have been nice to see Fizz’s life AFTER the accident and how he became well known as well as how he fell in love with Ozzie, but his backstory is briefly scratched upon in a single scene and that’s it, all because Viv wanted this filler plot and wanted to dedicate more time to THAT rather than actual character expansion/development, something we could have got had you took out Stolas and Ozzie’s B plot and Striker and Crimson.

Viv is so on her way to murder/ruin every character that isn’t Blitz and Stolas and I won’t be here to watch further. I’ll check out the Mammon music video thing but that’s it man, this show is going off the rails, Adding Fizz to the character adoption list!

[unlikablefemaleprotagonist]

i don't think people appreciate how good the mice & murder "oops all college humor goofballs" season was. i rewatched it right at the beginning of burrow's end (for adorable woodland creature reasons) and it's just so underrated.

first of all, every member of the cast is KILLING IT. grant is genuinely witty as a sherlock holmes-style dandy and is solving the case in real time. rekha's southern drawl gives me life. katie goes full peaky blinders. raph is a master of rolling badly and then roleplaying exactly how his character fucked it up. and sam's portrayal of buckster $ boyd is so charismatic it makes me want him back in the dome for a side quest ASAP

ally's portrayal of lars gets its own bullet point because i genuinely believe it's some of their best work. often ally's characters are the lynchpin of season lore, but lars proves how much ally shines when their talents for comedy are harnessed toward nothing but inhabiting an impossibly loyal silly little thembo who knows a lot about astrology

*hits the trunk of my car* this baby can hold so many nat 20s in it

specifically the nat 20 that rekha hit which made brennan speed rewrite the entire season??? and it works so well i can't imagine any solution to this mystery other than the one he came up with???

lucretia brockhollow's voice

honestly i thought i would dislike the covid-season-ness of it all but i actually loved that you could see everyone's facial expressions at the same time. it's a lot more smoothly executed in a technical sense than unsleeping city: chapter 2 or even fantasy high: sophomore year

the gags carlos luna did with the figures in roll20??? come on

sometimes a family CAN be a mother who's an epileptic mole, a father that's a capitalistic javelina pig, and a grave-robber weasel son who's probably older than the dad

it's just so cozy and fun and laugh-out-loud funny it makes me feel like i'm wrapped up in a blanket sipping hot chocolate from a warm mug

[flame-shadow]

A breakdown of my quirrel!nosk comic from last year (original post here) since I like doing breakdowns and talking about my process, and I know at least some people like reading those things. :)

First of all, a little background. I made that comic in an evening with just a pencil, a black marker, two grey markers, and a yellow-orange marker. (All markers had a thick tip and a thin tip, and all were water-based markers, so they don't blend like alcohol markers, but they can still be layered to affect the values) I had a text post from @g0at0ad saved in my drafts that said "gotta say. massive missed opportunity to not have nosk mimic quirrel to lure the knight into its lair." and finally, I had an idea for how to illustrate the reveal and felt I had a decent idea for the nosk's design.

I wanted to follow the same encounter order as the game provides, and by happy coincidence, I realized that the route from first sighting to nosk den includes the hot spring, so it made perfect sense for that location and the real Quirrel to appear in the comic.

Ghost spots a Quirrel-like figure in the darkness in the first panel, and then as the path continues and drops into the hot spring, there's (real) Quirrel, so clearly that's who Ghost saw a minute ago. Yay, friend! And since Quirrel explores around, it's not strange that Ghost would spot him again in an area not so far away, though it's odd how he got ahead of them. Perhaps a different tunnel? And it seems like Quirrel wants to lead the way to something, so Ghost follows, until- That's not Quirrel.

In addition to the potential of a reader already knowing the game's locations and recognizing the path to the nosk's den, there are other visual clues that subtly communicate that something might not be right. I made it so every panel but the hot spring one has black silhouettes encroaching on the space within.

The third panel is the mildest one being encroached upon because Ghost doesn't yet feel like something is off (still reassured from seeing Quirrel in the safe hot spring) but the trap is coming together. The existence of the spider web in the corner is a nod to the trap because it's a common visual symbol for being trapped.

Also note how both the first and third panels have some safety via straight panel edges. Contrasted with the fourth and fifth panels which have no straight edges as Ghost cannot escape and there is no safety.

Another subtle reinforcement of danger vs safety is how the use of black is very limited in the hot spring panel. It's a brighter room mechanically, yes, but it's also a Safe Room. The only black is Ghost's void parts and a thin outline around Quirrel (and also a bit of shading on his arm that I did out of habit before remembering that I wasn't going to use black to shade him here, oops!)

And, note that in the only panel with Real Quirrel, he isn't framed against a darker shape in the background.

Okay, and finally, I will share a bit about the nosk reveal panel and its design...

This pose and angle are dramatic and all, but they're The Worst for showcasing the actual design of the nosk! Just a complete mistake on my part that I did my best to roll with, since I didn't realize until too late how I'd messed myself up.

Which happens! I don't always get it right, and especially when I'm working traditionally, there's a point where I can't go back, so I just have to make do with what I gave myself. :) I don't hate what I have here, but I have been dissatisfied with it ever since I drew the lineart.

A thought I have had since then was that maybe I should've drawn it larger, to be more threatening? Maybe a different pose to show off the side-body frills? I explored a couple ideas below, but honestly, I think the whole panel would have to be reworked to get it right.

Making sure that the background frames the nosk effectively would be one of the main things I'd redo, but I'm getting tired and don't feel like drawing more, so I'll just leave it at the nosk replacement sketches.

And since I don't think I did a good job with displaying the nosk's design effectively, I quickly sketched some of the features to maybe show them off a bit better.

I like the gimmick of the nosk turning its head, so I pretty much always maintain that with my nosk designs. This one is no exception. Quirrel's head and face become the cranium and upper jaw while Monomon's mask becomes the lower jaw - the extra length causes an underbite. I've always been a fan of when people add a veil hanging from Monomon's mask while Quirrel is wearing it, so that's where the frills come from. ("Why didn't you include the veil in your Quirrel drawings, then?" I hear you ask. And honestly..... I don't know! That could've been an oversight or it could've been deliberate and I just don't remember my justification. That happens sometimes XD)

Anyway uhhh yeah! I think that's it. I like making comics. I like thinking about nosk. Tadaa~

[sceletaflores]

•｡ꪆৎ ˚⋅ wip wednesday!

thanks for the tag babes! @guiltyasdave • nsfw under the cut! 18+ MDNI!

wip #1 • show me a little bit of spine! feat. logan howlett (& crimson!)

'five x-men walk into a bar, only three walk out…'

oops i don't have a sneak peek for this one...sorry chickens.

this is an official part two to "all's fair in love and viscera" cause i can't leave them alone to save my life! i finally decided on the name crimson for this specific reader, and the au as a whole will be called the to the bone universe (that’s also how it’ll be tagged on my acc!!!)

this is jealous!logan getting down and dirty in a bar bathroom after a special someone makes a move on his girl...wink wink nudge nudge. a special guest! a very special guest, cause what better way is there to get a man off their ass and admit they like you than dirty dancing with another man in front of him.

think degradation, biting, pain kink (obvi wtf). there's also some emotional constipation and just a hint of angst. it'll be so fun!

wip #2 • says he needs it bad (oh so very bad) feat. sub!logan howlett (& crimson!)

'it’s not often that logan needs this, but you’re always more than happy to give it to him when he does…'

double oops i don’t have a sneak peek for this one either…pls forgive me!

this is also apart of the to the bone universe but it's more like a non-connecting little blurb than another part...if that makes sense lol i just wanted to write more crimson!

all this is thanks to a lovely anon who sent in a req desperately needing me to speak on sub!logan. it's funny because ofc i'll speak on sub!logan wtf who do you think i am. it's honestly one of the fluffiest, softest things i've ever written...established relationship is really locking my ass down. it's still filthy though don't worry! think riding, think pain kink, think light dustings of a breeding kink. i really don't know how to explain this lmao it's gonna be great trust me!

wip #3 • hunting for sport... feat. logan howlett (& crimson!)

'there's a big bad wolf somewhere in these woods...'

You scramble backwards, stuck watching the way the brush starts to rustle as he gets closer. You push yourself back to your feet, muscles screaming in protest as you break into a sprint. It's all in vain, you know it is. He's only playing with you, letting you tire yourself out. He’s known where you’ve been the whole time, could smell you the whole time, could hear you the whole time. The two of you have been at this long enough now, his patience is starting to run thin. He's right behind you, if the violent thrashing of the brush over your shoulder getting louder is any indication. The dull sound of claws ripping through the forest floor growing closer and closer before the entire woods suddenly tilts on its axis.

this is also in the to the bone universe! can you tell that i'm really into this au? i physically can't stop writing them...another little fic that's outside the events of parts one and two :))) who would i be if i didn't write a chase fic for this man? that's the real question. more violence heavy than the other fics listed, i got bit by the freak bug and i need to write nasty sexy violence sorry babes.

wip #4 • give it to me like a man! feat. dbf!patrick zweig

'patrick comes to your college graduation party, he gives you the best gift...'

“Yeah, I've been pretty busy since the season started. Lot’s of traveling and shit, you know?” Your dad hums in agreement, nodding his head lazily. “For sure, my schedule has been killer this season.” He brags shamelessly, tone heavy with understanding like he and Patrick are in the same boat. Only your dad’s boat is a three million dollar yacht sailing to cushy televised matches and Nike shoots while Patrick is floating on a dinghy to some barely media covered ITF matches. “It’s a miracle I even had time to fly in for the party, isn’t that right sweetheart?” Your hand slides up the length of his cock in one slow motion, your palm grinding over the tip through the denim. “Yeah, daddy.” You say, voice going light and airy around the edges. Patrick thinks it’s being said to your dad, but when his eyes flick over to you, you’re already looking at him. Eyes half-lidded and shiny as your fingers brush over the metal of his zipper.

the long awaited dbf!patrick lol i know i've been dragging this damn thing out for like three weeks but it's the most "done" fic on this list so maybe maybe MAYBE it'll actually be posted soon...

anyway this is nothing but pure filth. just straight up nasty no plot at all pure sex and fucking hard gross style. lots and lots of dirty talk, degradation, risk play, sort of public sex, a barely there daddy kink...just me being nasty on a google doc for no reason!

no pressure tags! @ebodebo @artemis-b-writes @avocado-writing (it's technically thursday but like oh em gee who cares just do it anyway chickens)

[finniestoncrane]

What's a kink of each of the riddlers that you feel like you haven't really talked about?

