#peach season has arrived

[murdrdocs]

thinking about tashi and art from challengers. thinking about being another tennis player at stanford who actually shows promise. you go to the courts religiously every morning and every other afternoon to perfect your groundstrokes and your volleys. other students barely play against you anymore, and it’s tough to find a partner for any sort of match. that is, until you catch tashi’s eye. well, according to tashi— art claims he saw you first. she says it doesn’t matter anyway, because she’s the one who approached you when art didn’t have the balls to do so.

tashi starts playing you more often and—granted— you don’t stand a chance against her either way. but you love the challenge. it starts becoming a common reoccurrence, until it reaches the point when you don’t even consider asking anyone else to play you. you simply sit by one of the benches, toying with your racket until tashi arrives. you’re not sure when it became routine, waiting around for tashi, nor when art began watching your matches against her from the bleachers. his presence was easily discardable during the matches… at first. but then you slowly grew aware of the other set of eyes watching you during practice.

you thought he was tashi’s boyfriend. you thought he was her boyfriend— until your shared afternoon in the locker rooms with tashi. you could barely stand up when you left, cheeks flushed and tennis skirt crooked. little did you know, tashi told art every single dirty thing about you in detail. the way you moaned, the way you bucked, the way your back arched and you begged her for more.

needless to say, they both made it their mission to see you like that again.

- 🍒

threesomes; oral (f receiving); MDNI 18+. 1.1k+ w/ ART DAVIDSON & TASHI DUNCAN

art finds you in the dining hall a few days later.

you're by yourself, sitting under tashi's poster and flipping through a mass market book the size of art's hand. he doesn't hesitate to approach you, a friendly smile on his face as he asks you if the seat in front of you is taken.

you shake your head, dog-earing your book at the same time as you slouch in your seat and kick the chair out for art. easily, he sits, places his tray on the table, and slides the peach your way. 

you don't have a tray in front of you. art doesn't know if you just finished eating, or if you were planning to eat at all, but he knows you like peaches. you take the peach, peel the sticker off, and take a bite.

you open your mouth as if you're going to speak, but art beats you to it.

"you and tashi are getting pretty close." he doesn't mean anything malicious by it. at least, he doesn't think he means anything malicious. he's still smirking, maybe less friendly and a little more teasing by now, and he's tapping the edge of the plastic tray with the blunt nail on his pointer finger.

you lift your eyebrows and chew slowly before you bother responding.

"yeah. we're friends."

art knows that's not necessarily true. he nods, dropping his head briefly.

when he speaks, it's to his salad. "right."

"what's that supposed to mean, art?"

art shrugs, sticking his bottom lip out a bit. he looks behind you at the picture of tashi in her element. he remembers that match. one of the early ones in the season where everyone had been excited to see tashi duncan play in her newly acquired red gear. art had arrived early that day and caught the tail end of your match on the court next to where tashi was going to play. he remembers the immediate infatuation he had with you. how graceful you looked on the court, yet you were able to put just enough power into your shots.

his eyes find yours again. you look like you're ready to accuse him of something, and likely be right. he's not being the most subtle person ever, but that wasn't his aim. he wanted what tashi has and this time he wants to do something about it.

"nothing. i just think you two are a little close for friends."

you sit and watch art. you take another bite of the peach and juice drips onto your lips and under your chin. you lick it clean without a second thought.

"right."

art leans forward, pushing his tray out to the side. "she told me about that day, you know."

you scoff and mirror art's position.

his eyes flicker to your lips when he says, "come on, you had to have known she would've told me. we're friends, remember? all of us."

"are we friends in the way that you and tashi are friends, or in the way that tashi and i are friends?"

you take another bite from your peach and once again, juice drips down. art doesn't hesitate in the way he reaches out, swipes his thumb under your lip to catch the liquid, and then sticks his thumb into his mouth to clean it up. he was likely smooth with it, but his heart pumps so hard that he can feel it in his throat. he swallows before he speaks.

"is there a difference?" he phrases it like a question, but you both know it isn't. you both know the answer.

it's a good thing that you, tashi, and art are such good friends who can do things like this together. sitting on art's bed, combatting your mutual boredom with something much more interesting. art sitting beside you, his back pressed against the wall and his legs spread to accommodate your body. he has a hand on your back, sometimes trailing down to your ass which has your feet folded beneath it. you face tashi who sits just on the outside of art's left leg, her position mirroring yours.

her hands cup your face at first, but once you tug her closer by her fitted jacket, she trails her hands down to lift the hem of your sweatshirt just enough to press her hands into your abdomen. she starts to lift the fabric completely, but it's then that art takes over. you feel his hand sliding up your back and your sweatshirt going with it until he gets to where your bra should be.

except, there's nothing there.

you can hear art's breath hitch as he slides his hand around to your front and swipes his thumb over your nipple. you make a startled noise, and tashi drinks it right up. she digs her fingers into the waistband of your shorts and pulls you closer, as close as you can get with art's leg between you both.

sensing the boundary created, art switches his position. he slides up behind you, giving you and tashi free reign to press your bodies together. meanwhile, he gathers your sweatshirt in both hands and lifts it, gently urging you to separate from tashi for long enough for him to throw the fabric off of your body and onto his floor completely.

tashi is quick to attach her hands to your tits and art is quick to pepper kisses along your shoulders and back.

the rhythm is so easy, completely void of any hesitation, except that which exists for consent.

it's a rhythm that only such good friends could have created and mastered. 

here, like this, hidden under the pretense of the three of you being such good friends, do they finally get to see you how they wanted. tashi gets to see you again, and art gets to put her words to visuals. and tashi was so right. her words had seemed almost unnecessarily vivid at the time, even though art greatly appreciated it. but how could she not describe this sight vividly?

the way your chest reached towards the ceiling as tashi used her mouth on you, your pert nipples sitting prettily at the peaks of your breasts. the veins in your arms poking through your skin briefly as you placed your hand in tashi’s hair, which art is sure she left loose for this exact occasion. your sounds, god art doesn’t think he’ll ever forget them. the prettiest whines almost mewls slipping past your parted lips and greeting the air. only when art didn’t have his mouth attached to yours that is. 

it’s like he couldn’t keep himself away. he had to touch you however he could. but he wasn’t good at this, he didn’t know where he should fit into he equation with tashi occupying the spot he usually aimed for. so he explored. he pressed his lips anywhere they could reach, and he found a favored spot along your tits. he couldn’t help but suck marks along them, even though he didn’t exactly know how you would feel about it. 

but when he looks back on his work peeking out through your tank top hours later, he’s glad he left them there.

[hiatuswhore]

𝒯𝒽𝑒 𝑀𝑜𝓊𝓉𝒽𝓎 𝒪𝓃𝑒 𝒱 — 𝐵𝓇𝒾𝒹𝑔𝑒𝓇𝓉𝑜𝓃

♕ A/N: Yeah so this hiatus has been so criminal. Honestly my “writers block” has just been insecurity. I’ve gotten into this bad habit of comparing my writing styles to others and that is such a viscous and toxic self attack. Long story short, I’m a little dummy who needs to remember why I got into fanfic writing in the first place, to have fun. If you feel like it. Please please please send feedback. There’s one final part left. Maybe some bonus chapters with the new season.

♕ SUMMARY: Oh, the most scandalous season of the year has come to pass. After quite the successful year for the Bridgerton’s the eldest son plans to throw his hat in the ring. Concurrently the Sharma sisters do just the same. One a spinster, the other hopeful romantic, and the middle daughter? What can be said about such a force that is not said when she enters the room. Good luck to all who pursue her.

♕ WORD COUNT: 4.7K

♕ WARNINGS: None

previous — Masterlist — next

BLINK. SMILE. NOD. You remind yourself every few seconds. Edwina leads the conversation with a jubilant smile.

Meanwhile, you tally each time Kate’s gaze meets your own as she watches you walk a tightrope, waiting for an inevitable fall. You sit out of place, Kate on your right and your mother on your left. Both rubbing the mustard yellow onto Edwina’s arms, your nose scrunching at the pungent wafts of Haldi. Each time Edwina’s gaze meets your own, you smile. You tilt your head, doing what you do best, offering your unwavering support—no matter how much your chest knots.

“Didi, are you okay? You are so quiet,” Edwina says, leaning forward to capture your gaze. You smile, lying through your teeth, “You are to be wed soon. I shall miss you, is all Bon.”

“You must calm yourself, Bon. Keep still,” Kate smiles down at a jittery Edwina. Her joy practically spills out, her every move indicating pure excitement.

”It is all so strange. I have faced a thousand tomorrows, but they all have been leading to this one,” You pause. Tomorrow. Every laugh, jest, slight—all of it leading to tomorrow. The day you make a fool of yourself—the mark of your first-ever regret. Though your mother speaks, the words do not reach you. The sinking in your chest renders you silent, almost queasy.

”Oh, it has...caused you doubts?” Kate’s cautious tone has your ears perking up, and your absent gaze finds Edwina. Your mother nudges you with a gentle smile, a reminder of her presence.

”Bringing the wedding forward is a sign of genuine feeling, but...well,” Edwina pauses, a sigh leaving her lips as she finds her words. Your heart was banging against your ribcage as Edwina glanced at you. “It has unnerved me. Didi, perhaps you should truly consider Lord Beauregard’s proposal. He’s a wonderful companion to you, and he seems to care. That way, we can navigate all this together.”

”I don’t know, Bon. It’s a lot to consider,” You tilt your head, a tight-lipped smile across your lips, "but right now is not about me or Lord Beauregard. It’s about you and the Viscount.”

“Your sister is right. Rest assured, Edwina, the Viscount adores you. He has devotedly courted you and made his intentions clear from our first arrival. Even going out of his way to procure (Y/n)’s and Kate’s approval. There is no lady better suited for the Viscount,” Your mother’s adoration beams on her prized child, your expression faltering nearly imperceptibly.

“I just—I still wish that when he looks at me, I could be certain that he truly loves me. Like—like—“ Edwina looks around as though the words sit in the room with all of you. Then her gaze finds yours again, “Like how Lord Beauregard looks at (Y/n). His fondness for

her is so evident, written right on his face. I fear, in fact, that the Viscount does not look at me often enough to even tell.”

Your mother and Kate glance at each other with a collective sigh. You lower your gaze, fiddling with the top lace of your peach gown and swallowing the sizzling golf ball in your throat. Kate speaks softly, this time avoiding your direction entirely, “Looks can be powerful, Bon, but also fleeting. Displays of mere passion, perhaps. Nothing more.”

”So the Viscount feels little passion for me?” Edwina exclaims, amusement dancing in her gaze as your mother chuckles. You force a chuckle from your lips, quiet and timid, the antithesis of your very being.

Clearing your throat, forcing a smile to the surface, you grin, “What Kate is failing at saying is that true love is different. It’s complicated and unpredictable. That’s the fun of it. It’s there when you least expect it. You worry now, but fear not, Bon, when it clicks, it clicks.”

“Since when have you become so knowledgeable about love, Miss, avoiding marriage and love?” Your mother teases. Each of your giggles fills the room, and for a moment, only a moment, the dread no longer exists. For a moment you are back in India, in your childhood home.

You cringe at the sudden intrusion, turmeric overwhelming your nostrils as Edwina’s hand gently swipes the mixture across your cheek. Her saccharine giggle contrasted with your wide-eyed stare. She speaks with a whimsical glint in her eyes. One like your own but doe-eyed and hopeful, not calculated and mischievous. “It is said, when spread on an unmarried person, Haldi will help them find a worthy partner that brings the complicated and unpredictable excitement too.”

”Well, Haldi can mind their business,” You tilt your head with a sarcastic smile, earning your mother's pointed stare. Kate chuckles and shakes her. Edwina turns to Kate, who offers a warning stare.

“Now, now. You shall receive it too,” Edwina says, stroking the Haldi across Kate’s cheeks. You fail to ignore the Haldi on your cheeks. It sits like a reminder that tomorrow will come whether you are prepared or not. You shall watch him marry Edwina. Your sister, nieces, and nephews shall be his—but never you.

“Hey!” You exclaim, once again pulled from your thoughts as your mother spreads Haldi across your chest. Reaching into the mixture only takes seconds before the four of you make a mess of it. The giggles are seemingly endless.

Despite the joyous moment, it’s fleeting as the hours seem to fly. Before you know it, you stand in a lavender gown that matches Kate's. You maintain an expression void of emotion, seemingly zoning out—the subtle indicators, near imperceptible. Light sweat coated your brow, and deep sighs left you as though the air was limited. You thank every and any god above for the smokescreen that keeps your beloved family from noticing. Sitting by the window as servants help Edwina prepare, you watch as Kate retrieves the gold bracelet with emeralds dancing across the band.

Edwina stands in front of the full-length mirror. Her eyebrows pinch at the sight she catches in the reflection. Her smile was curious and of awe, “Didi? What are those?”

”I brought them with us from home. I knew this season would be a success,” Kate smiles down at Edwina as she closely inspects them with a warm gaze. You keep your gaze outside the window, willing yourself to ignore every ailment that plagues you. Far too busy pondering potential ways to avoid attending Edwina’s pending nuptials.

Edwina’s head tilts as she searches for familiarity, “they are quite beautiful. How have I never seen them before?”

“They belonged to my mother. Amma wore them on her wedding day and saved them,” Edwina asks if they were saved for Kate. Kate chuckles lightly, “I brought them for you. I insist, beautiful bangles for a beautiful bride.”