More Riddler Kinks

Riddler Headcanons hooray, finally getting round to this one after the event!! it's a long one too oops... ok i am got INTO this. some of them i think i've mentioned before but i am so glad to put my silly little thoughts into more detail 💚 request info • prompt list • send me a request • kofi • masterlist minors DNI!! 🔞 cw: so many potentially triggering kinks here, cnc, piss, free use, roleplay, rough sex, violence, monster fucking, nude photography

dano

i have written about it a LOT but he definitely has a thing for cnc/rape play

and with him, it comes from a space of feeling like he's not good enough, and follows his life's trajectory of having to take things he wants rather than wait patiently for them to come to him

he wants to be in control of a situation, something he's never had before in any aspect of life

something that allows him to feel like he's in charge, that he's got the power

and at the same time, it's so emotionally fulfilling for him to be trusted by someone to that extent

to know a partner is willing to allow themselves to be so vulnerable around him, to get to be so close and intimate with someone

to feel like he's someone you have actively chosen to trust and let him take part in something like that

and to speak to him like an intelligent adult while you cover rules and boundaries and safe-words

that's so healing for him to experience, and it only amplifies his sweet and adoring behaviour outside of your more intense bedroom sessions

plus, any excuse to offer you the most satisfactorily sickeningly sweet aftercare, that's what he's really after

arkham

i play with this man like he's a fucking doll honestly there's not a kink i wouldn't give him, but allow me to delve into my most recent fixation

because i'm giving him a piss kink and no one can stop me

i don't think it's so much about the piss for him, more about the mess and the sense of control over someone's behaviours and habits

definitely about the embarrassment and humiliation

because the minute you let yourself go, the minute you're vulnerable standing or sitting in front of him

bound by his rules to not interrupt him for bathroom breaks

knowing that any mess you make is your own fault

that's when he gets his kicks

and the ability to chastise and degrade you for making a mess of yourself and having very little self-control is an added benefit

telling you how ashamed you should be, while you can see the smug smile on his face and the growing tent at the front of his stupid cargo pants

i don't think he'd piss in you or on you though. as messy as he is i think even he knows standards of good practice when it comes to germs and such

(he's filthy, yes, but very picky over certain textures and substances, it's the autism)

plus the act of him defiling you would be too much, since this idiot harbours intense feelings of admiration and respect that he's too scared or embarrassed to admit to

gotham

i don't think i've gone into too much detail about his medical fetish, but he definitely has one

i mean, i did write that thing on the autopsy table... but anyway!

definitely veering towards the experimental side of medical roleplay

he'll get all of the correct gear on, nothing inherently sexual about it unless you're into that kind of thing

protective gear though, a smock, rubber gloves, maybe a mask

and you'll be expected to be fully nude, all of you exposed to him so that he can test the limits of each part of you

see how every square inch of your skin reacts to his touch

or to his various 'tools' that he's got, sterilised and prepared to work on you

there's no medical benefits to this, he's not aiming to fix you

but he is definitely good at making you feel much, much better than you did before you were laid down on his table

teased, torturous edging, new experiences and toys

until you're a shuddering mess, ready to be eased up for some aftercare before he cleans up for your next appointment

his desire to study you, to see what makes you tick and what makes you make the sweetest sounds is what motivates him here

and he will take rigorous and extensive notes during and afterwards

and then study them in his down time (or alone time)

telltale

corruption, for sure. like his whole personality revolves around being the best and greatest manipulator and schemer that ever was

so corrupting your innocence, real or roleplayed, gives him everything he wants from a sexual encounter

and in a relationship

it's not like he's 24/7 on with the whole "i am your master" thing

but it leeches into everyday life easily enough when you spend a lot of time in his company

any roleplay scenario where he can play an authoritative character while you are a weaker, more innocent position works for him

professor and student, master and servant, he's not beyond playing god and having you pretend to be a nun either, and there are more taboo pairings he's willing to try

there's often elements of bondage, dominance, spirit breaking, orgasm control

anything where he has the higher ground

and he can teach you and show you new and exciting, or scary, things

having you beg to show him the correct ways, to educate you, to give you a new experience, to touch you in a way no one else has

that's what gets him off for sure

twojar

100% is into breeding, and definitely barebacking

the idea of fucking you completely raw (pending your health checks. he's completely clean and fine, but you on the other hand... he needs the documents)

that's what he's most into, especially if he can incorporate some other kinks into the foreplay or actual sex

and then have the grand finale be painting your insides with his cum, letting you feel the warmth of him

but it has to end with you under him, whichever position you prefer the most he's not fussy

with his cock buried deep inside of you

cumming inside of you and holding himself there, keeping you pinned to him

thrusting a couple more times for good measure so he can be sure he's pumped his seed as deep as it can go

and holding you afterwards, telling you how good you took him

his perfect little breeding stock, his sweet little cumdump

filled up and ready to bear the fruits of his labour

btaa

there is no doubt in my mind that every waking minute that he isn't spending on schemes or building his little gadgets

is spent playing fantasy roleplay games, of any kind, on any platform, alone or in groups

he's a huge nerd! it's one of those things that he'll never outlive, once a big dweeb, always a big dweeb

so a big thing for him is roleplay, and specifically, roleplay where he can involve some monster fucking

he can either play the hero, slaying the beast and then saving the girl, who promptly rewards him with herself to use

or being the hero who sets out to defeat the creature and instead ends up fucking it

or let him be the monster and he'll show you how monstrous he could really be

as long as it involves preparation, dramatic reactions, practice and rehearsing, preferably a script with some room for improv

and, of course, the most extravagant and detailed costumes (accurate to the scenario or time period, obviously)

then he will be a very happy, and satisfied, boy

zero year

i haven't really talked about this but it's a huge one for me personally with him

but i think he's a big fan of free use obviously like he just screams it

loves nothing more than a sort of semi-permanent situation where you spend days completely naked and at his mercy

and add a bit of roleplay into it, maybe you're his live-in housekeeper

cleaning for him, cooking for him, washing him, feeding him

and whenever he feels like it, he can stick his dick in you

but you can't react to him unless he gives you permission

you gotta stand there, kneel there, sit there, lay there while he fucks you without making any sounds

and comitting to whatever task you were in the middle of when he decided to start going at you

i just think it would absolutely send him to the moon to know that when you're walking around naked, bending over in front of him

hanging on his every word and obeying his every command

he could also just decide to press his cock inside of you nonchalantly

unburied

he's literally devoutly into cuckoldery, but he's the bull

imagine watching your partner get railed by some ineffectual dweeb with a penchant for riddles

knowing that he's giving it to them with all he's got, making them scream in pleasure and shout out his name

making eye contact with him at some point

and having him wink at you? stick his tongue out? give you some finger guns?

all with the most smug, self-satisfied grin you've ever seen on a human being

and then to top it off, he's calling out sex-themed riddles?

and laughing at you when you don't get them right?

that's not something you can come back from

that changes someone, on several deep levels

and truthfully, that's the part that he likes the most

the emotional scarring on your ego, and the little stroke his gets

knowing he's so annoying that he's unforgettable, which would be the biggest crime to him

btas

i have these ideas about him that always revolve around something artsy or classy

and while i think he would be into some dorky roleplay (he's definitely pretending to be a minotaur, sorry)

i do, selfishly i suppose, think that he would be into body worshipping

specifically in the form of erotic photography

he'd be keen to take pictures of you, in poses, costumes, scenarios, roleplays

directing you, encouraging you, watching you loosen up and let yourself go

whatever you were comfortable with, that's key here

and he'd cherish seeing your face afterwards when he showed you the final products

knowing he'd captured everything about you that he loves and finds attractive

pictures that he'll keep if you want, or destroy

it doesn't matter to him in the end really

he takes them because he thinks of you as his muse, the act of photographing you, of being allowed the vulnerability

to create with you in mind

that's what he finds most erotic and exciting and ultimately, an expression of his love and adoration for you

young justice

if you managed to get him to find the courage to admit to it, you'd learn his favourite thing is uh...

well... just because it plays into his... awkwardness, and shyness, and inexperience...

just... it makes sense that he has a virginity kink

but interestingly, it goes both ways

while he's so keen to have you show him the moves, and pretend to be inducting him into your little black book

teaching him how to touch you or how to move his hips

he's equally interested in switching the roles up a bit

it's a challenge for him, sure, but he's the riddler! there's no challenge he can't live up to

even if that means weeks of practice and lessons with an acting coach to get past the initial nerves

it would all be worth it to pretend that he was confident, dominant, and knew what he was doing

that and the satisfaction of taking something from you, something important

the honour in knowing he's your first (or at least pretending)

and the lasting impression he might have on you for that

that's the kind of idea that has him rutting into you like a fuckin beast

[rollinouttahere-writes]

Shanks rocks up to Lucky and Buggy’s wedding

Interacts with Lucky for like a minute: “you know what, this is nice, real nice, how about instead of it being your wedding (to buggy) it becomes mine”

Got inspired, did a little drabble

Frankly, this whole situation was embarrassing. Not only had you stupidly promised your hand in marriage to a god damn clown, you had now allowed yourself to be captured by said clown. Ashamed was not a strong enough word for how you felt.

Luckily for you, you'd been able to afford yourself some time away from what is regrettably your fiance by insisting that it was traditional for the bride and groom to not see each other right before the wedding. Admittedly, you didn't care much about it, you just wanted to give yourself some time alone and a chance to escape.

This was made difficult thanks to you being stuffed in a wedding gown by a very nervous seamstress that you're 99% sure was here against her will and being locked in the dressing room once she was finished. You weren't about to give up, though. Maybe you could squeeze yourself out of the window?

The escape attempt was shot down almost immediately by a knock at your door. Without waiting for an answer, whoever it was unlocked it and let themselves in. You'd assumed it was Buggy being unable to wait to see you in the wedding gown, but instead a red haired man came in. You can't help but wonder if he's lost, his clothing looks far too casual to be wedding attire.

His smile was warm and he held out a hand to you, "It's nice to finally meet you! I never thought I'd see the day where Buggy got married."

You had no idea who this man was, but politely returned the handshake regardless. His hand was rough and calloused, he most certainly didn't lead a leisurely lifestyle. The sooner you could end this interaction and send him on his way, the sooner you could make a run for it. You laughed awkwardly, "Yeah, I never thought I'd see the day either."

The man raised a brow at your response, but didn't comment on how forced it sounded. You attempted to pull your hand away when the handshake went on for longer than you deemed necessary, but his grip was too tight. It wasn't until you pulled again, harder this time, that he realized what he was doing and let go.

Even he seemed a little startled by his own actions. He scratched the back of his head and chuckled, "Sorry about that, my crew and I were up all night getting ready for the wedding when we caught word of it. I guess I'm a little more tired than I realized." His eyes gave you a once over, fully taking in the gown you were wearing, "Oh, and you look lovely by the way, I can see why he's in such a rush to get a ring on your finger."

"Oh, thank you, that's so kind of you," your voice was borderline monotone. "Also it's fine, don't worry about it." His excuse made sense. With how many people there were that would happily end Buggy if it meant even a slightly improved chance at being with you, the wedding was rushed to say the least. You're pretty sure Buggy was actively hunting down someone to officiate the union as you spoke.

You honestly hadn't expected to see any guests here beyond Buggy's own crew, which again raised the question of: Who are you talking to?

Might as well sate your curiosity and ask, "So... Are you a friend of his?"

His brows raised and his eyes widened slightly. Were you supposed to know who he was already? Oops. He spoke up before you could wrack your brain for clues as to who he was, "I guess I shouldn't be surprised that he didn't mention me, he's always been a bit... Moody. I'm Shanks, we grew up together."

Your jaw hit the floor. Shanks? THE Shanks??? The guy that Luffy couldn't shut up about?!

"Y-Y-You're the guy that gave Luffy his hat!" You pointed at him with a shaky hand as all decorum and manners went out the window from the shock of knowing who you were talking to.

Shanks laughed loudly, "The one and only. How is that kid anyway? Seems like he's still getting himself into trouble just like the old days."

"Calling what he gets up to 'trouble' is putting it mildly," that boy can't take two steps onto an island without toppling a government. "He's great though, especially after rescuing Ace."

"I was relieved to see him get out of there safely, too. It's still a bit hard to believe that Buggy is the one who pulled it off, though."

Ah. Yeah. It was hard to believe for you, too. And even more difficult to accept just what that meant for you. You deflated as you were violently reminded of your current situation, "Yeah, I can't believe it either."

"Is everything alright? You don't seem very excited about the wedding," Shanks narrowed his eyes at you, scrutinizing your face for any hints as to why you were acting this way.

You weren't sure if confiding in him was a good idea. He clearly held a level of fondness for Buggy, so it was debatable if he would want to help you escape or keep you here. But... It's not like you had much to lose at this point.

"It's, uh, kind of a funny story. You see, I might've said something along the lines of 'if you save Ace, I will marry you', but like, I didn't think he'd actually be able to do it. So now I'm kinda stuck in this mess where he thinks I really meant it, but I didn't, and we're getting married in like ten minutes give or take and I don't know what to do?" You can only hope that your hastily thrown together explanation not only makes sense, but also earns you some sympathy.

Shanks lips were pursed as he stared down at you, "I did find it odd that your door was locked from the outside."

Hope sparked in your heart. In a fit of desperation, you threw yourself at Shanks and held onto him while looking into his eyes pleadingly, "Please, if you can just get me out of this room, I will really owe you one!" You're sure that the Straw Hats can't be far behind. If you can just get to the shore, they'll likely be there and ready to save you.

His hand rested on your back to keep you steady. Then, it started to gently glide up and down the exposed skin, which felt distinctly not like it was for your comfort. Horror seeped into your very core as you saw an all too familiar gleam in his eyes.

No, please, no. This can't be happening again.

"It would be a shame to let this dress go to waste... Maybe we can continue this on the Red Force? How does that sound?"

Suddenly, the door was thrown open and you saw an absolutely enraged Buggy standing in the entryway. "What are you doing here?! Get away from my wife!"

"But you aren't married yet, she could still be anybody's wife," Shanks tone was teasing but the look in his eyes was anything but.

That set Buggy off and in an instant he was throwing knives right at Shanks who dodged them with ease. You were shoved off to the side as Buggy kept trying and failing to land a hit on Shanks. While the red haired pirate was trying to engage in some witty banter, the clown was having none of it and just shrieked various insults at him.

Using the chaos of the altercation, you quietly slipped out of the room and made a run for it. There wasn't a chance in hell that you were going to stick around to see who won that fight. Because either way, you would be losing.

[system-of-a-feather]

hi!! back on my bullshit (asking for some resources if you have them and are willing to share)

would you mayhaps have some resources on non-western plurality? especially spiritual plurality but I'm curious about anything and everything

books, video essays, and other medias are very welcome too along with papers/scientific research !!

oop sorry it's a lot. also I'm 99% sure you replied to these kinds of asks multiple times I'm just not tumblr savvy (despite having been on tumblr 10+ years now)

thank you <3

@seasidewanderers

@seasidewanderers

God relatable about the "been on tumblr for 10+ years but still dont know how to use it well". I actually haven't really answered too many asks like this, at least not asking for resources and what not.

I do want to put a bit of a disclaimer about "non-western plurality" - at least from what I know from a more eastern perspective - a lot of "non-western plurality" does not actually really call itself plurality.

The concept of "plurality" in its self is a heavily western / european kind of concept, not because it only exists in those spaces, but because a lot of other spaces don't really make anything special of it so a name, community, label, etc is not exactly necessary or even particularly sensical. It's kind of like looking for "western singularity" or more accurately "western individualism". It's a bit redundant - at least in my personal perspective.

In a number of non-western cultures, the idea of having multiple selves and having that deep internal relationship isn't really anything too odd and I've heard a number of systems raised in those cultures or around cultures rooted in eastern philosophy that the people they mentioned having alters / parts / headmates to often responded POSITIVELY and casually to the concept because its generally just considered relatively normal if not a positive thing to engage with. The real question then becomes whether or not it counts as plurality or not and that's really up to the individual themselves.

It's a very western thing to really make a huge deal, spectacle and oddity out of experiencing oneself as multiple and honestly I think that can be kind of really well seen in a lot of eastern media with how much plural-adjacent themes are seen in non-DID and not-trying-to-be-DID ways. There is a large aspect of an external self and an internal self, a balancing of good and bad and opposing forces in a lot of Eastern Cultures both on religious, spiritual, philosophical, and just plain old cultural levels. Yin and Yang, Non-dualism, "Face", the general collectivist culture, Buddhism as a whole and deity yoga in particular.

Partially due to the social norms that tend to come with a highly collectivist culture and just the prominent foundational philosophies and spiritualities that are generally native to the area and the lack of a strong sense of individualism as seen in the west, it's extremely common to have strictly different modes for different situations and places as there is a strong level of conformity and respect that needs to be provided to specific locations in order to uphold the strong value of harmony that is valued heavily in collectivist cultures. People in these more collectivist cultures tend to really have to balance and make amends between these highly varied versions of themselves and so it isn't all too weird to be juggling notably different, changing and sometimes conflicting versions of selves; the version of you who is shaped to meet the communal needs and appeal / participate in sustaining harmony and the you that really fucking hates everyone here.

From talking with others who come from more eastern backgrounds, a thing we tend to kind of sigh and giggle at in the system community in terms of it being "extremely white / western" is just how overtly a lot of discussions on self, parts, and what not is EXTREMELY individualist and very much fundamentally built with a strong attachment to differentiation, defining yourself, labeling yourself, and drawing clear boxes around who you are to help understand, explore, and define your own identity. It's hard to really explain to those that are really deep into the western concept of individualism and haven't really looked into it and analyzed it, but as someone who is not exactly a fan of individualism and individualist perspectives, it's EXTREMELY loud and obvious in system communities.

And this is all a lot of preamble to really say there isn't going to really be "resources for non-western plurality" because its not anything particularly special in Eastern Cultures and cultures not built largely from a long running history of Christian / Catholic and maybe Abrahamic Roots (I don't know enough of about Islam or Judaism to say for sure but a lot of individualism does tend to stem from a cultural history and background with at least Christianity / Catholicism). Because it's not exactly special or anything particularly unique of a concept, most don't really label it or name it something or even really discuss it (also a symptom of collectivism and general Eastern cultures is not really discussing mental health or internal experiences, most of your experiences in these cultures are kept internally and dealt within yourself rather than with others) unless directly brought up by someone who DOES find it odd; ie usually a westerner or someone like me who is a first generation American from an eastern background.

So if you want "resources on non-western plurality" you won't find it looking for "plurality" as much as you would by looking into individualism vs collectivism and the cultural roots connecting to those concepts.

Of course there are also the more overt ones that talk about it, like Buddhism does because Buddhism largely serves as a way to try to teach people to find harmony within themselves AND the world to find and instill a sense of peace and serenity overall. That's added onto the fact that a lot of Buddhism is based on talking and discussing things so its an odd card out in a lot of eastern cultures in the sense they ACTIVELY like talking about how people experience themselves.

A lot of what I know comes from life experience, what I've been taught by my family and peers, and discussions with people who come from their own backgrounds; ie, most of what I know comes from anecdotal personal experience. Some I also know from some formal cultural responsivity / sensitivity / trauma informed care modules for work and during school, but most of it is honestly from personal experience and anecdotes.

Even so, I can provide some starting points to assist someone unfamiliar with the territory in investigating and learning a bit on topics relating to the normalization of plural-esque experiences in non-western cultures.

"The Concept of Self in Eastern and Western Philosophy" by Petar Radoev Dimkov is just an interesting run down of major philosophical branches of thought's perception of self

General Reading of Collectivism VS Individualism; I suggest searching up things regarding the clinical significance of understanding and acknowledging collectivism vs individualism when working with clients as well as the impact of those cultures on how one's self concept is experienced, developed and understood

General readings on the history of prominent eastern philosophies / religions (Buddhism, Taoism, Confucianism, Hinduism, Shintoism, etc) and their impacts on eastern culture / their ideas and values on the self, particularly in relation to others

And honestly? I'd suggest on actually searching and reading into the Western views of self and reading where those views and values come from as well because it will 1) likely bring up juxapositions to eastern views and 2) Its hard to truly learn and understand ANOTHER perspective if you don't first really sit and consider your OWN perspective

A lot of people think the idea that "we are one person, a unique self" is a scientific fact and in heavily white / western spaces, the way that statement is treated as fact is a very frustrating thing to see. "We are one person, a unique self" is a BELIEF that is ingrained deeply into Western Society that its treated and considered a fact despite there not really being scientific evidence to support it. (I think it also has something to do with how much "belief" is associated with religion, at least in America, rather than an opinion on something that has little scientific backing)

A lot of western psychology is also built with the assumption of a single unique self, so genuinely I think the best starting point for a white / western person to start trying to learn and understand eastern views is to first do a DEEP dive into Individualism and the Philosophy and Belief that everyone is their singular unique self.

Cause it's only when you acknowledge your own beliefs and cultural background can you actually appreciate, respect, and acknowledge another's beliefs and cultural background.

(Also just in general, learning about philosophy and following some people who just enjoy discussing philosophy can really help as well. Philosophy is the father of Science for a reason afterall. I don't know too much about him as I don't really actively follow him so he might have some bad takes or some bad history that I don't know about so take this recommendation with a grain of salt, but I really have enjoyed listening to Alex O'Connor on youtube talk about philosophy. I'm pretty sure he also engages in a lot of philosophy and religion-related debates and I think hes an Atheist? But I don't watch those so I dont know. I've only really watched his "Taking Trolley Problems Too Seriously" videos and a few one offs when I just needed something in the background while drawing, but he does know a lot of philosophical perspectives and does juggle them well enough that I honestly don't know his personal beliefs and lowkey don't really want to XD Ps: Im always hesitant to recommend youtubers cause almost all youtubers are assumed probably assholes, dicks, or Into Weird Things until proven otherwise)

[margowritesthings]

The Greatest Gift A Cowgirl Could Ask For

a @rdrevents Valentines gift exchange for @cowboydisaster

SERIES MASTERLIST

pairing: Arthur Morgan x f!reader word count: 4,400 words warnings: 18+ MINORS DNI, explicit language, sexual themes, vaginal sex, mentions of death, unprotected sex, throwing up (TW EMETOPHOBIA), very brief mention of SA in the past, unexpected pregnancy, mentions of Micah Bell a/n: am I britney spears in her 2000 grammy award winning song??? because oops, i did it again. i don't know how I managed to get Bea as my recipient for a SECOND time, but it only felt right to carry on building this universe I've made for her and lying to her about it all week. Whoops.

Bea, my beloved, Happy Valentines Day. You deserve the world and Im so glad I could dedicate this fic to you. Honestly I probably couldn't have gotten the motivation to get back on my feet and write again if it wasn't for you. Thanks for everything you do bby and I hope this lives up to your 'if by some miracle you get me for your gift exchange disregard my prompts and write a TGG prequel' (yes she actually said that) idea. Love you lots xxx

taglist: @cowboydisaster @inkandbloodbound @counteveryfreckle @elifsukirdaghehe @reaveries @delilah-grimes @luvliewriting @mrsarthurmorgan7 @photo1030 @snobbybastard

My Darling Wife,

I’m writing to you from up near Tempest Rim. I’ve tracked this bounty all over the goddamn Grizzlies and I’m ready to come home to you. I miss you so much and I’m real sorry I can’t be home in time for St. Valentines. Hopefully I can catch this bastard soon and make it up to ya. We’ll go to the theatre and sit right at the back, how’s that sound? I’ll move heaven and Earth to be beside you soon, you know I will.