”Will you wear them with me?” Edwina asks, but Kate shakes her head, assuring Edwina she will be no bride any time soon. Edwina’s gaze shifts to you, “Well then, Didi, you may very well be a bride soon. Could you wear one with me?”

“Bon—“ You sigh, your gaze meets Kate. The pity in your eyes only furthers the stir in your chest.

“I’m so nervous, but you are the bravest person I know. I don’t know, it may be silly, but wearing this, I shall have a piece of Kate with me up at the altar and knowing you’re wearing it too,” Edwina pauses, her gaze pleading as she holds the bracelet out to you, “It’ll be like we’re in this together. Maybe I can channel some of your courage.”

At the touch of your fingertips, the metal chills against your skin as it soon shackles you to your living nightmare. As Edwina returns to getting ready, you visibly falter for the first time. While your sweet little sister fails to see it, Kate’s quickly at your side. She excuses the both of you slyly, your hands trembling in hers as you both exit the room.

“Bon—“ Kate says, but you offer her a sharp, “don’t.”

You walk with haste to the nearest glass, throwing down a quick shot, ignoring Kate’s advisory against alcohol. Your eyes are misty as your defenses crumble around you. Taking a deep breath, you quickly steel yourself, marching back into the room, rendering Kate unable to console you.

It all passes in a blur as you stare absently out of the window once more. The arriving guests. The bracelets. The wedding gown. Your mother's gushing of Edwina’s beauty in her gown only fuels the fire that slowly burns from the inside out.

“Didi,” you gaze from the window onto your approaching sister. She smiles warmly, taking both your hands. Your heart caught in your throat when she said, “You love him.”

“Wha—I—uh?” You stammer, eyes widening as you try to wrap your brain around her easygoing persona.

“You should not be afraid to tell Lord Beauregard how you feel. You have been nothing like yourself, and I’ve forgotten you have not seen Lord Beauregard in some time now, and you shall see him today. Just tell him,” Edwina says, smiling sweetly. The panic fades into a tremendous relief as your shoulders fall.

“Today is your day. Don’t worry about me, Bon,” You smile, gently squeezing her hands.

“Oh, my beautiful girls,” Your mother says, her gaze moving between you. Her gaze lingers on you for a moment longer, her eyebrow pinching, but the door opening steals her attention away. Concurrently, your body tenses.

“Come. Let us put all the nasty gossip behind us for once and for all,” Your mother stands, taking one of your hands and Edwina’s. Kate joins, taking your own and Edwina’s free hands. She offers you a comforting squeeze. “Let us give the ton a wedding to remember and show them who we truly are.”

Outside the curtains, you stand at Kate's side as if a prisoner were standing before the guillotine. Your corset seemingly constricting as your mind fails to move your legs. You grip Kate’s hand tighter, your ears ringing so loudly you can hardly hear your whisper to her, “I fear I cannot do this, Didi.”

”You are the strongest person I know, Bon. You can. I’m with you all the way. For better or worse,” she whispers. Looking up at her, you blink back tears, and a nervous chuckle leaves you with a final quick whisper: “It sounds as if we are to be wed.”

Kate lets out a soft as she gently pulls you along with her. Servants pull the sheer curtains away as you both pass through. Your gaze finds William in seconds, sitting with Aunt the Queen. His gaze was cold and focused on the groom. You never meet the groom's gaze despite it searing a hole into your head.

You curtsy to the Queen, and William’s gaze remains behind you. As you take your place behind Kate, your gaze meets the grooms for only a second—your breath hitch as you approach the entrance, awaiting the inevitable. A smile takes your face at the sight of your mother and Edwina. Despite everything, your dear little sister always amazes you with her beautiful presence.

Archbishop begins the ceremony, but his words do not reach you. The ringing of your ears grows louder, your right hand soon fiddling at your side. Your smile falters into an absent stare as the bangle on your wrist becomes more noticeable than the gown that covers much of your skin. You let out a shaky exhale, your left hand crushing the stems of your bouquet.

Squaring your shoulders, you take a deep breath and stare forward. A weak smile on your lips as Benedict shoots you a wink—the calm brief as your gaze meets the groom. You refocus on Benedict, but it’s mere seconds, and you both return. The bobbing of his Adams apple, light sweat above his brow, his gaze unfocused, hazy—perhaps you imagine it. You are in Edwina’s place, standing before Anthony, not with a joyous smile but a smug one. A reminder that each day would be a challenge, one you’d both happily accept—a future.

“My lord,” The Archbishop shatters the fantasy with a firmness, tearing your gaze from him; you focus on Kate’s shoulder.

A brief reprieve as the wedding crashes violently with the present reality. Your left hand grips the bouquet stems so tightly it rips beneath the force of your palm as your right hand trembles at your side, the bengal sliding menacingly around your wrist. You tense as your racing heart becomes your only focus, clashing with the loud ringing in your ears.

Anthony looks around the room, and again, his gaze finds you. Edwina’s eyebrows pinch as she follows his gaze. You do not look up from Kate’s shoulder, confident that one wrong move shall bring your end. Even as Edwina turns back, prompting Anthony, his gaze flicks to your unwavering stare on Kate’s shoulder. Your trembling hand matches the pace of your raging heart as you force your tears to remain in your lids.

“I, Lord Anthony Bridgerton,” Archbishop recites, his words ringing loudly in your ears as they hit you head-on. The bengal slips from your wrist, releasing you from its confines. Your eyes close with a sigh of relief as everything quiets. Anthony stands before you when your eyes open, holding the bengal out to you. You glance at Kate, her gaze panicked as she looks between Anthony and yourself.

Lifting your hand, you falter for a second; the moment has lasted far longer than it should. Your gaze locks with his own as you reach out cautiously. His thumb brushes against your own faintly at the touch of the metal. Muttering a thank you and apology, you return to your spot with your gaze low and lips pursed, holding the bengal not placing it back on.

“I need a moment!” Edwina shouts, her voice echoing through the silence. Your eyes widen, and she’s rushing down the aisle from the altar before you can even process. A sea of indiscernible chatter fills the room as you watch your mother rush after Edwina. It all soon returns, the ringing in your ears and your chest constricting. William rises from his seat, his gaze gentle as he stares at you. You look everywhere but at Anthony. Kate grabs your hand, pulling you back down the aisle out of the ceremony.

”—we will call for tea, and once you have something in your stomach, you will be strong enough to go back out there. The Viscount—“ You stand in the doorway, Kate standing a few paces in front of you, your mother a few in front of her. Edwina paces the room, taking deep, haggard breaths. Your mother fumbles to recover the moment, “The Viscount will understand, yes Kate? (Y/n), dear, perhaps you might find that tea—“

“It is not tea that I want; it is the truth!” You freeze in place as Edwina looks at you in a way you have never seen her look at anyone. Though words enter your mind, they do not leave your parted lips. Your mother voices her confusion as you stand as a deer in headlights, teary-eyed and guilty. Edwina continues mercilessly, “Still uncharacteristically quiet, sister, how telling of your deceitful nature!”

“I don’t understand what is happening,” Your mother's gaze bounces between you. Kate sidesteps in a failed attempt to hide you from Edwina’s view, your presence only furthering her rage.

“I shall tell you what is going on, Mama. Your daughter does not love chaos, as she claims. She loves destruction! Decimation at the tips of her fingers, slowly poisoning all she touches!” You blink through your tears, unable to find the words or even begin an explanation.

“Edwina—“ Kate interjects and appears to be the only intervention that deters from her verbal assault.

“Oh, you cannot deny it now, Kate! You enable her! You always have. The two of you are constantly deceiving me. Together in your deception! You knew! Didn’t you? You knew of her feelings for him, ” Edwina narrows her eyes at Kate, the implication of her words giving your Mother much-needed clarity. Meeting your mother's gaze, your head tilts, all but pleading for comfort without words.

“Alright, that is enough. No good can come from this at present. Let us all take a moment to calm ourselves, shall we,” Your mother says, moving to Edwina’s side. She sits Edwina down, dissolving into a bundle of tears. You try to voice an apology, but your Mother turns to you, speaking sternly, “I said that is enough. You have done enough today.”

”Mama, please. I didn’t want this, please. I’m sorry,” You cry, panting softly as your words spill out. The ringing in your ears returns and grows louder steadily with each passing second. Kate interjects only to receive the same sternness, “And you. You have kept so very much from me.”

”Mama, please,” You cry; reaching out for her, she pulls away and points to the door.

“Anywhere else right now, (Y/n),” She says. Rushing out of the doors, everything splinters into a heap of colors and sounds. You pant as though you have run miles rather than mere steps. When you rush into the first set of doors you find, you rush past several faces you cannot make out. Your breathing choppy and staggered, your hand trembling without pause as you pace vehemently.

“(Y/n),” You cringe at the sound of your name, shaking your head as sobs rattle you to your core. He takes your hands, guiding you to the floor. “Hey, it’s okay.”

“It’s not William. I’ve ruined everything; I’m a terrible sister—a terrible person,” You cry, shaking your head; he places a hand on your cheek, stilling you as he wipes a tear.

“You’re far from a terrible person. Stubborn, sure, but not terrible,” He chuckles, tilting his head down to meet your gaze.

“You don’t understand—“ Panting endlessly, William keeps his gaze locked on you and takes a deep breath in and out. He continues to do so until you follow, and even then, he continues for a few moments.

”I’ve made my intentions with you—my uh, my feelings very clear. And when I realized your impact on Anthony and me, I was angry and jealous. He’s so at ease with you even when you’re annoying him, and you seem to forget anyone else is around when the two of you interact,” William says with a slight smile. Your face falls at his words.

“William, I am so sorry—“ Your voice wavers and William chuckles, shaking his head before you can continue. He nudges your side with a grin.

“No apology needed. I only wish for you to be happy (Y/n) just as I wish for Anthony, and with time, your sister will share this sentiment. Of that, I am sure. I must warn you, though, things will grow far worse before they grow better,” William says, resting your head on his shoulder; he kisses the top of your head. You close your eyes, refocusing on deep breaths.

After a few minutes you clear your throat, “I should go, the last thing I need is another scandal.”

“You’re nothing but trouble, Miss Sharma,” William grins, shaking his head. A giggle leaves you as you wrap your arms around him, squeezing his tight.

”Thank you for this,” You mutter, squeezing a little tighter as he kisses the crown of your head once more. As you head back to the room, you pause as Kate sits outside with her head in her hands. She looks up at the sound of your approaching steps, quickly rising at your sight. Neither of you says a word before silently agreeing you both must face this head-on, accomplices. You knock gently upon the door, and Edwina’s face manages to sink even further at the sight of you.

“What?” She asks coldly; before you can get a word in, Kate inquires about your mother, but Edwina cuts her off, “You seem to know all. How could I possibly offer any insight of my own?”

”Edwina, please. Your anger is with me, not Kate,” You say, earning a huff in response.

“Mother is off, getting some air,” Edwina opens the door wider before moving from it entirely. You take a cautious step inside, still lingering by the door as Kate closes it behind the two of you.

“Edwina, I never wanted to hurt you. By the time I realized, it felt far too late to say something. So, I thought that I would swallow it down to avoid this because I wanted you to

be happy. I know you wanted this badly, but I didn’t realize how deep this ran. But it does not matter; I am unfit to be Viscountess, but you, you’re perfect for it,” Your voice wavers as her teary gaze meets your own. Edwina scoffs, shaking her head.

“He said the same thing. I half expected to discover that the two of you prepared it ahead of time. Perhaps it speaks to your compatibility or your deceitful nature,” Edwina shakes her head at you, her gaze cold as ice.

“Edwina, (Y/n) has always supported. You and I both know she is not deceitful. Misguided, certainly. Stubborn almost all the time. But she’s our sister,” Kate says, eyebrows pinching as her head tilts. Edwina’s gaze bounces between the two of you. Her eyes land on Kate.

“I do not know which pains me more. Both your betrayals or your pity,” Edwina says, her head held high with a conviction you never knew her to be capable of.

“Edwina, we are sisters—“ Kate takes a step toward her, reaching out for her hands but halts at Edwina’s next words, “Half-sister, with the misfortune of having (Y/n) as a sister. I want you both to recognize that I am a grown woman and for the first time in my life, I can make a decision based on what I would like.”

Edwina glances over at you, her at ease presence furthered unraveling your nerves, “I have already imagined the life I would lead with Lord Bridgerton as Viscountess at Aubrey Hall. It lives in my mind and is mine to do with as I like. So, if I choose to marry Anthony, it will be because it pleases me and no one else. I need you both to understand that. If I go through with this wedding, it will have nothing to do with either of you.”

You swallow thickly every version of reality where you have no place in her life evident. Kate's reassurances fall victim to the high pitch. Like nails to a chalkboard in your ears. Your personalized torture.

Kate remains at your side, the silence jarring. Uncertain of an appropriate reaction, you find yourself in a hazy void. You refuse the tears pushing at the edge of your lids, no words in reach to synthesize the depths of the pit in your chest. Time fuses into a distorted blend of unrelenting dread. The footman delivers the summons, the neat handwriting familiar.

Kate hesitates as you ask her to join you. Would it fuel the fire? Further the divide? Perhaps. Even still, you both cross the silks and satins of the entryway—the wedding hall. It's still as breathtaking as you all left it.

”You sent word for me?” Your eyebrows pinch as Anthony's words linger in the air. Kate answers as your lips merely part, and no words leave you. You glance at Kate, who mirrors your visible confusion. Approaching footsteps carrying the answers to each lingering question.

Edwina enters like the calm before a storm. Her hands clasped in front of her, her gait determined, and her mindset. She passes Kate without sparing her a glance, Edwina’s gaze bouncing between you and Anthony, “I have made my decision. I thought it best that you both hear it from me.”

“Edwina, perhaps we should speak privately,” Kate suggests, earning a mirthless chuckle.

“No, and quite frankly, I am giving our sister a courtesy I was not granted,” Edwina keeps her head high, her presence delicate yet commanding. She turns to Anthony, who has not looked away from you. A rare sight of pure vulnerability in your eyes as you look at Edwina. Silently pleading for forgiveness. A soft sigh leaves Edwina as she keeps her eyes on Anthony, not continuing until she has his full attention, “I cannot marry you, Lord Bridgerton. You cannot provide me with what it is I want. What it is that I deserve. What everyone deserves. I may not know exactly what true love feels like, but I certainly know what it is not. It is not deception or, wandering eyes, or a role to be fulfilled. I cannot marry you because I cannot betray myself. You will never meet my eyes in the same manner that you met my sisters on that altar today. You will never...”

Edwina falters, a sigh escaping her as she briefly glances toward you and back to Anthony, “You will never look at me the same way. I would be your Viscountess, your wife, the mother of your children, but I would never be yours because you’ll be hers.”

Your eyes find Anthony as her words seep into your bones. Edwina addresses you and Kate with words of contempt and eyes of sorrow. Her retreating form leaves a heavy silence as Kate rushes after her. Neither of you move, Anthony at the altar and yourself a few paces down the aisle.

“I thought I taught Edwina nothing, but I fear she too shares the ability to scorch the earth in a fit of rage,” You chuckle, the tight-lipped smile dissolving into a huff, “I have ruined everything.”

”You speak as though you did it alone,” Anthony says, meeting your gaze in the same spot where he was meant to recite his vows.

“I should go,” You whisper, watching as he glances off, seemingly pondering something. Clearing your throat, you square your shoulders, “Lord Bridgerton.”

”You should stay,” He says, an odd ease to his demeanor. You can only wonder if he feels the turmoil that rages within you. He tilts his head, “Your sister is braver and wiser than us both. She had the courage to act on what she sensed between us. And here we are, you ready to flee and myself standing perfectly still. We’ve felt it for months.”

You inhale sharply, and the reality is apparent: you cannot escape this. Speaking hardly above a whisper, you fidget with the skirts of your dress, “I’ve lit more than enough fires today. If I were wise, I would go.”

”Then, only for a moment, my pyromaniac, play the fool with me. Humor me in this inevitability, a fate that cannot be. Explore the untenable depths of our desires for this moment only before we face the reality waiting for us out there,” Anthony holds out his hand to you. His smile does not reach his eyes as you stare at his hand before you.

A sigh leaves you as you chew on your bottom lip. You cross your arms, raising your head high, “If I am to play the fool, you will have to address me by my proper honorific, of course.”

”And what’s that?” Anthony’s eyebrows pinch as you turn your head.

“Viscount Bridgerton, of course,” You smirk as the realization slowly dawns upon him. A hearty laugh leaves his lips as you accept his hand with a gentle grin.

“The sky could be falling in, and you would find a way to jest,” Anthony smiles as he shakes his head. You nod, chuckling beneath his gaze, far closer than you were a few seconds prior. Neither of you, aware of when or how you got so close. The warmth brings a merriment that blurs the line between what can and cannot be.

The violins.

The flowers.

The gossip eager Ton.

The bride and groom at an altar without wedding bells. ”I fear I have destroyed my relationship with my sister.”

“And I, with my best friend.”

You give his hands a gentle squeeze on your own, gasping as he pulls you forward. The touch of your lips light at the climax of your shared fantasy. As you both pull apart, the warmth chills. You are not husband and wife; you are a scandal.

A smudge on both of your reputations.

[sc0tters]

Muffin Baskets and Frozen Meals | Jack Hughes

summary: when telling Jack how you felt actually went well.

paring: Jack Hughes x Devils Media Member!

request: yes/no

warnings: none?

word count: 1.89k

authors note: planned for this to be a quick blurb and then it became this. will say that I do love it and I was definitely needing more of this soft man like this today 🥺 did something different with parts of it so I’m not sure if it will land but I look forward to how you guys like soft Jack!

You felt like you were going to throw up.

Jack hadn’t been at practice for the last few days after he went to get surgery on his shoulder “you know he likes you right?” Luke smiled as he had gotten close to you in your opening season with the team.

It made you shake your head as you jumped “I don’t like him.” Your cheeks turned a crimson shade of red as the younger boy laughed in response.

The boys all spent the season watching your crush on Jack develop, it was hard not to when you would be left with a grin each time he approached you. But they didn’t notice your side of the crush first as they were far more focused on Jack’s new desire to apart oof everything that the media team needed extra players for.

The first time they noticed it was when you guys had to do the passing the phone trend. One player was needed at the end to say a line about passing the phone to the fans yet none of the girls wanted to ask the players “should I be offended that you haven’t asked me to be in the video peach?” Jack let his lips curve upright as he watched you look up from your iPad.

You tucked your hair behind your ears as you smiled “wanted to save the best role for you.” You explained making his smile grow wider into a toothy grin.

He started calling you peach after the first day when you bumped into him with a bag of sour peach rings in your hand and since that moment you were his peach and he was bringing you a new bag of candy each week “really?” He cocked his head watching her nod eagerly.

The boy naturally agreed and the team watched you pull him with ease to a quieter area of the practice facility “so do we think that he has had a change of heart or that he just thinks that the new girl is hot?” Curtis was the first to speak up from the group that watched the interaction go down.

Judging by the way your hand interlocked with his, Dawson swore that something clearly happened between you and the Hughes boy before “how do we know she doesn’t have a crush on him too?” He shot back causing a chorus of ahh’s to come from around him as the boys began to agree.

Nico just rolled his eyes “next one to talk about either of their love lives is getting extra laps.” As the words left the captains mouth it seemed like the gathering dispersed leaving Luke to awkwardly look up at the captain “I didn’t say a thing!” He whined as the Swiss man pointed to the door leading to the ice.

Jack swore he was slick in masking his crush on you. Sure he offered to do whatever you needed in the form of social media content, something he never did for anyone else. But maybe he was just trying to be your friend.

The all star game had arrived and given that you were in good books with both Jesper and Jack. The team opted to send you with. This was the first time that the fans finally drew the connection. Because after weeks of trying to figure out who was so special on the social media team.

But then they finally got to see the fan clips of you and Jack making fun of Jesper and it was like the puzzle pieces connected for everyone. All of a sudden fans were finding you and just like Jack, you had flurry of people who liked you “someone’s popular.” Jack teased hearing your phone go off again.

It made you send him a glare as you wanted to kick his shin “you jealous Hughes?” You quipped back letting your teeth catch at your lip.

He laughed as he shook his head “the attention they give you is nothing like what you get from me.” Jack pointed out with a smirk as he wrapped his arm around your shoulder.

Both of those memories replayed in your mind as you swore the boys were lying to you. It made you conflicted as to what you were meant to write in Jacks get well soon card as it was the final practice of the season and you were going to give the stuff to Luke to give to his brother.

Your tongue darted out of your mouth as you tried to think of how to start the card “now I’m no genius but most people usually start a card with dear and then the persons name.” Nico pointed out as he looked over the wall of your office cubicle.

His words made you jump as your head shot up “wondered how long it would take for you to see me.” He teased making you roll your eyes “nice to see you too Nico.” You mumbled watching him sit in the seat in front of you.

The captain pulled out a set of keys and before you could ask what was going on he handed you one of them “this is for his place.” Nico explained making your eyes go wide “I am not breaking in!” You shook your head not impressed that he offered.

He shrugged as he leaned back in his seat “technically it’s not breaking in if I said you could go.” Luke’s head popped out from the wall next making you his your face in your hand “how many of you are there?” You were scared to know the answer.

So instead you got to see just how many boys there were as Curtis, John, Timo and Dawson all smiled at you “please go put us out of our misery and tell each other how you feel!” Timo begged making the boys nod in agreement.

Your cheeks turned red as you went to complain “and don’t tell me you don’t like him again because the only person who can’t see it anymore is him.” Nico placed his hand on your knee as he took the card from you “you can give these to him in person so you don’t need this.” He explained as you got up.

It made the boys want to let out a silent cheer “now if he turns me down I will kill you all.” You warned making them salute you off as they knew it wasn’t the case “just to be clear we are all changing our locks now if she knows he has keys?” Dawson trailed off with a gulp.

“Definitely.”

Jack was scrolling through the tv bored out of his mind as he heard the knock at the door “who is it?” He called out muting the sound “peaches!” You called feeling weird hearing your own name be brought up in a conversation with him.

The Hughes boy practically jumped off of the couch “hey.” Jack smiled as he opened the door.

It gave you the rare glance you adored to look at his chest “what are you doing here?” He added as he cocked his head.

You felt like your mouth ran dry “came to give you these.” You explained holding up the muffin basket for him to see.

He nodded motioning for you to come in “and I wanted to check on you.” Your words made both of your tender hearts swell with joy “real sweet of ya peach.” The hockey player was beyond curious to see what you let into your basket.

But suddenly he stopped as he headed for his kitchen “was gonna make Luke give you these.” Jack explained as he handed you a bag of peach rings.

“There is something I need to tell you.”

The words came from both of you at the same time “you should go first.” Jack announced giving you the floor to talk.

It made you want to glare at him “I like you a lot.” Your words sounded really weird “like a lot more than I should as someone who works for the devils.” You added making his facial expressions soften.

But as you heard pure silence you thought the worst “god I made this so bad have I?” As panic settled into your system the boy shook his head.

Jack smiled as he pointed to the bag of peach rings. It made you look down all confused until you saw that the bag had I LIKE YOU printed on the front of it “Jack you better not fuck with me.” You warned as you shook your head.

It made him roll his eyes “trust me for that price I am not.” His words were soft as he walked over to you.

The gap between you both quickly began nothing as you looked up at him “so what do you say about staying over for a bit?” He asked cupping your cheek “we can order pizza and watch a movie.” Jack offered as you leaned forward to kiss him instead.

It was a delicate kiss as if you were too afraid that if any passion slipped into it you’d both end up waking from this perfect dream. So instead you both basked in the beauty that came from knowing how his lips left against yours.

Jack could taste your cherry lipgloss on his tongue as he looked at you “are we sure we want pizza?” You asked letting your fingers run up his chest.

His good arm wrapped around your waist “because I have been told I make a mean frozen lasagna.” You announced with such cheek that it made him laugh as a smile spread on your face.

The boy looked at his kitchen “well then I think it’s good we have everything accept the lasagna.” Jack pointed out letting his forehead rest against yours as you both inhaled wanting to not let the moment ever end.

You pretended to think about it for a second “last time I checked you had a brother who was out still.” Your words made his eyes grow wide “I love you.” Jack confessed as he kissed your lips once more before he reached for his phone.

It wasn’t that you hadn’t heard him because you did, but for the first time you weren’t running away from love as that night as he lay resting against your stomach you’d tell him the same three words back. And that was how, the perfect love story -as Nico calls it when he tells your kids the story of the team got you two together.- came to be known.

If someone told you that the meal that would get you into your future husband’s dreams was going to be a frozen lasagna. They would have been wrong. Jack was so in love with you that you could have served up burnt ramen and he would have eaten it.

Life for the two of you finally blossomed together on that day as two paths merged into one. A story that no longer had all these different endings, where you were with different people.

Jack was your person and you were his. So even know after all of the things you have been through in family and in hockey, you did it together.

With the help of your frozen lasagna.

[sweetadonisbutbetter]

Can I have a lmk Wukong x sick!FEM reader?

OHH MY GODD YES ☹️☹️☹️ my first ever husband in LMK yes i would please taking this and grovelling at the ground like a mad man. it has been a while since I have watch LMK so i apologize if he is OOC ☹️☹️

Can you get off me? I'm dying. | Sun Wukong x Sick!Fem Reader

relationship: romantic Warnings: mentions of throw up, reader being sick

You didn’t think that you were going to get sick. From friends around you canceling plans to the strangers around you apologizing for their slowness. It seemed with the changing of the seasons, everyone was getting sick. For a while, you thought you and your boyfriend were safe, being secluded in the mountains super far away from the city made it hard for either of you to get sick. However, when MK arrived for training, sneezing a little more than usual, your hopes of not getting sick plummeted down the drain. Once you accepted that you would get sick, you made Wukong get you stuff to prepare. 

You stocked up on copious amounts of cough medicine, allergy pills, tissues, teas, soups, and anything else you thought you would need. You just wish it wasn’t this bad.

Panting over the toilet, you wipe away any throw-up that fell onto your chin using your other hand to flush it, not being able to stomach the look of it. You stand up slowly, afraid of falling since you are already feeling dizzy. At a full stand, you made your way to your sink to wash your face and hands. The cool water felt much colder against your warm face. Sighing in relief, you stand at the sink for a moment, letting the sink run as it touches your hands.

You couldn’t help but think about how shitty you feel. You felt both hot and had the shivers. You felt so lightheaded and your head was hurting so bad that you just wanted to lay down under your blankets. Your legs and arms felt like jelly from your muscles growing weak. Your nose was stuffed to all hell and you had to breathe through your mouth, leaving your lips chapped and throat dry. 

If someone walked in on you, they probably would have thought you were dying. 