I can’t wait to see you, sweetheart. I’ll be there as fast as I can be with enough money to take you out on the town. Won’t be long, I promise. 

All my love, Arthur

All my love, Arthur

All my love, Arthur

Your finger runs over his looped script, over and over as if it will somehow will your husband out of the crumpled paper and into your bed. It’s been 2 months since the letter arrived, 2 months of the agony of not knowing if he’s dead or alive robbing you of sleep each and every night. You miss him, more than you could ever imagine one person could miss another and you honestly don’t know what you’ll do if he doesn’t come home. 

It’s a 600 dollar bounty, it’s sure to be a tough job you constantly reassure yourself, unable to focus on anything but the absence of half of your very soul in every waking moment. 

The day he comes home starts like any other. Time's arrow marches on, the sun rises and sets over your makeshift family as they work and plan and rob and hunt. You busy yourself planning a job with Karen, cushioned into your schedule between menial tasks so that it’s just that bit easier to not think about him. As usual, your efforts are in vain, but at least the chores are done, your steed Diesel is happy, and, all being well, you and Karen will have about 30 dollars to split between you when the week is out. 

An hour before he comes home, everyone retires to bed, save for John (who’s on watch tonight) and you’re left alone by the campfire. It crackles and pops, embers swirling the air around you. It feels like you stare at the twisting flames until your eyes blur and burn and you can’t tell which are tears of irritation to your senses and which are your heart breaking once more.

Moments before you’re reunited with the second half of your heart, you hear John yelling. It’s instinct that drives your hand into your holster, still resting against your hip despite the late hour, and you perk up like a startled deer, straining to decipher Marston’s words.

“Who is it?!” “Arthur, you dumbass!”

Arthur.

Arthur?

“Arthur?!” It’s a breathless shout, barely heard over the rushing blood in your ears as your feet take you to your husband before your mind can even fathom that he’s here. 

But sure enough, when you reach the edge of camp, heart racing, you see Arthur Morgan riding his chestnut mare straight towards you, spurring her into a gallop as soon as he lays his eye on his waiting wife. Marston probably makes some remark about who ‘decided to show up’, but to you, there is nothing but you and Arthur, two magnets parted by an unnatural force finally reaching each other again with a deafening crash. 

And it is. A crash, that is, when Arthur all but throws himself off his saddle and your bodies collide, great big arms wrapping around your frame. It is then that the tears fall down your cheek, soaking into Arthur’s coat that smells so much like him it truly feels like a dream.

You thought he was dead.

Only when you’re safely in his arms, when he’s pressing frantic kisses to your head, whispering your name over and over into your hair do you allow yourself to admit that fact. You thought he was never coming back, and yet here he is. Words fail you, the overwhelming emotion settling right in your throat.

“Oh, god… oh, darlin’ I-I missed you so much…” 

You feel two large hands cup your cheeks, pulling you in for a kiss that holds everything and anything the past 3 months could have been had you not spent it apart. But everything fits back into place, the world starts spinning again and you’re whole the second Arthur Morgan’s lips meet yours. It lasts a lifetime, it lasts a fraction of a second. You want to stop time, keep Arthur in your arms forever and never again have to go through the torture of being away from each other. The two of you only part to throw near identical scowls at John, who is amusing himself by telling you to get a room.

Unfortunately, as Ms. Grimshaw so often reminds you all, the Van der Linde Camp is not a hotel, so tonight you will not be afforded the luxury of a private suite as John so kindly suggested. There is only your tent, hitched against the gang’s weapons wagon, the old canvas pulled around to offer a little privacy when you and Arthur first started… well, needing the seclusion.

Calloused fingers intertwine with your own digits, Arthur’s other hand flipping John off before his weight pulls you towards your little corner of camp. There's so much purpose in his stride, the need to have you all to himself, not even share you with the lord above or wildlife below, driving him forward. Driving him home. 

When you’re finally, truly alone, the tears welling in your eyes glistening in the candlelight, no words are needed. Soon enough, you’ll talk for hours on end, catching each other up on every little detail of the last few months. But for now, all that there is and all that could matter is right this very second, when Arthur reaches for you, brushing a thumb over the tear tracks on your left cheek. His eyes, looking almost emerald in the dark of night, roam over each and every detail of you with such an intensity in him that you think he’s trying to remember this moment for the rest of time. You’re sure it’s one you could never possibly forget. 

Arthur snakes both arms around your waist, guiding you backwards until the backs of your knees gently hit the cot and you lay back onto it. He covers the full length of you and then some, making you feel so fragile and small. It’s nice to feel breakable for once, to let go of the need to be the strongest in the room, lest you be ridiculed for being too sensitive or too weak or too womanly. Arthur knows just how strong you are, you need to prove nothing to him, so you can submit to his embrace, allow yourself to just breathe for once knowing you can break and there’s re will always be somebody to put you back together.

He lowers himself to your lips, pressing a kiss to them that doesn’t last nearly long enough. Arthur then kisses your nose, then your cheeks and chin, before trailing down to the crook of your neck. Your skin feels as though it’s on fire, so starved for the man you cannot live without that now he’s finally here everything feels that much more intense. The tiniest scrape of Arthur’s teeth against your flesh shoots through every single nerve in your body and you moan right into his ear. You can actually feel him harden against your thigh at the sweet melody of your pleasure. 

Pushing Arthur’s hat off to the side, your fingers rake through his hair, nails scratching at his scalp encouragingly as he nibbles at your skin.

“Oh, Arthur… Oh, I missed you so much…” You breathlessly whisper, feeling your heart skip a beat when he pauses his movements to glance at you from under impossibly long eyelashes, jade green eyes glistening up at you.

“I missed you too, sweetheart. So so much.” His voice is soft, as if he’s handling the peacefulness around you so delicately and it causes the overwhelming emotion to well in your chest and choke up your throat. Arthur sees this, trying not to be too taken with his own surprising amount of emotion himself, and relieves you of your job of a response by directing his attention to the buttons of your shirt. You don’t remember him pushing your jacket off your shoulders, but there it lies on the floor beside the entrance to your tent, so he must have.

Despite the juxtaposition of such dainty buttonholes and such large fingers, Arthur expertly undresses your top half until you’re bare to him. He takes no time at all to take one of your nipples into his mouth, kissing and sucking at it with a hunger you feel right in your toes. You moan loudly, unable to stop yourself after yearning for this very feeling for so long. 

Arthur coos and shushes you and it vibrates across your skin, not helping you stay quiet in the slightest. The hand not tugging on his dirty blonde locks reaches between your two longing bodies to begin to unbuckle his belt. You can feel your own heartbeat throbbing between your legs, your coil growing tighter and tighter by the second. It’s been almost 3 months since your bodies have joined like this, and yet you’re not sure you can wait another minute. 

You’re purring for Arthur, twitching and grinding as your hand fumbles desperately at the belt. His absence from your skin is agony the second he pulls his hips back to sit up straight. Spotting your downright bratty expression, bottom lip protruding in a pout, Arthur chuckles lowly, “Patience, baby… I gotta get these damn clothes off us.” He gestures to his belt, still very much buckled around his waist. Definitely not your fault. He was being far too distracting.

He’s quick, you’ll give him that, shedding his clothes without taking his eyes off you. You burn under his stare, even more so when he crawls back on top of you to slide your boots off one by one and peel your pants and undergarments down your legs.

The heat radiates off his huge body, his cock pulsing with need. The way he’s putting his weight into his arms to stop from crushing you with his weight adds a definition to his already beautifully sculpted body. Reaching down, you brush the tip of your finger oh so gently over his rosy head, finding a bead of cum already leaking, and you snap. You can’t wait a second longer, scratching and gripping at him like he’s the air you need to breathe.

“Please, Arthur, please I need you. S-So long, it’s been so long-” “Shh, I know, princess, I know. I’m gonna take care of you, okay? Gonna take care of your pretty little cunt, I promise.” He soothes you, though his own voice is shaky from the very effort of restraining himself, maintaining his control to not drive into you and ruin you. While he whispers to you, he lines himself up at your entrance and you quiver in anticipation.

In all your years before you met Arthur, you never really saw sex as anything but something to give, or worse, something to be taken from you. You never truly understood, not until you met Arthur, who taught you it’s something to share, to experience. With Arthur, it’s different. It is connection and pleasure and it’s wonderful and god damn it, it’s addictive. So when Arthur slides into you, letting out a visceral, guttural groan as he does, everything is right in the world.

You feel so full, especially when Arthur pushes all the way to the hilt, connecting you completely at the pelvis. The moan that escapes your lips is downright obscene and Arthur crashes down into your mouth to swallow it. 

Maybe it’s the fact that it’s been so long, or the emotion of it all, but you swear you can feel everything. Every vein and ridge, every twitch and movement of his perfect cock as Arthur slowly starts to move in and out of you. 

“Fuck… s-so good, darlin. So tight- y’feel so fucking good, princess…”

You’ve never hurtled so close towards a climax so quickly in your life. His torturously slow, deep thrusts drag into your sweet spot every fucking time and trying to hold back brings a blur into your vision. Your own hips grind against his, Arthur gripping into your flesh to guide you perfectly in time with him.

“I-I’m so close already, Arthur… fuck…” You breathe out, your breath tickling Arthur’s ear and sending a visible shudder down his spine. He looks proud at your admission.

“You missed me that much, huh? Gonna cum for me already, darlin’?” 

He gives you no time to respond, pressing a thumb to your clit and rubbing in time with everything else. You implode, pulling Arthur down to catch the scream you’re about to wake everybody up with. It has never felt so intense, and with every thrust Arthur fucks into you it only grows and grows, shattering you to pieces for Arthur to fix back together again. 

When you return, a rhythmic thudding in your ears, the first thing you see is Arthur, of course. His jaw is fluttering madly, a bead of sweat clinging to his forehead but the candlelight makes him look ethereal. You still can’t believe he’s here, alive.

Tears start to glisten in your eyes. You’ve never cried during sex before, not for anything positive, at least, but somehow this doesn’t feel wrong. Arthur slows again, watching you, and you spot an extra shine to his own jade orbs. He knows. He feels it too. 

He’s right there with you. As he always is.

He brushes a piece of hair stuck to your forehead away, and the gesture is enough to send the tears falling down the same worn path on your cheeks as before.

“I love you, Mr. Morgan…” “I love you, Mrs. Morgan…” 

It seems to become too much for Arthur to stay still, and you’re glad for it. You’re desperate for the friction, already flying towards another orgasm. He’s really fucking into you this time, pulling almost all the way out before driving back in. He’s groaning and growling and you decide in that moment that it’s your favourite sound in all the world. 

“I… I ain’t gonna last much longer, baby…”

“C-Cum in me…” “Huh?” He slows, shuddering at the exertion required to control his movements, “I-”

But you’re not listening to his protests, your nails digging into the skin of his back and ass and anywhere else you can reach to urge him forwards again.

“Please Arthur, I-I need you… I need you to cum with me, I need you with me…” you plead with him, not truly understanding your need but honouring it. You’ve been without him for so long, you deserve him with you now.