You feel your knees go out under you, your body reaching its limit for the amount of standing you could handle for today, snapping you out of your thoughts. You turn off the water and go to a full stand, looking at yourself through the mirror. Even from a glance, someone can tell you felt like shit. 

Somehow your eyes look like you get 30 minutes of sleep every night, eye bags so dark and heavy. Your normally natural and done hair looks like you haven’t taken care of it in weeks. Your skin was looking paler while your nose was rosey. 

“I feel and look like shit.” You murmur to no one in particular. You bring a hand to your face, pulling down on your face a bit, opening one eye a bit more. Sighing, you dropped your hand down to your side and left the bathroom to head to your shared bedroom. Entering your room, you didn’t even think twice before collapsing on your bed. Reaching for your phone on the bedside table, having left it there after you hurriedly ran to throw up, you mindlessly scrolled on your socials. After a while you began to feel sleepy, so you put on a random video and got comfortable, promptly knocking out.

─── ⋆⋅ ☼ ⋅⋆ ───

You woke up hot and suffocating as if you were wrapped in weighted 12 blankets stuffed with rocks. You try to shift the weight off you, trying to catch your breath. However, it seemed to have other intentions as you felt arms and something else wrap around you. The feeling of something slim wrapping around your waist told you all you needed to know.

“Ugh…Wukong, please get off me.” You groan and try to push him off. He shakes his head, which was buried into your chest, and holds you tighter. You lift your head to look at him, only seeing the mess of golden fur that was on the top of his head. He also lifts his face from your chest, and smiles up at you, before his smile drops.

“How are you feeling, peach-Holy shit, you look terrible.” He states bluntly. Rolling your eyes, your head dropped to your pillow as you put a hand on your face. 

“Thanks.” You tell your boyfriend sarcastically. “I also feel it.”

He doesn’t say anything for a moment as both stay where you are. You sniffle, attempting to hold back any mucus that was trying to escape,  and you feel Wukong loosen his grip. Thinking that he was listening to you, you lift your hand and notice that he was leaving the room. You take a big sigh of relief, happy now that your heavy-ass boyfriend is no longer suffocating your body. However, you were now feeling way colder with the absence of his body heat, so you grasped at your sheets and wrapped them around you. After a while, you feel yourself begin to fall asleep again.

Before Wukong burst into the room, bags of takeout in his hands. Startled by the sudden noise, you shoot up out of bed and look at your boyfriend like he is crazy (he is). He doesn’t say anything, rather making his way to his side of the bed and taking a seat.

“Did you just get that?” You ask him as he begins to unpack the food. 

“Duh.” He says, pulling out a large tub and looking at it closely before handing it to you. You take it from his hand and look at it. The warm tub had Pigsy’s restaurant logo on it. You look at him again as he hands you another thing. This looks more like a thermos, confusing you even greater. 

“What did you even get?” You ask, turning the cup to inspect it, trying to figure out what he got you. You hear him huff before he tells you.

“Pigsy was the one who made it for you. All I told him was that you were feeling ill.” You look at him with a look. 

“You didn’t ask?”

“No. He was making it free of charge.”

“Okay…What is with the other boxes?”

“Oh. These are for me. I got hungry while I was waiting.” Wukong says before smiling at you, his tail curling a bit. You roll your eyes and adjust yourself to sit upright comfortably. Placing the thermos down on the bedside table, you open the tub and see that it is filled with chicken congee. Your stomach rumbles and grumbles, causing you to realize that you are running on an empty stomach. Mentally thanking Pigsy, you began to dig in. While slightly bland, it was helping with the upset stomach and it was also warming you up along the way. You hum as you eat, the warmth of the food and it overall hitting the right spot, you didn’t realize that you finished it. You look sadly at the empty tub, wishing there was more. You hear Wukong laughing at you, causing you to look at him and see him slurping on noodles. Pouting slightly, you put the empty tub back in the plastic bag and reached for the thermos. Smelling it, it seemed like a tea of sorts with some cinnamon and jujube. Already familiar with the blend, you began to drink it slowly, being careful not to burn yourself. 

By the time you were done with your tea, Wukong was done with his numerous boxes of food and you were once again sleepy. Wukong takes the trash and thermos out of the room as you slide down and get comfortable once more. Shifting on your side, you wiggle around for a bit, before you feel like you hit the sweet spot. Tummy full, and not feeling as terrible as you did before, you kinda drift between consciousness and unconsciousness. 

You hear the floor creek, causing you to open your eyes and see Wukong standing by the door. He was looking at you as if he was asking for something. Already knowing what he was going to ask for, you rolled your eyes and lifted the blanket, inviting him. 

“Come on,” You say as he smiles and is in your arms within the same second. Wrapping his arms around you, he tangles his legs with your own as his tail wraps around you once again. You smile at his warmth and return the hug. The rest of your day was spent napping with your boyfriend, feeling way better than you did when you woke up that morning. 

[12-seconds-to-live]

Laniel.jpg and Charlotte

Pairing: DR3 x LN4 x F1 female driver

Warnings: none, just my happiness with Daniel and Lando

NICE AIRPORT - TERMINAL 1 @15:20

"You look cute today" I stop looking to my phone to look at Lando. Well, that's new

"You say it like it's weird of me using a dress"

"It is" He smiled

"I'm gonna ignore you from now on"

"It's not common, even when we go to parties you use jeans, so, I have a point"

"The real point here is that we are in the middle of the summer and if I put a raw egg on the floor it will cook"

"But what about the jet? It's going to be cold in there"

"I have my enchanté sweater" Lando made a loud gasp "It has cute peaches and it's purple"

"I sent you a full box of my merch last month, mean"

"Cry about it, Daniel thinks that I have a pretty face so everybody is going to see me in the new enchanté collection"

"Really?"

"Yeah, I asked him months ago, even I helped with the design of one of the pieces"

"Well, congratulations. You should look who's coming" I turn my head and a very smiley Daniel Ricciardo was walking to our direction

"You knew?"

"I invited him to flight with us, I know how important you were for him these moths away from racing so I..." I interrupted him with a hug and a kiss in the cheek

"You're the best, Norris" Lando didn't expect that reaction, now he can feel his cheeks burning

I got up and run to Daniel. After Silverstone, I decided to wait for Danny's test with Pirelli. After he finished a call from Helmut Marko was all we need to know that he got the seat for the rest of the season. Even if I have a good relationship with the australian, I organized a few days off with Lando, Max, Nyck, some frineds and myself to let Nyck know that we're his friends and friends support each other.

"It's been only a week, you know?" He said laughing

"I don't care, I'm happy. These past 7 months had been like going on a rollercoaster over and over again so, you know. Even if it's AlphaTauri, you have your way back home, you never left, you just have to travel the world over in search of what you need and then return to find it"

"I know Char and thank you for everything" His eyes got glossy so I hug him "Do you like my design?" He said ponting to his sweater

"No, it is..." I gasp

"Yes, kiddo. Tommorrow a million boys are going to see you wearing the new collection"

"Ha ha, funny, you know that I have my eyes on someone"

"Someone a bit brainless. Hey Lando, I guess you were waiting for me"

"Yeah, let's go"

Once in the airplane

"I have to say that this is a very important moment and pretty faces like yours should be able to broke the internet" I said taking Lando's camera and pinting to them "New wallpapers for your fans"

They looked at each other and start with their goofiness and well... I guess they really missed each other. Maybe Carlos and I have competition.

"We are pretty good looking guys, you know?" Daniel said with a smile on his face

"Even you could use us as your wallpaper" said Lando

"Good offer but nothing can beat my photo with Tom Holland" I said with a side smile and ready to take a nap before we arrive in Budapest

"When are you gonna tell her how you feel?" asked Daniel looking at Lando

"I don't know what are you talking about" he answer looking at the mirror

"Kids, always scared of love"

DRIVE TO SURVIVE EP.4 S.6 NICE GUYS ALWAYS COME BACK

"Hello Charlotte"

"Hi Netflix, can I have some tea? I been walking around doing interviews and stuff and I couldn't finish my lunch"

"Sure, mint?"

"Yes, please" I smile to the interviewer "We can't start, I'll wait for the tea"

"Ok, what were you doing when the news drop?"

"Oh, ha ha, I was with the main character. I can do anything, even work as emotional supporter, PR, car mechanic, you know" one member of the staff approached me with the cup of tea "Thank you"

"How do you feel about this?"

I made a pause thinking and trying not to burn my lips "I think that this a great moment to tell you what happen after Abu Dabi. Well, I sign my contract with McLaren, I was feeling bad about the decision, just for Danny and I spent the night with him and his girlfriend just talking and at some point we got more serious and I just told him and without knowing about Red Bull: What is a home if not the first place you learn yo run from?"

I smiled to the camera "Then he told me about the third driver offer and I felt different, by the time he leave in 2018 I guess that he felt that he was destroying everything and he just needed to slip quietly to the back door without causing to much noise and then not stop running. And maybe that was he needed more than what he really wanted, let go the feeling of wanted to go back and remember what you once had and what you once where "

"But then I told him that it's funny that the feeling of leave home and being far away make us wander our choices but for Danny is something else. He's back home and ready to no longer remember which tale of his past is true and which is an invention. Outside he's the same on the inside he's the same kid that leave Australia looking for a dream"

"I guess he's your favourite person between the drivers" asked the producer

"No, Daniel is my brother and I know he feels the same about me"

📍Budapest

Liked by charlotterjones, daniel3.jpg and 943.501 others

landonorris We’re photographers. We’re back.

📸: @charlotterjones

user1 ARE YOU KIDDING ME. STOP THIS CUTENESS

f1mia need a landan.jpg account plz

charlotterjones This is a piece of art ❤️

landonorris including the photographer danielricciardo our favourite girl

user2 "dude we’re getting the band back together״

user3 we missed daniel button --->

I got inspired! This little story is linked with my current story called (Un)Lost

Hope you like it!

Taglist: @evans-dejong @omgsuperstarg @bibissparkles @hoely-maria @mochimommy2002 @noope306 @eugene-emt-roe @80sloverry @rens-daylight @summerslike11 @matildrry

[stylesispunk]

"A broken ankle, karma rules"

no outbreak! Joel Miller x f! reader

Summary: you slipped on ice in front of your neighbor Joel and he ran to help you. warning: none besides a broken ankle, "peach" is reader's nickname, and probably grammar mistakes because I wrote this too fast. Word count: 2,6k a/n: This is the last piece of writing for the Christmas season! It's a short one but a lovely one. I'm actually dying because it's too hot here in my country (perhaps because Pedro is here) I hope you have a lovely Christmas Eve, take care of yourself and I hope there is so much love for you on your way!

dividers by @/plum98

It has been five months since your neighbor, Joel had moved to the house next to yours, in a neighborhood mostly habited by lovely elderly people, you were the youngest woman in this street, and the sweetheart, loved by everyone around. Well, you, your kind heart, warm personality, and the delicious pastries you baked since you were a professional baker.

And of course, the arrival of Joel changed the course of events at the neighborhood, at that sunny morning when he parked his car in front of his house, full of his belongings, clearly indicating he was taking the house.

At first, you didn’t understand the commotion outside when you spotted 3 of the ladies chatting and laughing with an unknown guy on the cobblestones in front of your yard, just when you were leaving for work.

As a shy person, you sometimes hated the new introductions and tried your best to avoid them, but this morning it seemed like the odds weren’t in your favor. Once you stepped outside your door, the three heads, well now four, turned to you, smiling, and the chatting stop abruptly.  You could swear the eyes of the stranger wide at your presence. You felt the rush creeping up your cheeks and swallow, making your war downstairs your porch.

“It’s our lovely baker here, come on sweats pea, let us introduce you both” one of the ladies said, her name was Betty and he was a lovely woman in her 80s.

You walked towards them, avoiding the lump in your throat and the stammer on your heart at the presence of the men next to Betty.

“Look, Joel. She is our lovely peach. Well, that’s not her name but we all call her that because she bakes the best peach tarts in this town” she beamed.

“Hi, nice to meet you, peach” he smirked, “I’m Joel” he took your hand to shake, and you swore there was an electric touch once your hands made contact.

"Joel, you have tried her peach tarts" Betty asked with a sly smile.

Joel, catching on to the playful matchmaking, replied, "I would love to."

As you blushed at that, Betty seized the moment. "Well, you're in for a treat! Peach, why don't you tell Joel about your baking journey? It's such a fascinating story."

“Well, I’m actually have to go to work but I-you. I’m, we can’t talk later” you replied, shyly, making your  

“And again, nice to meet you, Joel. I” you smiled, trying to avoid looking into his eyes.

It has been five months since that morning and you could say you and Joel got along well since then, you wouldn’t say you were both friends but you clearly could say you were on good terms and he was a great neighbor.

Since then, you had found out he was single, no wife, not girlfriend and not daughter, but he did have a dog that always switched his time between your house and his, trying somehow to pull you and Joel together.

And now, as the winter sky painted hues of lavender color in the horizon, you found yourself bundled up in a cozy blanket, sitting on the bench outside your doors with a steaming cup of tea cradled between your hands. The air was crisp, and the soft glow of holiday lights adorned the houses, casting a warm and festive ambiance.

Joel, with his dog by his side, approached quietly, the soft crunch of leaves beneath his boots announcing his presence. The winter silence was interrupted only by the distant sound of carolers and the occasional jingle of bells from some houses, and his presence.

"It's enchanting, isn't it?" Joel remarked, his breath forming a mist in the cold air as he settled beside you.

You smiled, the warmth of the tea contrasting with the chilly breeze, "Yes, there's something nice about winter evenings. Especially on the eve of Christmas."