He appears to consider you for just a moment, before diving down to lock your lips with his. His tongue delves into your mouth, tasting every bit of you and he starts to pump into you unreservedly. His body grinds against yours and the friction is perfect and you’re so fucking full and before you can even try to hold back, you’re cumming again, stars scattering your vision, heart pounding out of your chest to find release from it’s mortal, physical cage. Your inner walls twitch around Arthur’s length and this time, he doesn’t hold back either. 

His eyes fly open and lock onto yours as you both climax together. It’s vulnerable and strange, but perhaps more connected than you ever thought possible for two people to be. 

Arthur’s cock twitches inside you, pumping out his spend as he groans viscerally, completely losing control of his rhythm as he thrusts into you one last time, harsh and deep. You’ve never experienced this before, with Arthur or any other man, normally erring on the side of caution when it came to such matters, but even as you come down you can’t bring yourself to regret it. Whatever you and Arthur just experienced together felt spiritual, and worth much more than a little risk.

Arthur collapses, even as depleted as he is still considerate enough to collapse onto his elbows and not crush you. He slides out of you, earning a little wince, and rolls to the side so you can rest your head on his chest. It’s like a locket that’s been ripped apart, finally fixed together with the most satisfying click. 

═══════☆═══════

Two months later, life has returned to its equilibrium. You and Arthur are perhaps clingier, still in a sort of second honeymoon phase where you just can’t seem to keep your hands off each other, more so than usual. It’s a side effect of prolonged solitude, you’re sure.

The first time it happens, you blame Pearson and think nothing of it. It’s pretty early in the morning and you’re sitting with Tilly and Abigail, peeling potatoes for the stew tonight. Abigail is venting her frustrations about when John did this and John said that, and everything feels so normal. Pearson arrives, throwing a rather large, rather dead fish onto the table you’re leaning against and you feel the thud from the weight of it vibrate against your back. 

It isn’t until the smell invades your senses that everything starts to feel off. It smells exactly like all the other fish Pearson has ever slammed onto that poor table, which doesn’t explain why you immediately lurch forwards, grabbing an empty bucket and throwing up your breakfast. The fish stench is suffocating and all you can do is get the hell away from it, not noticing when Abigail’s brows knit together almost… knowingly?

You skip the stew that night. 

―

The second time it happens, you try not to think about it. You’re riding Diesel and almost don’t make it off him in time. There is nothing to set you off, no horse shit or rotting animal at the side of the road, and yet in an instant your stomach feels like it has been flipped upside down. 

The sheer volume of your retching catches Arthur’s attention and he tugs on the leather reins in his hands to steady his mare. 

“Darlin’? Y’alright?” 

His concern is evident in his tone and in the tight line between his brows, which deepens when he finds you unable to respond in anything but a frantic nod. He dismounts, spurs clicking against the dusty ground when he approaches you. 

“Oh, sweetheart… that’s it, easy, easy… you’re okay…”

You feel gentle circles rubbed into the tense muscles of your back as you try to get through this again. It’s not lost on you that Arthur is speaking to you like a spooked horse, but it actually really does help. (You decide to prioritise peace of mind and not psychoanalyse why that is). Eventually, it relents and you regain your composure, albeit somewhat less gracefully than you’d have liked. 

“Sorry… I don’t know what’s gotten into me, maybe I ate somethin’.”

Your apology for something you can’t help earns you a sad smile from your husband, who places a loving kiss on the top of your head before reaching for your discarded hat and putting it back on for you.

“Y’don’t gotta apologise. I gotcha, darlin’.”

You know he does.

He always does.

―

The third time it happens, the luxury of denial is stolen from you. It’s early enough that your view while you sit with Abigail drinking coffee involves glorious hues of orange and pink scattered around the rising sun. It’s peaceful, tranquil. The warmth of the little metal mug in your hands and Arthur’s jacket around your shoulders is enough to ward off the fresh morning chill in the air.

There is absolutely no warning when it hits, when it happens again. You’re so goddamn sick (no pun intended) of hurling. Your eyes water and your throat hurts a little and you curse under your breath when it’s over. Abi is beside you, rubbing your back in an attempt to soothe you. She waits until it’s over before speaking hesitantly.

“Uh, can I ask you somethin’?” 

You nod, eyes still red and glistening as you swirl coffee around your mouth to take away from the awful, acidic taste lingering. 

“When did you last bleed?”

“What, like an injury? Uh, I cut my hand couple days back, but I don’t see what-“

… Oh fuck. 

═══════☆═══════

The anxiety bounces around your body and you decide that you’ve become far too acquainted with the concept of nausea. You can actually tell the difference between nerves  twisting your stomach and… well, let’s say it as it is:  morning sickness. This is the former, you deduce, spinning both your engagement and wedding ring around your finger to give your hands something better to do than carve fingernail-shaped moons into your palm. He should be home any minute now. Any minute now and it will all change forever.

It’s quite late, but the poker game Arthur was scoping out for potential jobs is known to last a while. You’re the only one still awake, poking the embers of the campfire to keep yourself as comfortable as possible. 

You hear hooves hitting dry dirt first, and it seems to trigger your fight or flight response. God, you’d love to run away from this, but that is pretty much impossible, so fight it is. It’ll be the greatest fight of your life, you’ll soon learn, one you’re privileged to be a part of. But right now, it feels like an all-consuming unknown. 

Arthur can tell something is wrong the second he sees you. You’re terrible at hiding things, especially from him. He always reads you as though you have a poster advertising your feelings printed on your forehead. Arthur dismounts, kissing you tenderly on the temple and wrapping his arms around you.

“What’re you still doin’ up, darlin’? Is everything alright?” You can feel his worry vibrating in his chest as you nuzzle into his embrace. 

“I’m fine, I’m fine, I just… Can we talk? I kept the fire goin’.” You say it into his shirt, reluctant to move from this hold.

“Of course…” there’s something in his voice, a tense apprehension that really doesn’t help the knot contorting itself in your gut. 

While you’re more than capable of keeping a fire going, Arthur is an expert, and has it healthily burning within seconds of you sitting down on the overturned log the gang has fashioned into a bench. You’re back to spinning your beautiful gold bands around your finger, trying to remember to breathe in and out every so often.

“What’s goin’ on, sweetheart?” His voice is so soft, so kind that it makes you want to cry. But you promised yourself you wouldn’t until you’d told him, because this might just be the most important conversation you’ve ever had, and you definitely won’t get through it if you’re a blubbering mess.

“I, uh… I… somethin’s happened.”

You hear his breath hitch in his throat and Arthur leans towards you, completely enveloping your hands in his. They’re sandwiched in now and you can’t fiddle with your rings anymore.

“What? What happened? Was it Micah? If he’s said somethin’ to you, I’ll kill him, the rat bastard-”

“No, no, it’s… as much as I’d love to see that, it’s not him.” 

The tension releases. Just a little bit.

“I’m pregnant.” 

Oh wait, there it is. 

The silence is deafening, even though you’re almost certain it isn’t actually silent out here right now. There's a fire going and crickets are just metres away, you’re just shutting down with nerves. 

The normally so often tense, fluttering jaw of Arthur Morgan is slack, his eyes wide and gaping at you, occasionally flicking down to your so far bump-less belly. (You should know- you’ve been obsessively looking in a mirror any chance you get for some sort of sign that this is really happening). 

Say something. Please say something. Please don’t be angry. Oh, God please don’t hate me. 

“I-I… You’re pregnant?” He repeats, reassuring you that you haven’t actually gone deaf, though his tone holds no indication of anything but shock. That’s probably fair…

You nod, hands instinctively reaching over your belly. It feels… weird. Holding your hands over your baby. Yours and Arthur’s baby. 

“It happened a couple months back, when you got back from The Grizzlies, I think… I-I’m sorry, Arthur. I shoulda’ been more careful and-and…” You’re rambling, filling a silence that probably should just be allowed to be a silence.

“There… There’s gonna be a baby?”

There. Right there, adorning Arthur’s beautiful features, is the pull of a smile. It chokes you up instantly, so far deep in nightmares of arguments and unhappiness that you hadn’t even considered the good. You start to nod, a little bit of your fringe falling in your face.

“Yeah… There’s gonna be a baby. Our baby…”

“Our baby…” He repeats, his arm raising to brush the hair away from your eyes in such a natural manner it feels like it’s just his instinct to care for you. It is his instinct to care for you, Arthur has shown you that in every minute of every day of your marriage, and suddenly you’re not sure why you’ve been so scared. 

“I’m gonna be a dad?” He still seems in disbelief, but that’s normal. It’s taken you a few days to come to terms with it, and even then the fingernail marks in your palms are still red raw. 

“You’re gonna be a dad.”

It hits him. Really hits him and he all but throws himself into you, scooping you up and spinning you around as he laughs unreservedly.

“Well goddamn, I’m gonna be a Daddy!” 

You laugh with him, worries and anxiety a distant memory as your feet swing around in the air. You’re probably waking the camp up, but you don’t care all that much. Right now, you’re the happiest girl in the world.

A baby. There’s gonna be a baby. Arthur’s baby.

Really, it’s the greatest gift a cowgirl could ask for.

[tower-arcana]

okay hear me out. veronika and hu would have such an interesting dynamic if we saw more of them

ch2 secrets talk / spoilers under cut

it's all but confirmed in my mind that hu's secret was the 3 to 4 times death attempts one, and i think most agree which one vernonika's is? and obv you could make the connection that they'd have similar themings, though i don't want to reduce the idea to just 'oh self-destructive people get along'

but given hu's outburst at david during the trial, i think she definitely has improved her outlook / has at least come to want to live to some extent, or she at least wants the OTHERS to live and doesn't want the right to choose ripped from their hands

i think if the opportunity rose up, both hu and veronika would be... not curious, but feel a level of understanding towards each other's dance with death. now, veronika could just throw caution to the wind and try to probe around hu's mind for info, but i honestly think this is the one thing veronika may not press boundaries on -- imo, the way veronika hasn't done anything at all to try and confirm her secret openly means she does have some level of respect for her own privacy, and i feel that could extend to hu as well

still, again, given the chance i think they could have a very thought-provoking discussion on each other's mindsets and how they both cope with these thoughts! in fact i think it could provide even more substance to each other's characters if they really had a moment like that (not to say they don't have substance, we just dont KNOW much about their pasts yet in a confirmed sense)

anyways i came up with veronika + hu on a whim, but whether it be platonic or romantic i think i'm getting attached to them oops, i'll give it more thought soon i think

[loveroftoomanyfandoms]

Every Little Thing She Does is Magic, Chapter 1

Pairing: Platonic Steven Grant x Reader (for now)

Rating: T

Word count: ~3150

Story Summary: Steven meets a beautiful woman in the Egyptian exhibit at the British Museum...

...Too bad she's his new boss.

Tags/Warnings: Canon Divergent since Steven still works for the British Museum post-canon, No Jake Lockley, developing friendship

A/N: Welcome to the start of my first Steven Grant story! This will be multiple chapters (not exactly sure how many, although I don't expect it to get too long.)

If you'd like to be added to the taglist for this (or any of my other writing), please let me know!

Title from the song of the same name by The Police.

Steven Grant whistled cheerfully to himself as he ascended the steps of the British Museum. He had managed to successfully translate the hieroglyphic code he had been working on for the past week, gotten a full night's rest, and had even caught the early bus to work.