Joel nodded, his gaze capturing the twinkle of Christmas lights around the neighborhood. "Absolutely. It's my first winter here, but there's a special charm to this season."

He turned to you, taking a look of your side profile looking at the sky. He hadn’t really paid attention of the beautiful features adorning your face. For him, you were clearly a gorgeous woman, but right now in the quietness of a winter afternoon and gorgeous colors around, he thought you looked breathtaking, and his heart stopped beating for a second.

He cleared his throat, “So, any plans for tomorrow night?”

You contemplated your answer for a while before answering the question, “Well, I’m just driving to my parents’ house. We aren’t really a big family so I’m spending the night with them” you smiled, turning to your side to face Joel “What about you?”

“With my parents. I mean they’re coming and my lil’ brother and kids. They all want to know the place I’m living now” he chuckled.

“If is not a bother, I would love to ask you if you could bake a peach tart for me?” his big brown eyes shone under the soft light left of the day “you promised once you would bring me one but you didn’t so…”

Your heart fluttered at the genuine warmth in Joel's request, and the winter chill seemed to retreat in the face of the newfound connection between you two.

"Of course, Joel. I'd be happy to bake a peach tart for you. It's the least I can do for my neighbor and his family," you replied, a grin spreading across your face.

Joel's eyes lit up with gratitude, and he flashed a grateful smile. "Thanks, peach. I can't wait to taste one." He stepped up from beside you and flashed you another smile “So, see you tomorrow.”

“I’ll knock at your door with a peach tart.” you beamed.

As you got ready to drive to your parent's house, your mind was filled with the joy of giving and the anticipation of the holiday night.

Before hitting the road, you took extra care in preparing the peach tart for Joel. The sweet aroma of baking filled your kitchen, creating an atmosphere of warmth and festivity. Once the tart was baked to perfection, you carefully wrapped it in a festive box, adding a touch of holiday magic with a ribbon.

The night before, the snow had painted the neighborhood in a blanket of white, transforming the cobblestones and rooftops into a winter wonderland. As you stepped outside, the chill of the morning air nipped at your nose, and you couldn't help but marvel at the serene beauty of the snowy landscape.

With the box in hand, you made your way carefully towards Joel's house, navigating the slippery cobblestones with caution. The snow had turned the quaint neighborhood into a picturesque scene, and the holiday lights twinkled against the snowy backdrop.

But just before you reached the stairs of the porch, your misstep, slipping on the icy pavement. A gasp escaped your lips, and time seemed to slow for a moment. The festive box containing the carefully prepared peach tart tumbled from your hands, landing with a soft thud on the snowy ground. Your heart raced as you tried to regain your balance, but the slippery surface had other plans.

“Damn it!” you yelled, at the impact, and you winced as you felt the cold seeping through your winter attire.

Just as the echoes of your frustration lingered in the air, a door creaked open. Joel, having heard your exclamation, rushed out of his house with concern etched on his face. His eyes widened as he took in the scene, the fallen box, the snowy ground, and you, trying to gather yourself.

"Peach, are you okay?" he called out, his voice filled with genuine concern.

You managed a sheepish smile as you felt the flush on your cheeks, "I'm fine, just a little clumsy in the snow."

Joel hurried over; his steps cautious on the slippery pavement. "Here, let me help you up," he offered, extending a hand.

But you yelped in pain as you tried to stand up, a sharp twinge radiating from your ankle.

Joel's expression shifted from concern to alarm as he saw the discomfort etched across your face. "Hold on, Peach. Don't force yourself up. Are you hurt?"

You winced, clutching your ankle. "I think I might have twisted it. It hurts."

Without hesitation, Joel carefully crouched down beside you, his eyes scanning for any signs of serious injury. "Let me take a look," he said, his voice calm and reassuring.

As he examined your ankle, you couldn't help but feel a mix of embarrassment and gratitude. The peach tart, now forgotten in the snowy commotion, lay beside you. The chilly air seemed to intensify as Joel's worried gaze focused on your ankle.

"I'm no expert, but it might be best if we get you inside and have a closer look," Joel suggested, his concern evident on his voice.

You nodded, appreciating his attentiveness. With Joel's support, you managed to stand, albeit with difficulty. Together, you limped towards his front door, the snow underfoot now a hindrance rather than a picturesque setting.

Once inside, Joel helped you settle into a chair. "I think it might be a good idea to have a doctor take a look at your ankle. I can drive you to the hospital."

But instead of uttering a word, you started crying. Embarrassment and sadness clouded your mind, with a possible broken ankle you wouldn’t be able to drive to your parent’s house and you just had ruined Joel’s tart.

Joel, seeing your distress, knelt down beside you, his expression a blend of concern and empathy. "Hey, it's okay. Accidents happen, and your health is what matters most right now. We'll figure things out."

“But I ruined your tart” you sobbed, into your palms.

“I don’t care about the tart now, but you, okay? Let me drive you to the hospital” he said, looking out his car keys.

“No, Joel, I can drive myself” you insisted, attempting to push away the feeling of being a burden.

"Don't be a dummy, peach," he said, using the endearing nickname. Joel gently took your hands away from your face, looking into your eyes with sincerity. "Your health is more important. We'll figure out the rest later. Let me help you."

Feeling embarrassed, you nodded, realizing the truth in his words. With Joel's support, you allowed him to guide you to his car, the winter chill contrasting with the warmth of his concern.

As Joel drove carefully through the snowy streets to the hospital, a quiet and comfortable silence settled between you two. The twinkling Christmas lights outside seemed to blur in the background as your thoughts focused on the unexpected turn of events.

"I appreciate your help, Joel," you finally said, breaking the silence.

He glanced at you, a reassuring smile on his face. "That's what neighbors do, right? Look out for each other. Plus, I wouldn't want you driving with a potentially broken ankle."

Your previous accident hit you again, and you sighed. "This wasn't how I imagined spending Christmas Eve."

Joel nodded, understanding in his eyes. "Life has a way of surprising us. Perhaps, something good may happen after this” he said, looking to the front of the road.

Arriving at the hospital, Joel helped you out of the car and into the emergency room. As you waited for the doctor, the events of the day played in your mind. Despite the unexpected twists, you found solace in the genuine care Joel had shown towards you right now, as he took care of you by holding your hand tightly as you both wait for the doctor to attend your ankle.

After what felt like an eternity, the doctor finally arrived, breaking the quiet tension in the emergency room. Joel stood by your side, holding your hand tightly, offering a reassuring anchor as the doctor began to assess your ankle.

The doctor examined the X-rays and then turned to you with a composed expression. "Well, it seems you have a broken ankle. Nothing too severe, but you'll need to be cautious and follow the recommended care for a proper recovery."

You nodded, absorbing the news with a mix of resignation, and the doctor continued to explain the care instructions, detailing the use of crutches, the importance of keeping weight off the injured foot, and the expected timeline for healing.

Joel listened attentively; his concern evident in his eyes. However, to your surprise, the doctor, with a knowing smile, glanced between you and Joel.

"You're fortunate to have such a supportive boyfriend," the doctor said, assuming Joel was your boyfriend.

“Oh, he is-“

“Of course, everything for taking care of my girl” Joel interrupted, playing along with the assumption. He smiled warmly at you, as the grip on your hand gently tightened.

You exchanged a surprised glance with Joel, realizing that he was choosing to support the charade. The doctor continued, providing further guidance and answering any questions you both had.

As the appointment concluded, the doctor left the room, leaving you and Joel alone once again. You couldn't help but feel confusion at Joel’s behavior.

“Why did you do that?” you asked, curious.

Joel looked at you with a sheepish grin, his eyes reflecting a mix of playfulness and sincerity. "Well, it just seemed easier at the moment. Plus, I didn't want to complicate things. It's not like it's hurting anyone, right?"

“oh” you said, your tone disappointed.

“And because I think you are beautiful” he said, once he felt the disappointed in your voice “And I don’t care about peach tarts when I would rather taste the lips of the person who bakes them” he confessed.

Joel's confession hung in the air, and you found yourself caught between surprise and a growing warmth in your cheeks.

"I didn't mean to disappoint you," Joel said, a hint of concern in his eyes.

Your disappointment had quickly shifted to a mixture of surprise and something else—a fluttering sensation in your stomach. "No, Joel, it's not that. I just didn't expect—"

He gently interrupted, "Expect the unexpected, right? Life has a way of surprising us, I told you earlier” he said, smirking.

"Beautiful, huh?" you teased, attempting to lighten the moment.

Joel grinned, "Oh, absolutely.” He continued, "And as for the peach tart, I'd gladly trade it for a taste of something sweeter."

With a subtle shift, Joel leaned in, closing the distance between you. The moment felt like a suspended breath, a pause in time where the unexpected had become a canvas for something beautiful.

Your heart raced as Joel's lips met yours, the taste of your lips was just as sweet as he imagined, and the world outside, covered in a blanket of white, seemed to fade away as the warmth of your new found connection met in both of your lips moving against each other.

As the kiss deepened, you started to feel breathless, a rush of emotions swirling within you, and you even felt grateful for breaking your ankle because it led you to Joel.

the taste of the shared kiss created a sense of completeness, as if the universe had conspired to bring you together on this snowy Christmas Eve. The initial disappointment and frustration had given way to a profound appreciation for the serendipitous journey that had unfolded throughout the day.

When the kiss finally broke, you found yourself looking into Joel's eyes, a silent language being spoken between looks.

“Yes, definitely sweeter than a tart” Joel remarked, a playful glint in his eyes.

Joel remarked, the playful glint in his eyes creating a shared laughter that echoed in the quiet space.

You chuckled, the joy of the moment enveloping you both. "I guess breaking my ankle wasn't the worst thing that could've happened today."

Joel grinned, "Who would've thought a slip on the icy pavement could lead to all this?" His eyes held amusement

“Merry Christmas, peach,” he said, kissing you again.

[prettyboykatsuki]

i've been very far home, my heart | nightowl (blooming panic)

˚ʚ♡ɞ˚ tags; established relationship, hurt/comfort, feelings of inadequacy / low self worth, gn!reader (they wear heels and have manicured nails, but otherwise nondescript. no gendered language), role reversal, arguing / messy human behavior, suggestive towards the end, they are implied to be the same height 🫡

˚ʚ♡ɞ˚ wc ; 3.7k (added 500 to wc in editing. ok)

˚ʚ♡ɞ˚ a/n ; bro idk what happened here FDHJDKDKJ. my sleep meds were making me feel super hungover, i got a little cooked on the devils lettuce and then wrote this?? and it wasn't bad lmaoaoa??

i really like this blonde twink ive known for three days. he is like. so extremely, hilariously my type and exactly like several ppl i've dated so this end up being a reflective piece on being a giver n navigating adult relationships.

title is from where we go by jelani aryeh

The bathroom light is on.

It’s spilling underneath the door frame when you come in from work later than usual. It’s busy season, with new clientele - all of which require socializing around drinks and expensive dinners to secure them. It’s nearly 1am, and you’ve taken two Ubers to get back home from the restaurant all the way across town that you’ve been mingling at since nine.

You closed the deal though, and your boss (perhaps seeing the visible exhaustion in your eyes) has given you the go-ahead on taking a few days off. The consulting part of your financial advising job could wait until Monday, which was a relief to hear. You came home expecting Nightowl to be up. He’s always up this late, and when he is - he rarely limits himself to one room in the apartment. You have a routine to it. You sleep in the dark bedroom and Owl tries not to make so much noise as to wake you.

You texted him you’d be late, and he’d read it but didn’t reply. Too worn down to think anything of It at the time, you slept on two car rides rather irresponsibly and were unsure of what to feel when your apartment didn’t have any lights from the outside upon arrival. Youwalked in after that, wondering if your eyes had been playing tricks. But the house was still dark, both upstairs and down stairs - in the bedroom and in the office. The only place you could find any trace of life was in the bathroom.

You’ve only left your bag on the couch downstairs. Worry makes your brows furrow as you turn the door knob to your shared bathroom and walk in. The clinical scent of bleach is the first thing to grasp your senses, jolting you awake from the haze of steam and leftover buzz of alcohol.

You cough a little, and find Nightowl on the bathroom floor. There’s a bottle of peach soju on the counter, and a few open packets of developer and mixing bowls. Owl is drunk already you think, or at the very least tipsy, moreso than you. The hot blush on his skin makes you think he’s been at it for a while. You try not to monitor his liquor intake too much, but the concern you feel is immediate and not helped by where you find him.

His body is slumped against the gray wall closes to the tub, sitting on the tile with a different bottle in his hand. His phone is face down beside him and he’s not noticed you come in. Your frown deepens as your heels click slightly on the tile. Crouching down at the knee, you reach your hand out for his forehead. His skin is so hot it’s scorching. You sober up almost instantly.

Even in his inebriated state, he seems to recognize you. His smile is wide, but you don’t feel like it reaches his eyes.

“Oh, so you decided to come home after all!”

You smile sadly followed with a curt nod. “Sorry.”

“Don’t really see what the point is in you apologizing when you’ve already been so late,” He says jovial. You try not to let it sting. You remind yourself that he’s drunk and stifle a sigh again. “But welcome home!”

“Were you gonna bleach your hair?”

“Isn’t that obvious?”

“Yeah,” You reply, choosing to sigh that time. His lip wobbles a little and you try not to say anything more. “Do you want help?”

“Sure. Whatever.”