He checked his watch. Eh, I've got a bit before I have to clock in. Might as well pop by the Egyptian exhibit to see if they changed the placard for Mekhet yet.

He headed over to the exhibit, sighing with disappointment when he noticed that the placard was still incorrect. It's been three months. The least they could do is place a temporary sign until a new, permanent one came in.

He was just about to go put his bag in his employee locker and clock in early when a woman walked up next to him and began reading the placard on the statue.

“You know, that's actually wrong,” Steven said.

The woman glanced over at him. “Excuse me?”

Steven placed her accent as American, but couldn't pinpoint the region. Must be on holiday. He pointed at the placard. “The placard. It says that this is Menhit when it's really Mekhit.”

The woman looked at the placard, then back at the statue. “Oh, is it really?”

Steven nodded. “Menhit was actually a solar goddess, representing the brow of Ra and depicted by a reclining lioness, while Mekhit was the goddess of war, which is why she's depicted as a roaring lioness.”

The woman smiled at Steven. “Well that makes sense.”

“She was also known as the ‘Eye of Ra’,” Steven continued, encouraged by her friendliness. “It was said that the Eye left Ra and transformed itself into a lioness, after which it was hunted down and returned by Onuris, then it transformed into Menhit, which explains the similar names. And there's also Mehit, with no k or n, who was associated with the moon and was also depicted as a reclining lioness, but with three sticks behind her.”

The woman chuckled. “Imagine someone in Ancient Egypt accidentally praying to the wrong god or goddess because of a spelling error. Like, ‘oops, sorry, I meant for Mut to help me, not Nut ’.”

Steven grinned. “I've been trying to get my bosses to fix it for months now, but honestly I shouldn't be surprised. Took them ages to correct the banner depicting the Ennead. Only seven of them were on there when there were supposed to be nine.”

The woman glanced over at the banner, which now included all nine of the Ennead. “Oh, so you work here?”

Steven nodded. “Oh, er, sorry, yeah. I'm not just some nutter chatting you up in the Egyptian exhibit, I promise.”

The woman laughed. “Well either way, you're very knowledgeable about Egyptian history.”

“Oh, I love history, especially ancient Egyptian history. I find it fascinating.” Steven bit his lip. “Is it alright if I show you my favorite exhibit? It's just right over there.”

The woman nodded. “Sure.”

Steven led her over to the statue of Hathor. “This is Hathor -- Egyptian goddess of music, joy, pleasure and love.”

The woman grinned. “I see why she's your favorite. She gets all the fun stuff.”

Steven chuckled. “She was also goddess of beauty and the protector of women, and she was considered one of the most powerful of all the gods and goddesses. Early cosmetics and mirrors were left at her temples as offerings.”

The woman smiled. “She sounds pretty amazing.”

Steven nodded. “Oh, she was. In fact, it's said she--”

“Oy! Stevie!”

Steven startled at the sound of Donna's voice. “Oh, bollocks,” he muttered. ‘I'm sorry, I've got to run.”

The woman nodded. “That's quite alright. It was nice meeting you… Stevie, was it?”

Steven shook his head. “Actually, it's Steven. With a ‘v'.”

“Nice meeting you, ‘Steven-with-a-v’.”

“You too.”

Steven tried to hurry away but was accosted by Donna, who immediately began to give him an earful. “How many times do I have to tell you, don't bother the visitors!” she hissed loudly. “The new museum director's coming in today and the last thing she needs to see is employees faffing about.”

“But I’m not -- wait, new director?” Steven vaguely remembered Donna mentioning a few weeks prior that the museum board had finally hired a new director. “Who is it?”

Donna shrugged. “I dunno, some poncy American. Anyway, as I've said before, you're not a bloody tour guide. Your job is to sell overpriced rubbish to whiny little brats and their caretakers. Now, I want the gift shop fully stocked and in tip-top shape by the time the new director arrives. You should've been doing that already instead of dawdling.”

Steven glanced back at the woman, who was now studying the hieroglyphics on one of the nearby sarcophagi. “But I'm not -- I was just --”

Donna rolled her eyes. “Yeah, yeah, flirt on your own time. Not like she'd be interested in the likes of you anyway, innit?”

“But I wasn't --” Steven sighed as Donna stalked off. “Okay then, good talk.”

He trudged over to the staff lounge area, stashed his messenger bag in his locker, and clocked in before heading to the gift shop.

He cringed when he saw the state of it. Clearly no one had bothered restocking after the gaggle of families and tour groups had blown through over the weekend. This'll take me all bloody day. Luckily Mondays are usually pretty quiet.

He quickly pinned his name tag to his shirt and began to straighten and organize the various plushies and knickknacks between customers, making note of what he needed to grab more of from the storage room.

He was organizing the Seshat figurines several hours later when Donna walked out of her office. “Oy, Stevie, the new boss lady wants a word with you upstairs.”

Steven swallowed nervously. “Me? What for?”

Donna shrugged, a slight smirk on her face. “You know, I heard that there was a bit of a shakeup coming with the new regime but I thought it'd at least be a few days before you got sacked. Guess not.”

Bollocks, Steven thought. Hopefully there's at least a decent severance package. “Okay. Well, off I go then.”

He set down the last figurine and headed out of the gift shop towards the lifts. “Maybe they'll at least let me finish my shift before they give me the boot,” he wondered aloud as he pressed the button to call the lift.

“Why are you so worried?” Marc replied in his head. “You don't even like this job.”

“I do like it,” Steven protested, catching Marc's face in the reflection of the shiny metal doors. “Well, sort of. And anyway, we can't afford our flat without it.”

Marc was quiet for a moment. “I got some money,” he finally said as the lift arrived. “From Dad, after Mom… Well anyway, I've never touched it so that should keep you afloat for a little while until you find another job.”

The ride up to the 5th floor was one of the longest of Steven's life. He stepped out of the lift, nervously trying to tame his wild curls but ultimately just making his hair more messed up. Oh, bollocks.

He walked down the hall to the door marked Director and knocked.

“Come in,” a voice said.

Steven took a deep breath and entered.

He froze. Standing behind the museum director's desk was the woman he had been talking to in the Egyptian exhibit before Donna had spotted him. “Oh, erm…” Just my bloody buggering luck.

The visitor from earlier (the new museum director, you bloody great twit, he corrected himself) smiled warmly. “Hello again, ‘Steven-with-a-v’.”

“Er, hello, Miss.” Steven could see his employee file open on the director's desk and began mentally going over their entire interaction from earlier, trying to figure out what exactly he had done in order to get sacked so quickly. He hadn't been on the clock at the time so it wasn't like he actually had been dawdling instead of working, and he hadn't really complained about his job beyond mentioning that the display placard for Mekhit was incorrect and about how long it took for the banner depicting the Ennead to be corrected.

The director motioned to the chair in front of her desk. “Have a seat.”

Steven sat as the director took her seat as well. 

The director folded her hands in front of her and placed them on her desk. “First of all,” she began, “apologies for not introducing myself earlier. My name is Y/F/N Y/L/N, and I'm the new director here at the museum. I'm sure you're wondering why I've called you to my office, especially so soon after starting my tenure here.”

“Er, yes ma'am,” Steven replied nervously, glancing up at the framed Ph.D hanging on the wall before once again looking at his open employment record.

Dr. Y/L/N slid Steven's file over to her and studied it for a moment. “You work in the gift shop, is that correct?”

Bollocks, here it comes. “Yes, ma'am.”

“You've never had any interest in becoming a tour guide, have you?”

“I'm sorry, ma’am, I wasn't trying to --” Steven blinked rapidly as her words registered. “Wait, what?”

Dr. Y/L/N looked up from his file. “Tour guide. You ever thought about it?”

Steven nodded. “All the time, actually. It's what I dream of doing.”

“Then why haven't you ever applied for an open tour guide position?”

Because Donna keeps telling me that there's no way it would ever happen, so why bother? “Well I, er…”

Dr. Y/L/N leaned back in her chair. “We actually have a current opening for the Visitor Engagement Specialist position… if you're interested, that is.”

Steven was speechless. “Visitor Engagement Specialist? But that's -- that's the head of programming and tours.”

Dr. Y/L/N nodded. “Yes, that's right. I'd like to offer you the position.”

She gestured towards his employee file. “I've read over your CV, Steven, and you're more than qualified.”

Steven was still processing. What the bloody hell is happening? 

Sounds like you're not getting fired, Marc answered. Quite the opposite, in fact.

Steven shook his head. “Even if I applied for the position, wouldn't I need to interview for it as well?”

Dr. Y/L/N’s lips turned up in a small smile. “Oh, but you already have.” 

Steven’s brow furrowed. “I have?” 

Dr. Y/L/N nodded. “The museum’s visitor numbers have been declining lately, so over the weekend I took a few tours to see how they could be improved, and to be quite honest I learned more from speaking to you for 10 minutes in the Egyptian exhibit than from taking 3 separate hour-long tours throughout the entire museum. You certainly had me enraptured during our conversation about Mekhit and Hathor this morning.”

She gave Steven a warm smile. “I would consider that enough of an interview to offer you the position, wouldn't you?”

Steven huffed out a nervous chuckle. “I -- I suppose so, ma’am.”

“The current tours are stale and boring,” Dr. Y/L/N continued. “And the guides themselves could use some, well, guidance  from someone with your knowledge of and enthusiasm for history and folklore. I think you could plan some wonderfully engaging tours.”

Steven rubbed the back of his neck. “Well, I do have some ideas on how the current tours could be improved… So, er, what exactly does the position entail?”

“You'd work closely with the Curatorial department to develop programming and tours based on what we have on exhibit at the time while concurrently managing the Programming department. Of course, that would include being on the regular tour rotation as well as handling any specialized tours -- large groups, VIP guests, and the like. I know it would be a lot of work, but the position also comes with your own office as well as a sizable increase in pay.” Dr. Y/L/N quoted a figure that was more than double what Steven currently made. “Plus benefits.”

Steven’s eyes widened. With that sort of salary he could afford a bigger flat closer to the museum. “That's -- that's quite generous. I don't know what to say.”

Dr. Y/L/N nodded. “I know this is probably a bit of a shock, so feel free to take some time to think about it. Think you could give me an answer by the beginning of next week?”

What's there to think about? Marc chided him. You're being handed your dream job on a silver platter. Say you'll take it, dumbass.

Steven ignored Marc. “Yes, ma'am.”

Dr. Y/L/N closed Steven's file. “By the way, I put in an order for a new placard for the Mekhit exhibit. Thought you'd like to know.”

Steven grinned. “Yes, ma’am. Thank you.”

“And one other thing…” Dr. Y/L/N paused briefly. “Does your current supervisor often speak to you the way she did this morning?”

Steven was taken aback. “Donna? Well, actually, er… well, she's a bit prickly, yes.”

“I see. And have you reported her behavior to anyone?”

Steven shook his head. “No, ma'am. Don't want to cause a scene or make things worse.”

“Mmm. Well, this 'poncy American' is going to have a private chat with her later on the way we treat our subordinates… and refer to our superiors.”

Marc chuckled. I think I'm in love.

Yeah, me too, Steven replied. Too bad she's my boss.

He really hadn't been flirting with Dr. Y/L/N earlier, although if Steven had been more confident he might have actually considered it. As it was, however, he was glad he hadn't. Most likely would've gotten sacked in that case.