You mumble something about being right back and Nightowl hums in affirmation. A feeling washes over you. Bone-deep exhaustion crushing your lungs and making you wheeze when you step out of the bleach-scented bathroom. When you’re distance enough away that he won’t hear you - closer to your bedroom door, you breathe in and out, calming yourself down. After you feel more centered, you open your shared room door and take a stool from along the wall, bringing it with you into the bathroom. Nightowl doesn’t turn his head to look at you until you place it. Sharing a glance with each other, he gets up on his own and sits himself on the placed stool dramatically and you give him a weak smile through the mirror he doesn’t bother returning.

You’re quiet as you leave the door open a touch to make sure the steam doesn’t overheat you both. Shrugging off your suit jacket, you fold it and hang it on the towel racks behind you. You unbutton your sleeves and roll them into neat folds on both arms, and before digging into one of your bathroom drawers for plastic gloves. Sliding them onto your manicured fingers, you pick up the bowl of developer from the side of the counter and mix it using the provided brush until it’s all smooth.

Nightowl is unusually silent through the entire thing. If he weren’t fidgeting, you could barely tell he was there. It’s so difficult to see him that way. You try not to blame yourself too much.

“Gonna start,”

“Uh-huh,”

A longing passes over you in the warm, sterile air. The coolness from the A.C. in the rest of your apartment dries down the sheen of sweat your accumulated while out socializing. Your feet are killing you and your shoulders are aching and your lungs feel like you can’t get enough air out of them. That’s busy season for you. The price of your job with all of it’s stability and benefits is the annual stretch of months where you are so busy you feel like you are drowning.

It’s one thing to be so mind-numbingly busy when you’re single and only worried about not dying. Another though to have a partner waiting for you, who you love and would like to be with - who you’ve admittedly not done well in paying attention to. You’ve tried you think. Made some attempts, but it doesn’t feel good enough and it certainly isn’t enough for Nightowl. You know that, too. You look down at where your hands are applying the bleach, dazed - using only muscle memory to apply it to the roots and strands of his hair. You want to touch him. To press kisses into his spine, drunk and elated, and press your cheek to his shoulder and confess your undying love until he’s giggly all over again.

The thought of adoration soothes you. Makes you smile to yourself even amongst the unforgiving atmosphere. Nightowl doesn’t care for that, his face growing even more frustrated.

“Thought of something fun? Glad at least one of us is having a good time.”

Your eyes meet his in the mirror. He looks away when he sees how pained you look, and you shut your eyes trying not to react. “Sorry.”

“Stop saying that,” He frowns, though he seems more sad than you.

“S—“ You clear your throat and laugh humorlessly at yourself. “Okay,”

You go about your business. Many things cross your mind but you can’t wrangle your thoughts into anything cohesive enough to say. Your jaw tightens a little, like your mouth wants to practice syllables it can’t remember. The distraction of rubbing bleach into Nightowls roots is welcome. His hair is a lot healthier than it used to be, after a year of forcing him to use hair masks. You admire as you brush through the strands, and Nightowl seems to lost in his own thoughts to say anything in protest. He probably hates this silence more than you. He’s uncharacteristically stiff, and there’s no smalltalk to distract from the surroundings.

You’re not feeling well enough to try and remedy it. Allowing yourself to stonewall and sit in the discomfort is about as much as you can do to reach a hand to your relationship. You probably can’t make it better, but you can do your best not to make it any worse.

“All done,” You mumble, just loud enough for him to hear. You slide the gloves off and toss them into the trash “We should sober up before bed. Hangover before bed sounds awful. Did you,” You hiccup. “Want some?”

He doesn’t reply to you. You press your lips into a flat line, feeling somewhat sorrowful but ultimately resigned. “I’ll make some anyway. And set a timer too while I’m down there. Just, uh - join me. When you’re done here.”

Before you turn to leave, he grabs your wrist. You’re taken aback by the sudden gesture (though there’s not force in it), turning around to look at him. His face is red. Wet tears pool on the corners of his straight, black lashes. Blinking a few times in surprise, you reach your hand to wipe them from the corners. Muscle memory. You find your love for him defined that way. He doesn’t flinch away from the touch, at least.

“Don’t you have something to say to me,” He insists. You frown in genuine confusion, a sad smile pulling at your mouth.

“Thought you told me to stop saying sorry,” You repeat with no malice, smiling a little. “That’s all I’ve got though.”

His lower lip trembles again and you try not to laugh. “God. How could you be so. God.” He sniffles a little. “You could cuss me out. Or like, I dunno, just get mad in general. You’re supposed to be mad, I was,” He cuts himself off.

You laugh a little tiredly, bending down to press your forehead to his. The flush of his skin against your own makes your heart murmur his name. “I don’t have anything to say, my heart.” You assure, smiling. “We’re both pretty tired. But I have tomorrow off. Let’s cool off and talk tomorrow. “Okay?”

“Okay,” He says back, still simmering. “As long as you’re here tomorrow.”

Your heart stings. “For the next two days, promise. I’ll toss my work phone if you want.”

He cracks a smile like that. “Might have to take you up on that, cutie.”

The familiar nickname eases you a bit, making you laugh. “Whatever you want.”

__

Morning comes unyielding and indifferent, like always.

Sunlight filters through the curtains as your eyes peel open and try to get adjusted to the light. There’s a weight on top of you, and the sound of steady breath. Another heartbeat thumps alongside yours and before you can make much sense of it - you catch the freshly yellow blond roots of your lover as he lays on your chest.

You went to bed last night not even facing each other. The image of him reaching around for you in his sleep and ending up in your arms feels like divine intervention. You admire how perfectly he fits there. Your eyes trace of his features. Thick, straight brows, skin like light gold, a straight nose and full lips. The shock of blonde suits him strangely, makes the dark lines of his other features pop. It’s rare you get to look at him so closely, even more so lately.

The intimacy of his flaws makes your stomach flutter, texture in his skin and eyebags and all. You crane your neck to kiss his hairline and think about returning to sleep in the cocoon of warmth. The cradle of soothes you, makes your eyelids heavy with sleep again. You think it’d be nice to sleep in more, but you don’t want to squander anymore time with Nightowl. Shifting, you pry yourself away from his grasp and tuck him into blankets. You’ll wake him later.

You’re quiet as you tiptoe around the house and get your affairs in order. The bathroom first to shower and brush your teeth, then downstairs to start on breakfast. You take the ritual of it to calm down and ease the leftover nerves of your stomach. It was better to save any conversation for sobriety - so you don’t regret it. Still, you feel a fear lingering. A nagging voice in the back of your head as you flip pancakes and cut fruit and pour juice.

The eerie silence of Saturday morning pushes you to reflect. It’s rare you fight like this. Even more rare that Nightowl reverts to that kind of angriness, which is why you find you can’t get upset. Not even the sound of sizzling and frying can keep your mind from wandering.

Inadequacy is familiar. An old winter jacket, too sizes too small and ill-fitting but full of your own personhood. One of the things you and Nightowl bonded over a long time ago.

You did well in school, in college, made a career for yourself. It’s making up for the rest of you, you think.

At least you’re good at your job, even if the rest of you is not worth mentioning. The ghost of feeling like you are, in some basic and intrinsic way, not good enough likes to shake you every now and again. Not friend, nor partner. It’s not something you easily get rid of, despite how far you’ve grown past it. Or around it. Or ahead of it. Wherever you’ve ended up, occasions come that knock the feeling loose from your deepest memories. You work hard to cover for it.

You like to logic your way out of the guilt when you’ve poured so much into it and people drift. A self-fulfilling prophecy. Usually that works. Tuck your emotions into neat compartments, throw yourself further into your work, don’t drink too heavily or be alone with anyone for too long. Ignore everything, do it by yourself so you’re still worth something, wait until it’s over. Eventually it all comes to pass, and you come out of the other end alive - but alone.

You can’t do that anymore though. It’s hard to remember that. Isolation is no longer the answer, because there is someone (multiple people, really) who will feel lonely without you. Even if it’s unfathomable to you, even if it’s hard to remember. The consequences creep up like this, and your left with the emotional void of making a bad situation worse. Sorry is the only word you know. There are so many things to be sorry for.

You’re so lost in thought you burn a pancake and have to toss it. You also seem to miss the presence of another person in your shared space until Nightowl comes and wraps his arms around your shoulders. Turning the heat down, you shift to face him. He looks exhausted but he must’ve come down after washing up.

“You’re awake.”

“Mhm.” He says, still sleepy. A smile pulls at the corners of your mouth. “So are you. And you’re making me breakfast.”

You laugh. “I am. So, go sit down.” And then, a little more serious. “We have a lot to talk about but I’d rather do it on a full stomach.”

“We’re in an argument and you’re still taking care of me.” Sadness bleeds into his words.

You reply without skipping a beat, going back to the stove to pour some more batter. “Well, its not like I don’t love you anymore.”

There’s a long, long pause of silence that alarms you once you recognize it. Once you hear sniffling, you whip around again to see Nightowl weeping a little as he leans against the counter. Alarms go off in your head, once again turning the stove down. You wrap your arms around his waist loosely, bending down to get a closer look at him. He’s cover his face with his hands.

“Ugh,” His voice is thick and heavy. “Can you not be so nice and perfect and angelic? I’m trying really hard to be mad at you and I’m failing like a loser.”

You can tell there’s some sincerity in his words, though you ignore the first half of his statement. “I don’t want to make you feel bad.”

He pulls away then, looks at you incredulous. “You’re so,” His hands curl at your chest as you hug him slightly. You’re confused but don’t say anything. “God, you’re so frustrating.”

“Sorry,” You say apologetically. “Don’t mean to make you cry either. Feel like I’m going that a lot. We should really eat.”

“Don’t want to,” He whines a little as he says. “Just. I want to kiss and makeup already.”

You smile a little before humming.

“We should talk about it, then.”

Nightowl just nods, and you take that as permission to just go. You do your best to get the words out.

“I really love you,” You say first, and then sigh. Nightowl clings onto you tighter and listens instead of interjecting, which must mean he’s feeling serious. “And uhm, was already feeling bad about myself. And then I got busy which made it worse cause I couldn’t really you know… be there for you, so I ended up pulling away to figure it out alone and then got even busier. Which was isolating for you, and I’m sorry for that. It’s hard to like.. I dunno. Lean on you. On anyone.” You laugh a little. “Is that too vague?”

“It makes sense to me but…what were you feeling bad about, even?”

“Well I was busy before that, so I just felt shitty about being a bad partner to you. In general, don’t feel like I deserve you but then you know,” You sigh “It was shitty of me.”

“Are you kidding me?” He says. His face is twisted in a pout. “You’re seriously being all mopey ‘cause you think you’re a bad partner when you’re like… literally the best ever? Like, that I’ve ever had?”

You’re too surprised to say anything. “Is that not why were arguing?”

“I mean,” His frown deepens, and he presses his face against your chest. “Ugh. So embarrassing. I am upset because you’re so busy and we haven’t spent time together but that’s like… totally not your fault, yknow? I’m being super clingy and I was just… really lonely yesterday.”

“Sorry for making you feel lonely.”

“Stop apologizing or I’m gonna bite you, ‘kay cutie?” He says seriously. You relent with a worrisome smile and encourage him to keep going. “I was getting like… all pathetic. Cause I thought you didn’t want me anymore, didn’t even occur to me something was wrong. I’m so sorry about that, about all of it - god. I shouldn’t have lashed out on you. I hate that it still gets so bad when we've been together so long. I just missed you so fucking much. And I think so highly of you, I couldn’t help but be all torn up about the idea that you were pulling away cause you didn’t want me.”

“I do want you. I’m just surprised you want me sometimes.”

“You’re dumb,” He whispers with no bite at all. “That’s my line. You’re like literally perfect to me.”

“So we got in a fight ‘cause we needed to be with each other,” You say with a long pause, then laugh. “How silly.”

“Guess so,” He says back with a little frown. “Are we okay?”

“We’re okay,”

You share a brief moment of comfortable, understanding silence. It feels easier to breathe. Even though it’s messy and foolish, you love being with him. It makes you feel real and whole - wanted to be missed that much.

“I missed you too by the way,” You reply with utmost sincerity. “Only thing I thought of all night was how much I wanted to hold you.”

“You’re making me blush.” He says with a loopy little smile. “Y’mean that?”

“More than anything.” You reply. “I like being with you. I like taking care of you. I like that you’re needy and jealous and temperamental.”

“Stopppp,” He groans and you laugh aloud, leaning forward to place a kiss on his jaw. “Not that I hate being told what you like about me but it’s making my tummy flutter.”

“I like loving you,” You say with some finality. “I feel really shitty when I feel like I’m failing at it because I take pride in being good at that.”

“Jeez,” His face is bright pink when you pull away. “You shouldn’t think of yourself so little, yanno? Not that this is a surprise but yesterday I was like, totally acting awful to you. I really am sorry I let it get that bad, I was just really worked up. Even right now you make me so happy, it feels a little unfair to me. I want to be with you all the time. So sometimes when I can’t I just get like… awful. And stupid. And want to throw a bunch of dumb tantrums about it.”

You nod in understanding. “It did hurt my feelings but I really didn’t feel like it was undeserved.”

“It was totally undeserved!”

You crack a little smile. “Agree to disagree?”

He grabs your face with both hands, knocking your foreheads together. “It was undeserved, no take backs. I’m sorry I hurt you and always will be. Stop being so nitpicky about yourself, kay? I’m literally crazy about you.”

“Me too,” You crane your neck to kiss his palm where it cradles your face. “I adore you, baby.”

“I like being adored by you,” He says with a sweetness that makes your heart melt. “I like loving you too of course, but attention is… nice. You know.”

He makes a face at you as you say this that you can only describe as a grin, before pushing himself forward to press a long kiss to your lips. You laugh a little into, smile splitting your face at the intensity he kisses you at first thing in the morning. Over and over, pulling and pushing - giggling as you chase his mouth as he pulls away.

“We kissed but I dunno if we’ve made up,” He says. Concern briefly passes over your expression. “Got some really good ideas about how we could do that.”

You give him a flat look but can’t contain your laughter.

“We should really eat breakfast,”

He puts a hand at the top of your waistband with lidded eyes and smiles. “There’s something else I wanna eat first though?”

You pretend to be exasperated.

“Jesus. We just made-up and you wanna fuck already?”

“Duh. That’s like, the best part,”

You snort. “We’ll go once and then I’m making you eat breakfast even if I have to force it down your throat.”

“Ooh, feeling rough I see,”

You snort. “Yeah, guess so.” You shoot him a little look, leaning into whisper and nip at his ears. “On your knees for me, baby.”

He giggles a little, giddy with mischief in his face. “Mmkay,”

He presses a cheek to your clothed thigh, lovesick. “I love you,”

You can’t help but laugh at his choice of when to say it and simply reply back in full adoration. “I love you too, my heart.”

a/n ; ANOTHER AUTHORS NOTE? sorry for being the ceo of yapping im insane

i just want to like. give some insight on this fight bc im worried it seems onesided. reader has low self esteem and really beats themself over their own expectations in everything. they isolate when they're overwhelmed and work was already doing that to them. and then things got busier, which meant there wasn't really time to repair the relationship between them which is why nightowl gets as mad as he does.

nightowl is deathly afraid of being unloved and abandoned, and he get a little caught up in his self hate that they fail to realize something is going on with their partner. so he lashes it out and it feels warranted but he gets like guilty bc reader doesn't react to the goading any differently

i think nightowl is a very complicated but incredibly familiar character. he's a little selfish but i find him incredibly endearing and i have a strong desire to dote on him and monopolize him. which was the intent for this fic. but i ended up just exploring real life relationship dynamics between a character like this. very selfless x selfish. they love each other and find fulfillment in this. i love them.

[meatballlady]

Good Omens Season 2: What We Know So Far Dottie and Sadie Edition

All of the info about GOS2, especially Dottie and Sadie, in one place. (Note, this is satirical and there are no actual spoilers in this post afaik)

For the most up to date details, check out the tag #special spoilers on Neil Gaiman's tumblr.

Cast

Returning:

[Fennec foxes, various] as Crowley

Michael Sheen as Aziraphale

Jon Hamm [Chinchilla, name unconfirmed] as Gabriel

Note: there have been no official announcements regarding the casting of the following new characters:

Michael Sheen as Dottie (unconfirmed)

David Tennant as Sadie (unconfirmed)

Michael Sheen as The Master Spy (unconfirmed)

Giant Pretzel

Sadie's Brother

Aziraphale's Mother-in-Law

Sadie's Kittens

Production Note: Someone (undisclosed) was bitten in regards to the fennec foxes filming with Crowley's wife.

What do we know about the Season 2 episodes?

There will be 6 episodes.

So far, two specific episodes have been announced (although it has not been confirmed which episodes they are):

"Jam Factory" episode, which contains a magic poster covered in jam

"Girls Night Out" episode, in which we will spend a lot of time with Dottie and Sadie (Crowley and Aziraphale's wives)

The Plot

First, a detailed plot summary of Season 2:

"Crowley and Aziraphale, who in this season are both undertakers in Birmingham, and their wives, Dottie and Sadie, go on holiday together to the South of France. The boys get very drunk at a wine tasting, and their wives have to bring them home to the hotel, where Aziraphale (still drunk) puts on the gorilla costume he finds in a closet. Imagine Crowley's shock, when he sees a gorilla climbing out of the window of the hotel! Now, it just so happens that a master spy who looks exactly like Aziraphale hid the microfilm plans for a missile in Crowley's bathroom, and has returned to obtain the microfilm, which is hidden in a book of naughty seaside postcards that Dottie found earlier and threw out of the window. When the police turn up looking for the gorilla, they find the master spy but think it's actually Aziraphale. Fortunately Sadie realises that the pineapple-shaped birthmark has vanished from Aziraphale's left elbow which means that he's an imposter and she and Dottie set out to rescue him in his gorilla costume from the circus that he's been sold to by an unscrupulous animal welfare centre operative. And then there are lots of cats and horses. The end."

Additional plot details:

Crowley and Aziraphale and their wives will go on their honeymoons at the same time in the same little French town, during the annual marmalade convention.

Aziraphale will have a new Season 2 Catchphrase - "Ooh-heck, it's the wife!" (at one point, he will shout this whole clutching a toilet plunger)

Several stories will be set in the tomato sauce factories they all work in.

Dottie's phone will be broken at the outing to Blackpool.

In episode 4, it will be revealed that Dottie and Sadie and their husbands have unknowingly all been booked in the same hotel room.

There will be a pie fight scene at the inflatable gorilla factory (which will clarify a lot about Aziraphale and Crowley's interpersonal relationships).

Aziraphale will attempt to summon a magic gorilla, in order to obtain one of the four fruits of the apocalypse (e.g. the Banana of Doom).

The Giant Pretzel will give Crowley a magic peach.

There will be a very moving scene when Dottie thinks that Sadie is pregnant but actually Sadie is planning to get a kitten.

This detail about the kitten(s?): "The arrival of the kitten will also be delightful, but I'm not promising it doesn't mean that the season won't end with the patter of tiny feet. Let's just say that two sets of twins would mean double the fun for everybody."

Aziraphale will be dead by the time Crowley goes on his secret mission. Aziraphale's wife will inherit the book shop, which she runs with her brother.

This detail about Gabriel's story arc: "Gabriel came to Earth to go on holiday to Spain with Aziraphale and Crowley and their wives, Dottie and Sadie. He's working as an art critic and when he sees the picture hanging in Crowley's bed and breakfast bedroom he realizes it's an original painting by Jerry Picasso (Pablo's baby brother) and resolves to steal it on the same night that the neighborhood Dress as a Burglar and Win a Fridge competition is held. Hilarity ensues."

The flashback scenes will be of where Crowley and Aziraphale both met their wives.

Season 2 will end with a dance-off mix-up on a French Nudist Beach, with several enormous inflatable animals and Aziraphale's mother-in-law dressed in a gorilla costume.

On Goncharov's influence on Season 2:

"The whole of Season 2 of Good Omens was inspired by Goncharov. Dottie and Sadie, Aziraphale and Crowley's wives, were basically my take on Perdita and Brigitte, the two tourists who worked in the condom factory, and the whole Goncharov helium balloons and clowns sequence. For that matter, without Goncharov it would never have occurred to me to have made the comedy in episode 4 the fact that Dottie and Sadie and their husbands have unknowingly all been booked in the same hotel room, or to have had the Archangel Gabriel played by a chinchilla. "

[betterthanburrow]

Fat Ass and a Bad Attitude - Instagram AU

liked by joeyb_9 and 10,989 more users

AEW: @.yourinstagram is ready to take out #HouseOfBlack’s @.thejuliahart! #AEWRampage is on TNT!

view all 969,013 comments

thejuliahart: who is she calling a spooky bitch?!

↳ yourinstagram: i said what i said.

username1: i understand now why NFL Quarterbacks decide to date the crazy girls.

thedaddymagic: she said she got a FAT ASS and a BAD ATTITUDE. put it on a t-shirt!

username2: i don’t know if this was a really good backstage promote or a bad backstage promote…

garciawrestling: THAT’S MY GIRL!

↳ joeyb_9: your girl?! 🤔

↳ garciawrestling: oh i mean… THAT’S JOEY’S GIRL!

liked by joeyb_9 and 135,619 more users

yourinstagram: Fat Ass and a Bad Attitude.

picture credits: @.joeyb_9

view all 69,513 comments

lexynair: damnnn girl!

username1: just knowing that Joe Burrow was backstage in the locker rooms when Y/N did the “Fat Ass and a Bad Attitude” promo, makes the promo much more entertaining to watch.

↳ username2: i wish i could’ve been a fly in the room to see his reaction when she said what she said.

garciawrestling: Purr

username3: Joe Burrow gotta be the luckiest man alive

sonnykissxo: Facts 🔥

joeyb_9: 😘❤️

liked by yourinstagram and 120,818 more users

Bengals: To get you through this Monday.

view all 4,171 comments

yourinstagram: thank you admin, i needed this.

kirkirwin: one of my favorite photos that i took of Joey.

liked by yourinstagram, joeyb_9, and 10,313 more users

SHOPAEW: NEW ARRIVAL!

Check out @.yourinstagram’s latest shirt that just dropped at ShopAEW.com!

view all 288 comments

joeyb_9: can i get a t-shirt for free?!

↳ yourinstagram: if you promote the new t-shirt on your instagram story… i’ll give you a special t-shirt 😊

taymelo: this is one of AEW’s best merchandise shirts… i’m definitely buying one of the shirts because it fits my personality!

username1: this is a horrible t-shirt. i can’t imagine that anyone would really buy this ugly t-shirt.

↳ yourinstagram: if you don’t like it, don’t buy it.

username2: wrestling companies will put anything on a t-shirt nowadays 😵‍💫🤣

garciawrestling: i just ordered 3 t-shirts.

liked by 55,969 users

cincyproblems: NFL Bengals Quarterback Joe Burrow posted his girlfriend (AEW wrestler) @.yourinstagram’s new t-shirt and her wrestling match in the main event of AEW: Rampage against @.thejuliahart.

view all 13,955 comments

username1: i guess Joe really wanted that special shirt.

username2: remember when Joe wore one of Y/N’s AEW merch t-shirts to one of the Bengals football home games… imagine if he wears this shirt at one of the future Bengals football games 😳

↳username3: i would pay so much money to see Joe Burrow in a “Fat Ass, Bad Attitude” t-shirt.

↳ username2: when he wears this t-shirt with those grey ombré jeans that he has worn for YEARS 😵‍💫💀

liked by joeyb_9 and 105,369 more users

yourinstagram: ❤️‍🔥

picture credits: @.joeyb_9

view all 75,420 comments

username1: 😍😍

taymelo: i’m going to steal your woman @.joeyb_9

↳ yourinstagram: trust me; you’re my wife for life!

joeyb_9: i’m a lucky man.

username2: Joey B has some nice photography skills!

↳ username1: he’s a football player during football season and a photographer during the off-season!

liked by yourinstagram and 75,710 more users

Bengals: Those records… they just keep breaking 😏

view all 2,109 comments

cincyproblems: Burrow is THEE GOAT!

yourinstagram: that’s my man 🥰

NFL: 🔥🔥🔥

liked by joeyb_9 and 299,690 more users

yourinstagram: Georgia Peach 🍑

picture credits: @.joeyb_9

view all 109,525 comments

lexynair: where’s the lie?! 🍑

username1: joey b is LIVING THE DREAM… it should’ve been meee!!!! 😫💔

jadecargill: 🔥🔥

username2: joe burrow may have not won a superbowl yet, but he won in life by getting the hot girl from AEW.

chrisjerichofozzy: Amazing Shirt!!! 🔥🔥🔥

username3: nice ass.

joeyb_9: Peaches by Bowser will be my number 1 song on Apple Music by the end of this year.

↳ yourinstagram: i can’t believe that this is your best comment ever on one of my instagram posts.

Author’s Note:

i wrote this Instagram AU months ago when i was still an fan of AEW (i haven’t watched any wrestling show in a few months, so i’m very out of the loop) and somehow the IG AU got lost in the Queue until now, because i’ve been publishing so many Instagram AU the past few weeks!

if you have a Instagram AU request, please send the IG AU request to my Inbox and i’ll try to get the requested Instagram AU published as fast as i can!

thank you all for the love and support! 🤍

[moghedien]

Queerness, Contamination, and the Neurosis of Shirley Cohen

In a show full of queer characters, Shirley Cohen initially seems like she's someone set up to be an internal problem for the Peaches' queers. Shirley is the first character that we see really be openly homophobic in a way that's immediately recognizable. She is also immediately established as a character that’s riddled with anxiety of every variety, and she is honestly one of the first characters I found to be genuinely relatable to my experiences. I found myself instantly liking Shirley even though she’s a character that is meant to be laughed at, and even as her homophobia became more and more apparent. By the end of the season, I feel like a lot of viewers probably have run the gambit of emotions when it comes to how they feel about Shirley, but my feelings have been generally consistent throughout. The only thing that was really changed is that I find her more interesting and relatable as the show progresses. I like her more, but not differently, and she is genuinely a character I find fascinating. So let’s explore why that is.

Now, as said before, Shirley is immediately established as a character with some form of neurosis. The first scene she’s in, she’s stretching next to Jess and after Jess spits next to her she comments on Jess spreading germs.

After the tryouts, we see her and Jess in the bathroom talking again. Shirley is complaining about her performance and blaming it on the fact that she didn't perform certain rituals while going to hit. This ritual can be seen basically any time throughout the season when Shirley is at bat. Later on, when they arrive in Rockford and Shirley and Carson are roommates, Shirley says that she picks up on the energy of others easily, suggesting that she’s made anxious by other people being anxious.