Dr. Y/L/N stood. “Alright, Steven, thank you for coming in. Please let me know as soon as possible what your decision on the Visitor Engagement Specialist position is.”

Steven stood as well. “I will, ma'am. And no matter what I decide, thank you either way for the opportunity.”

“You're welcome. And thank you for such a stimulating conversation this morning. I thoroughly enjoyed it.”

Steven smiled. “I did too.”

He headed back down to the gift shop, where Donna was standing behind the register reading a book.

She looked up as Steven approached the counter. “What, still here? Figured you'd have cleared out your locker by now.”

Steven shook his head. “The new director just wanted to introduce herself and speak with me about something. Guess she's doing that with everyone.”

Donna rolled her eyes. “In that case, when you get done with restocking there's a new shipment of items that need to be unpacked and sorted.”

As if she couldn't have been working on all that shit herself while you were gone, Marc said as Donna headed back towards her office. Would you seriously rather be stuck with that than be the head of tours and programs? You know she's just going to make things more difficult after she gets reprimanded this afternoon.

Steven sighed. Yeah, I know.

Being a tour guide is exactly what you've been wanting to do since the day you started, and being the head of the entire department? Just think… you'd actually be in a higher position than Donna. Wouldn't you like to rub that in her face?

Steven chuckled to himself as he thought about Donna having to answer to him for a change. Yeah, actually, I quite like the thought of that.

Then what are you waiting for? 

You know what? You're right. Steven straightened. I deserve this position.

Damn right you do. Ever since we figured out how to work together you've been able to hold down your job just fine and haven't even been late once. You'll be great.

Steven moved over to the phone and pulled up the staff directory before dialing Dr. Y/L/N's extension.

“Yes, may I help you?” Dr. Y/L/N's voice said briskly over the line.

“Er, uh, Dr. Y/L/N, this is Steven… Steven Grant, from the gift shop?” Steven stammered out, suddenly losing his bravado.

Dr. Y/L/N's tone warmed immediately. “Yes, Steven, what can I do for you?”

Steven took a deep breath. “I've decided I don't need the week to think about your offer. I accept.”

“Wonderful!” Dr. Y/L/N sounded pleased. “I'll have HR start on the transfer paperwork right away so we can have you in your new position by next Monday. There's a couple of new Egyptian artifacts on loan from the Cairo Museum arriving on Thursday afternoon and we're wanting to have them installed by the beginning of next month, so hopefully we can have you settled and able to rework the tour to include them by then.”

Steven nodded even though he knew she couldn't see him. “That shouldn't be a problem. Thank you again for this opportunity, Dr. Y/L/N. I really appreciate it.” 

“You're welcome, Steven. I honestly think you'll thrive in your new position and I'm glad you accepted it.”

“Me too.”

“The museum board is introducing me to some benefactors in ten minutes so I'm afraid I've got to run in a few, but I'm looking forward to hearing your ideas on how to improve the current tours. Maybe we can talk more on Friday? I'll be meeting with the Curatorial department that morning to discuss placement of the new artifacts.” Dr. Y/L/N paused. “You know, actually, now that I think about it since you're going to be involved with that anyway I'd like you to sit in on that meeting as well, even if it's just to observe and check out the new artifacts for yourself.”

“Certainly, ma'am.”

“Ok, great. I'll let Donna know that I've scheduled another meeting with you and that your shift needs to be covered on Friday. What's your current schedule looking like for next week?”

Steven rolled his eyes, grateful that Dr. Y/L/N couldn't actually see him. “Donna has me doing inventory all next week.”

Dr. Y/L/N hummed. “Ok, well then it shouldn't be a problem to find someone else to cover that.”

“No, ma'am.”

“I'll see you Friday morning, then. Goodbye, Steven.”

“Goodbye.”

Steven hung up the phone. “Wow,” he said under his breath. “Wow, wow, wowee wow.”

Marc chuckled in his head. You've hit the big-time now.

“I get my own office. I get my own phone extension.” Steven's eyes widened. “I get my own business cards. ‘Steven Grant, Visitor Engagement Specialist’.”

Has a nice ring to it, doesn't it?

Steven nodded. “I still can't believe it.”

Believe it, buddy. Life is looking up.

Steven grinned. "It is, isn't it?"

He knew one thing for certain -- he couldn't wait to prove to Dr. Y/L/N that she had made the right decision.

[kpop-kitkat]

Hi, i'm the anon who asked If u write smut, and wanted to request an 8turn legal line reaction to getting caught making out that would've led to something more but didn't and for the other members (for the ones that aren't legal yet) just getting caught kissing or just making out (without the alter motives)

Srry this is so long but i saw that u write for 8turn so yeh have a good day/night bye-bye<33

# . thanks for the request! took awhile, but i hope you enjoy!

# . pairing : 8turn members x female reader 

# . genre/warnings : suggestive sexual content (minors be warned), fluff, moderate language

# . word count : average 0.1k per member

MYUNGHO: neither of you two knew exactly how it started. all you could remember was myungho returning home to the apartment before his lips ended up on yours. being alone and needy all day, you couldn't help but let the innocent kiss become something more. he sensed this as his hands began to roam under your silk t-shirt. he smirked when it elicited a pretty moan from you. "hey hyung i- oh my god!" yungyu exclaimed, covering his eyes. myungho immediately removed himself from you. "yungyu! what are you doing here?!" myungho asked in surprise, and slight annoyance. still covering his eyes, yungyu replied, "you forgot this," as he threw his sweatshirt at him before exiting as quick as he could. you laughed, "you ruined the child's innocence!" "shut up."

JAEYUN: "can i have a kiss?" you pouted, laying on jaeyun's lap and looking up at him. "jagiya, the members will catch us!" jaeyun countered. "you don't love me," you frowned. "oh stop it," jaeyun rolled his eyes. but one more glance at your puppy dog eyes caused him to cave. "here," he sighed, leaning down to capture your lips in a sweet kiss. but you had ulterior motives, as you gripped his sweatshirt and wouldn't let him go. "y/n-" he mumbled a protest against your lips, but couldn't stop himself when you pulled yourself up to kiss him properly, hands getting a bit naughtier. jaeyun smiled at this. "you're so naughty, aren't you?" "you both are," minho replied. you two froze, glancing over to the guy in the corner of the room. "get a room honestly."

MINHO: you didn't think anything of it when you first got to the dorms. you thought it was a simple movie night with the boys. but when you felt minho's hand slide up your thigh as the other boys got sleepier, you felt a discomfort between your legs. you sucked in a sharp breath, trying to steady your heart. but he noticed and leaned in towards you, kissing your jaw. "need something?" he whispered, quiet enough so the others wouldn't hear. they were too focused on the movie to notice anyway. the second y/n turned her face towards minho, their lips met. she carefully wrapped her arms around his neck as her leg swung over on his lap. "if you start moaning i won't be able to here the movie-" myungho complained. "oops."

YOONSUNG: yoonsung smiled to himself as he saw you making dinner in the boys' dorm's kitchen. you looked so pretty, even with flour on your face and your hair all messy. "little miss chef today huh?" he whispered, his arms wrapping around your waist from behind and his head resting on your shoulder. but this sweet moment didn't last long when he turned you around and surprised you with a passionate kiss. "yoonsung-" you protested, hand on his chest. "what? i know you like it," he teased. his smile was innocent, but the placement of his hands were not. "omg no eww eww eww!" screamed seungheon, quickly exiting the kitchen with a cookie in hand. you two giggled at each other.

HAEMIN: "damn, why do you have to come to my dance practices looking like that?" haemin bit his lip as you walked in with a short skirt and crop top. "because i'm bored," you pouted, head resting in your hands as your elbows rested on the desk haemin was situated at. you took advantage of the fact that your top hung low, giving haemin something to look at. "baby we can't right now," he whined, shifting in his seat uncomfortably as he couldn't tear his eyes off of you. "they'll catch us." "so what if they do?" you smirked, quickly grabbing the collar of his sweatshirt, smashing your lips into his. reluctant at first, he gave in. but all came crashing down when they heard the voice of kyungmin. "hey haemin hyung, you want something to eat or - eww - never mind!"

KYUNGMIN: "kyungminnie?" you asked, holding his hand as you strolled through the park. "yeah?" he tilted his head at you. "what do you think about public sex?" his face flushed, "oh umm, it's... cool i guess," he shrugged. "can we try it?" you asked, looking like an innocent child when you were anything but that. "baby it's fourty-five degrees out here!" he reasoned. "but i need help," you tugged on his shirt. being a very loyal and eager-to-please boyfriend, he gave in. after getting to a more secluded place in the park, he had you pinned against a tree with his lips on yours. "kyungmim, i found you! when you finish - whatever you're doing - we're going to go to the arcade!" haemin announced. "oh well, next time," kyungmin smirked. 

YUNGYU: yungyu was a nervous kisser no doubt. especially when you initiated them. so when you asked him for one while you all were hanging out with the others, he flushed. "right now jagi?" he raised an eyebrow. "yes! you haven't kissed me since last night!" you reasoned. "wow that must be like an eternity for you," he laughed. "whatever you like to tell yourself," you shrugged. looking around to make sure the others weren't looking, you kissed him slowly. yungyu didn't push you away, but instead held your face gently as he tasted your cherry lip balm. "yungyu and y/n, sitting in a tree~" began jaeyun. "stop it!" yelled yungyu, rolling his eyes before kissing you again.

SEUNGHEON: you had absolutely no idea, why your boyfriend has been so clingy. there was no logical explanation you could come up with. but you weren't going to complain. you liked how he'd peck your lips every time he walked by you. and one time, he lingered a bit longer. "seungheon," you laughed against his lips, arms around his neck. "why so lovey today, huh?" you wondered. he only shrugged, holding you a bit tighter. then, you two saw a camera flash out of the corner of your eyes. "omg new wallpaper!" yoonsung giggled. "i swear, you better delete that!" yelled a very flustered seungheon. "what? are you embarrassed of me?" you teased. "of course not silly."

[motherloads]

Right Side of My Neck

Pre! Identity Reveal. Alt. timeline of my first Tim Drake fic ◡̈

Me when me when I see readers fawn over my other fics, asking for pt. 2 but what I give is this: Tim Drake and Spider-Woman! Reader *cheering noises*

Summary: The reader is a new hero in Gotham City, known as Spider-Woman. Despite knowing of the no-meta rule, she continues to patrol the city in broad daylight.

What's to say that the bats are allowing this? At every meeting, they try and stop the unknown woman from fighting their battles. With no idea of who she is, they are struggling to maintain their no-meta rule.

Unknowingly, she forms a friendship with Tim Drake and Stephanie Brown. Shameless flirting ensues when she starts to connect the identity of the bats.

Who is she but not a Spider who captures her prey?

-> Pairings: Tim Drake x Reader

-> Marvel/DC Crossover

->Warnings: None!

not proof read! oops,,,

⋆｡°✩

You looked back at me once.  But I looked back two times.

"At some point, you need to realize that maybe, just maybe, you need to start advertising the no meta rule?" Stephanie Brown questions Bruce Wayne. She taps her feet impatiently, watching the man skim through the news reports of Spider-Woman. His separate file regarding the woman is on his other monitor.

"I do not have a no meta-rule,"  Bruce grumbles as he cross referencing similar heroes who tried to debut in the past. None match up and it was as if Spider-Woman did not exist before. Not in any city, town, or country was she ever sighted. It was as if she was a ghost.  

"Technically you do," Duke shrugs, "You always growl about no meta's being allowed in Gotham. I was the exception, remember?"

"I do not growl," Bruce points a glare at Duke who shrugs shamelessly. "Aren't you supposed to be out patrolling? Go find the new hero, only god knows what she's up to."

Duke ignores his comment, deciding to suit up for patrol to escape Bruce's ongoing investigation. 

"I thought we agreed to not use feminine pronouns," Steph reprimands, "They haven't revealed their identity. We can't just assume they go by she and her." 

"I'm too old for this," Bruce sighs, "But fine. Can someone atleast try and follow their tale? I have meetings back to back today." 

"I'll get Tim on this," Stephanie agrees, "But, before that. I think Alfred sent us his grocery list for the week." Stephanie waves goodbye to Duke and Bruce. 

⋆｡°✩

"Spider-Woman is a menace!" Her coworker reads out loud, "A menace to society and for the vigilantes in black. God! Jameson is one hell of a woman to be blasting the new hero out this way." He throws the newspaper away, shaking his head in annoyance, "I think they're pretty cool! Their helmet matches perfectly with the Red Hood. I wonder if they have some sort of alliance."

"I don't think so." Another coworker pipes up, bagging the groceries for her customer, "I don't think they have the ability to kill villains the same way Red Hood does. They probably have some moral code? I think they'd match Nightwing the best."

"Definitely not Robin. He's too...aggressive for Spider-Woman to deal with. Plus, he's a kid, so they'd probably argue." Her final and third coworker shrugs, "I honestly like that they're a solo hero."

"What if there is more like them? Like a Spider-Society where they protect the multiverse," She spoke out against her coworkers, grinning shamelessly at her reveal, "Spider-Women in the Spider-Verse."

"Now where do you get that idea from?" A new voice muses. They all turn their heads to see Timothy Drake. His eyes, as tired as ever, make eye contact with the girl. He smiles at her in response to her staring, "Seems like a far-fetched idea." 

"I know them," She grins, leaning against her counter, looking at Tim from beneath her lashes. She senses him squirm in response to her look, "Might even know their identity." She teases. 

"Care to share? I'd love to know, for research purposes." 

Her grin widens at his response, cocking her head innocently at Tim who continued to squirm in her gaze. "Why? Want to ask them out on a date?" 

"No-No. I'm just curious! Does that mean you don't know?" 

She pushes herself off the counter, continuing to check Tim out. She noticed the array of coffee flavors and things that are normally on her customer's grocery list. She assumed he was doing his own for his butler, Alfred. 

"Of course not. I'm just a college student." She shrugs, "50.42. Will that be cash or card?"

Tim mumbles his answer, passing her his card for the transcation. His face still felt hot from her onslaught, but he decided to ignore how fast his heart was beating. Instead, he focused on her hands. Her hands were a light shade of purple as if she was healing from a bruise. 

"Hey wha-" He gets cut off when she passes his card back to him. She tilts her head at him, making his heart stop again. 

"What?" She asks.

"Nothing, Nothing. I-See you later?" She nods in response, watching Tim walk away from her counter quickly. She felt a laugh bubble up from inside of her.

"God, you're shameless." Her coworker sneered. She only laughs in response. 

⋆｡°✩

"If I were a villain, where would I be?" She hummed, moving across the rooftop she was on. Her helmet's eyes furrowed, zooming in on a robbery in a nearby bakery.

"Gotcha," She whispers, moving down to the bakery. She notices the baker being held at gunpoint as customers run out of the store. She paid no mind to the customers who tried to push her aside as she stepped foot into the scene.

"Hey! Mr. Big Bad Wolf! Has anyone ever told you not to huff and puff in a bakery before?!" She paused at her words, suddenly realizing her mistake, "Sorry, Sorry. I think I mixed up my fairytales."

The robber immediately drops his gun and himself to the ground. Shaking like a leaf, the robber immediately starts blabbing out an apology. "I swear I had no bullets! I swear- I just need money! My kid's in trouble! He's sick and I-" She cuts him off, webbing the gun and bringing it to her.

"The shelter across the streets offers monthly emergency grants to 20 lucky folks each month. Luckily, the application opens tomorrow. I'd recommend you apply to it instead and-" She pulls out her wallet, free from any sort of identification. Counting silently, she slides a hundred to the man. "This should cover the medicine until you receive the emergency grant. If not, just tell the clerk Spider-Woman sent you."

The man nods frantically, taking the hundred and running out of the bakery. The baker sighs in relief, sliding down the wall hazardously, "I thought today was my last day, genuinely..." "Not your time yet, I suppose," She begins to skim through the selection, humming to herself as she reads the items out loud, "Lemon Pie sounds good. I'll take a slice." The baker immediately stands, rinsing their own hands from the dirt on the floor. In the blink of an eye, they were packaging a whole lemon pie.

"I said one," Spider-Woman frowns as the baker pushes the box to her. She could smell the lemon wafting off of the pie from where she stood.

"It's a thank you. Also on the house," The baker responds instead, "I'm Felicia by the way. Felicia Hardy."

"Nice to meet you, Felicia," Spider-Woman nods as Felicia smiles warmly. Her smile disappeared when the door jiggled. A person came into the bakery.

She felt no reaction with her spider senses. No imminent danger was presented. When she looks, she is immediately face-to-face with Nightwing, "Funny seeing you here. I swore just yesterday you were at Bludhaven, Mr. Wing!"

"Had some business to take care of here," The man easily grins, nodding at the baker in return as she stares in awe. "A little bird told me you were sighted in a bakery. Wanted to see the situation." The minute he ended his sentence, she felt another presence in the bakery.

"Little Bird? Does it happen to be Robin?" She questions casually, leaning against the countertop. She rested her hand on the bag with her lemon pie.

"How do you always know," A younger voice scoffs. The occupants in the bakery turn to the corner shrouded in darkness. There, stood Robin in his little mighty glory.

"The spider in the corner told me so," She responds instead, "Now...are you both going to take me in?"

"That's the plan," Nightwing grins, "Want to put your lemon pie on the side?"

"No, it's fine," She tightens her grip on the bag, "Got places to be, Mr, Wing. You'd understand, right?"

"Answer our question first," Robin spits out, stepping forward into the light. His katana, held menacingly and glinting from the lights was pointed at her. "Why did you let the robber go? He could have been lying and you let a man go. He could kill someone!"

"Listen, kid," She sighs, "I don't have to tell you anything- We aren't teammates and in no way, do I want the Bats in my business." She pauses at her words, feeling her nose wrinkle from under her helmet. Stepping closer to Robin, she takes a long, deep breath.

"You have a dog?" Both Nightwing and Robin tense at her words, "A smell lingers from you. You live on a farm?" She turns her head to Nightwing and does the same to him, "Do you like swimming? You have chlorine in your hair." When both of the vigilantes stayed rooted in their spot, both from equal shock, she continued. "You smell like someone I see around here. Are you in contact with Tim Drake?"

With that, she shoots four simultaneous webs at the duo's feet. Rooting them to their spot, she salutes them and runs out of the bakery.

⋆｡°✩

At this point, the constant meetings with the Bat's made her realize the similarities they all hold with one another and a particular person she loved to tease. Nightwing and mini Robin were not the only ones who had that particular scent.

When she met Black Bat, she noticed how the smell was not as intense but still lingered on her person. Specifically to the gadgets she had on her self, they had a combination of metals that had created it and everything that screamed Tim.

When she met Signal, it wasn't the same. He had more of a scent on him compared to Black Bat. Specifically his hands and shoulders, although she wasn't sure why. When she began to do her research and find blurry photos of Signal and pictures she had taken of Tim, she realized Tim stood shorter than the vigilante.

Batman himself never strayed close enough to where she can smell him. He always maintained a distance, as if he knew what she had been researching. But he had no clue, right?

Tim's scent lingered on Red Hood and apparently they likely had many fist fights with one another because of how strong it stayed on the older man's fists. Hell, if she was near him close enough (which was almost always never) she can catch a hint of blood.

Spoiler had the second biggest scent out of all of the Bat's. Tim's scent was everywhere to her hair, skin, suit, and shoulder. This had made her go crazy, but don't tell anyone else that it was embarrassing when she had stumbled into Spoiler's arms to make sure there wasn't anything apparent on her face.

But doing so made her realize how similar she smelled to Stephanie.

Red Robin had been the one who easily dodged her efforts to get anything off of him. If she thought Red Hood was hard, then she was in for quite a shock when Red Robin kicked her helmet, knocking her back a notch.

"I know what you're trying to do!" He shouts at her, "The others have told me you have been taking big sniffs at them, what are you even planning?"

"I'm testing a hypothesis," She grits out, adjusting her helmet's lenses as Red Robin kicked them out of place, "I just need to confirm something, just hold still!"

"No!" He calls out, taking out his grappling hook in a quick motion. He makes no sound of a goodbye as he shoots away. Scoffing under her breath, she easily sticks a web onto the mans shoulder.

Pulling herself back, she launches herself onto the vigilante's back. He yelps in shock, not expecting her to latch on around his waist. Her arms wrap around his neck as she tilted his head back. Taking a hard sniff, her senses went into overdrive when she realized how familiar his smell was.

Sighing in relief, she leans her head further into his shoulder, she is interrupted from her thoughts as he lands on a rooftop. Trying to remove her, he grabs at the arms that would not budge. Then, he tried her legs. It was the same outcome.

"Come on!" He growls, "Get off!"

"No," She spits back, "You're an asshole!"

"I didn't even do anything! You're the one smelling the entirety of all the Bats! What next? Going to sniff Joker?!"

She steps one foot down but immediately goes to kick the back of his legs. Red Robin falters as he falls to the floor. Above him, she sits on his lap. They both stare at one another.

"I was wondering why every single Bat had this one recognizable scent," She begins, her frown masked by her helmet, "It drove me crazy, Red. Absolutely crazy that I thought the person I knew was being stalked."

She sees Red Robin's mask furrow in confusion. Still, he made no effort to move her off of him. "Even smelled the clothes he let me borrow. To see how similar it was."

Removing her helmet, Red Robin stares in shock as the spider's eyes were revealed. A familiar color he couldn't help but feel a blush rise from his face and around his ears. He noticed her eyes shift to his neck, that was most likely red as well.

He could not see her lower half, she had it covered with a mask the same color as her suit.

"Tim, did you know that cologne never truly washes out?" She leans close to his face, brushing a strand of his hair away from covering his mask. Tim felt his breath hitch at the name unroll from her tongue. One syllable and one identity reveal. "I think you need to prioritize washing the smell out." She tilts her head, her eyes crinkling as she smiled under the mask.

"How-" Now, Tim pushed her off of him. Doing his own move, which she made no effort to stop, he landed between her thighs. She was on the floor, staring up at him. He was on his knees as his breathing became uneven.

"Right side of my neck always smelled like you," She muses, "Whenever you gave me a hug, it would always linger. I liked it a lot."

Without a second thought, Tim pulls off the woman's mask.

He stares at a familiar face, who smiles at him. The cute smile he always felt shy about and guilty that he constantly lied to them. The cute smile that was apart of his profile picture of her.

The cute smile of the person who he would have never thought was the vigilante they were chasing after.

He breathes out her name.

"Hey, Tim."