All of this immediately established Shirley as someone with some very active neurosis going on. She is abnormally afraid of germs. She has rituals she has to perform in order to do something properly. She becomes very affected by other people’s reactions to things, and she’s aware of this. I am largely against diagnosing fictional characters with specific mental illnesses unless that is clearly the point of the text, and I’ll refrain from stating anything outright certain going on with Shirley here. But I will say that as someone who has had obsessive compulsive disorder their entire life, these symptoms feel somewhat familiar. 

Regardless, it's clear that Shirley has anxiety, and it's largely played off for humor. I’m actually largely happy and ok with that. It feels more like laughing at the ridiculousness of the things she’s anxious about more than laughing at her specifically or belittling her for having these issues. I feel like it's an important distinction to make here, because anxiety is largely ridiculous in my experience. It’s something that doesn’t make sense and acknowledging that is important to actually being able to not be affected by it as much. I like that in Shirley and I like that about her eventual arc and her overcoming her fears. But regardless of how it’s portrayed, let’s look at her issues.

Germophobia as it pertains to anxiety disorders (like OCD and other disorders that cause obsessive thoughts) is generally misunderstood. Typically it's not exactly the fear of disease that causes germophobia to manifest as a symptom, but the fear of contamination. That sounds like the same thing, but it really isn’t. A fear of contamination is much broader and germophobia is only one thing under that umbrella. Arguably, Shirley being afraid of the other girls’ energies can be categorized as a fear of contamination. It isn’t a physical illness she’s afraid of, but she’s afraid of being affected negatively by their presence. Another one of the earliest ways you see this fear manifest is when she’s explaining dangers of canned food.

Botulism specifically is the perfect thing to latch onto and be terrified of if you have a fear of contamination, given that it literally comes from contaminated food. Generally though, it's not common if you take the right precautions. Shirley however has decided that the only way to avoid botulism is to avoid anything that even has the slightest possibility of giving her botulism. It's not just dented cans that she avoids, but cans in general, since she doesn’t differentiate here. Dented cans specifically are only brought up by Carson later on. 

Now, this fear of cans seems to be a very deep seeded anxiety for her. It clearly came with her from her life before the Peaches, so we don’t get to see the beginning of that. With persisting anxieties like this, they’re almost never as bad from the beginning as they’ll eventually become. There’s a sort of spiraling and build up that happens over time if the specific anxiety isn’t dealt with and is allowed to persist. We don’t see the beginning of her fear of botulism, but we do see the beginning of another fear she has, and this too falls into the category of contamination.

This is the first time that Shirley says anything homophobic, and it’s not the most blatant of comments, really. It’s more of a remark of Jo being masculine, and while it’s shitty, it’s one comment that she makes and then doesn’t really dwell on in her dialogue. The fear of Jo being queer isn’t what actually convinces Shirley to change the room assignments. If she's afraid of being contaminated by anything here, its the perfume that Carson claimed would trigger her allergies.

Shirley clearly had these thoughts about Jo before this conversation with Carson, and she didn’t seem to have an issue rooming with her until Carson mentioned something about her perfume. And that’s not even getting into the fact that if Shirley and Carson switched, Shirley would be rooming with Jess, who is extremely butch presenting, and she didn’t seem to have an issue with that. Carson herself had to come up with an excuse for why they shouldn't do a one way roommate swap.

Even then, it's clear that queerness isn’t so much an active threat to her at the moment. Shirley goes to see about the room changes herself and talks to Jo about the idea without even being asked to, and specifically says that she wants Carson “safe.” Whether that is safe from the queerness or safe the perfume isn’t clear, but I’m personally leaning toward the perfume, since Carson mentioned it bothering her and in this moment, Shirley doesn’t seem concerned about catching the queer.

However, catching the queer is clearly something that Shirley dwells on for some time, because as the girls are getting settled into the convent, she brings up the topic with Maybelle.

This, my dear readers, is what an obsessive anxiety spiral looks like. This is what it looks like when you have fear brought up (in this case being contaminated with perfume that would harm Shirley) and having it connected to an unrelated thought (Jo being queer) and having your brain combine them and make you very afraid of it.

Shirley had one random thought about Jo being masculine and that turned into her being seen hours later, visibly anxious and worried about Jo being queer and the fact that queerness supposedly spreads. She wasn't afraid of this when she spoke with Carson, but some time between then and now, she considered the fact that she might catch queerness from Jo.

Throughout the show, Maybelle is shown to be ok with her queer teammates and she’s shown to be very close to Jo. It’s very likely that she wouldn’t entertain Shirley’s conversation much here in order to protect Jo, regardless of whether or not she knew that Jo is queer. What can be certain is that she didn’t give Shirley an answer to this that satisfied her enough to stop thinking and worrying about it, because we see days later that Shirley is still concerned about it.

Now, Shirley is bringing this to Carson as if its completely new information, meaning that the comment about Jo on the bus wasn't necessarily meant to indicate that she's queer. Shirley is also clearly obsessing over this, because while fixating on Jo, she ignores that that are other very visibly queer people on the team. Jo was just the one that got brought up, who she made the initial comment about, so she's blind to seeing anyone other than her as the source of contamination here. Jo is the one that she's convinced might make her queer.

So Shirley isn't helped by Maybelle and so she goes to Carson about the issue. I'm not blaming Carson here, but her actions do make things worse. Carson is so concerned about outing herself or Greta that she doesn't really address the concern Shirley has in a way that would make Shirley stop. She just tells Shirley that they'll "get to the bottom of it" and then leaves, probably hoping that Shirley never brings it up again. However, to Shirley, this indicates that she should continue to investigate and worry about it. Because now its not only that she’s worried about catching the gay, its that Carson told her that they’d figure it out because she thinks they need to worry about it. 

And so Shirley continues to worry about queerness.

Days later she pulls Carson aside to show her a newspaper article about two lesbian teachers being arrested. Again, she mentions the supposed fact that queerness spreads and insists that they can’t ignore Jo, because if they do it’ll kill them (which may be literal death or a metaphor for them being turned queer or just inherent doom). 

Carson eventually comes up with a lie that Jo has been sleeping with Dove, and Shirley just immediately accepts that without any evidence. Literally, the first chance she gets to believe anything other than that Jo is queer, she jumps on it and begins coming up with “evidence” to validate the claim. She acts disgusted at the idea of the affair, but it’s apparently also a relief. She doesn’t actually worry about catching the queer again until Jo gets outed after being arrested at the gay bar. Before then, Shirley really believed that there are no queers based on no evidence just because Carson gave her another thing to belief that was comforting. She wants to not worry about it so jumps on the first opportunity not to, and only begins to worry about it again when it's clear that the thing that reassured her wasn’t true. 

Now, Shirley’s reaction to having more or less proof that Jo is queer is interesting. She doesn’t actually seem upset about the idea of gayness. She never expresses any outright disgust at the idea of two women being together. The closest she actually gets is telling Maybelle that Jo could have seen her breast, and the way she says it sounds more as if she’s trying to justify being upset to Maybelle.

The thing that she brings up is that she can’t trust people because they might be queer, and that she’s unsafe around them. She doesn’t really express any thought that they might do anything to her. What she expresses is fear that she will be gay.

This could read as internalized homophobia, but I don’t think that’s the case. I think she does genuinely think that it's something that she can catch and she’s afraid of what that’ll mean for her if she does catch it. She tells Maybelle that she’s worried that Jo saw her breasts (something that is obviously true as Maybelle pointed out) because she doesn’t want to say that she might have caught the gay, because then maybe Maybelle will think that maybe Shirley has caught the gay. 

Now, this is validated when she eventually finds out that Carson is queer and has been with Greta.

Again, its notable that Shirley never expresses any kind of disgust at queerness itself. Especially since she seems very affected when sexuality in a heterosexual context comes up. She's bothered hours after being left alone with Greta's date, Vernon. She's clearly disgusted that Jo and Dove supposedly had sex and were doing it in front of all of their faces. She's even disturbed when she finds out that Maybelle has multiple kids.

When she finds out that Carson and Greta were actively hooking up though, its not that that actually bothers her. It's that they were queer and she had trusted that they weren't.

Like it really should be pointed out that its not that Shirley is upset that the queer girls might have done something to her. She's upset that she might have caught it from them. This is made completely apparent when she eventually overcomes her fears of contamination by eating food from dented cans and kissing Carson.

Once she tests out her fears and learns that she's not going to catch gayness, she's fine with it. She isn't worried that Carson has been her roommate this whole time. She isn't worried that she now knows that others are queer and on the team and in the locker room with her. It was always just that she was afraid of catching it. 

So why is that? Why is that what she's so worried about?

Shirley mentions multiple people in her life telling her that it's contagious. She mentions her cousin telling her this. She mentions her rabbi telling her this. She mentions her mom telling her not to trust women who like sandwiches. Now, I just want to point out that its 1943 and apparently a lot of people are talking to Shirley about queers for some reason. Seems a little weird for the time period. A lot of people are warning Shirley about queers for some reason and the fact that she could become one. Why is that? 

Well, it's 1943 and Shirley Cohen is an unmarried woman who is very good at baseball, and that seems to be the only actual outlet she has.

Let's look at this conversation between Greta and Carson.

Now I don't think playing baseball is the only reason why Jo's grandma said she wasn't a real girl, but the point remains. There is stigma now about woman athletes. In 1943, you bet there was stigma. Hell, the entire purpose of Charm School was to weed out those that might play into that stigma and make them all look like queers.

We don't know much about Shirley's life, but we do know that she was very sheltered. She tells Carson that she's never been in public alone before. She tells Greta that she's never been drunk before. She has apparently never been left alone with a man before, and when she has gone on dates, her mother and aunt went with her.

What we know about Shirley is that she is very good at baseball, she has a serious anxiety disorder, her family members and authority figures in her life feel the need to tell her the dangers of queerness pretty often, and she doesn’t want to go home.

Early on, when the rest of the girls suggest that this isn't legit and they'll be sent home soon, Shirley appears immediately distressed. She later wakes up Carson to talk about those concerns. The way she repeats "Can't go home" is almost automatic and pleading. And then when she says "It's not even my chair," it sounds as if she's repeating a phrase that gets told to her often.

We don’t get any more specifics here about Shirley’s home life, but from the comments she makes throughout, it doesn’t seem healthy and she definitely isn’t happy. The only clear outlet she has is baseball, and it seems like maybe her family doesn’t think she should be playing it. 

Almost immediately after she mentions her home in this scene, she brings up the article in the newspaper the girls read about their league “destroying womanhood.”

Shirley is the only one that seemed actually bothered by what the paper had to say. The others comment on it being offensive or ridiculous, but Shirley is the only one that actually expresses worry that it might be accurate. 

This happens well before she starts worrying about queers on the team. She isn’t worried about the other girls here or that they'll make her look bad, she’s worried about her involvement in the destruction of womanhood. She’s worried about what that’ll mean for her, and if it’ll send her home. And she’s probably worried about what will happen to her after she goes home. 

But still, why is Shirley so concerned about whether or not her family thinks she’s queer. What will happen to Shirley if she comes home after catching the gay after she was involved in the destruction of womanhood? 

Well, in episode 5, Greta tells Carson about what happened to her first girlfriend Dana when they were caught together.

I’m not sure if this needs to be explained, but “put her away,” means they put her in a mental institution and left her there to rot. And to be clear, this was not an unheard of practice. It happened to women throughout history the moment their family members thought they were difficult or just wanted them out of the way. And it definitely was not uncommon for it to happen to queer women, or women just expected of being queer. 

Now Shirley is already neurotic, and her family already feels the need to warn her about being too dykey. And looking back on her conversation with Maybelle, she was apparently told that the only “cure” for being gay was a lobotomy. I see people laughing at that comment, but it's frankly horrifying to me. This show takes place in 1943. In 1941, Rosemary Kennedy (the sister of JFK) was lobotomized for being a bit too difficult for her family’s preference and acting like a 23 year old. Most people that were lobotomized were women, and they really didn’t have to have a reason to do it. Greta’s girlfriend Dana was probably lobotomized, and Greta will probably never know if that’s what happened to her or not. 

So with Shirley we have a woman who is good enough at baseball to have been scouted and to have made it onto a professional baseball team, who also has a family that is overbearing and shelter her to the point where she’s never actually been alone, and who feel the need to remind her not to look like a queer or she’ll get a lobotomy, because that’ll be the only way to fix her. And she desperately doesn’t want to go home. 

So when I say I am compelled by Shirley through all of her homophobia and that I adored her throughout the entire show, know that I mean that with every inch of my fucking heart. Because here we have a snapshot of a woman with some very apparent mental health problems, whose life has only exacerbated those problems, and who constantly has the threat of the worst thing that will happen to her hanging over her head. And in the end she actively chooses to face those fears and risk that, because the risk is better than being afraid of it forever.

____________________________________

Other ALOTO essays:

Lupe, Carson, and Gaydar

Greta Gill: Visibility and Isolation

Max in Oz

[elizabethrobertajones]

Dean & Cas Are In Love

A hopefully one day conclusive study of these assholes, hopefully told as briefly as I can.

[it went fuckin canon? Rendered useless in my own job. Posting these gifsets from my drafts for @mittensmorgul​ who can make better use of them than me.]

-------

I think I giffed the first 4 just because no one can resist that hug and “nice peach fuzz” boop. The raw affection while Cas stays stock still because he’s living an entirely different genre of survival horror to Dean. You know, Dean in an action RPG with one clear objective (handily these are often like, Find Wife, for a generic action guy). And Cas is in some sort of indie psychological horror where the very concept of Wifey is poison and he must resist the temptations of Save Wife to paradoxically Save Wife. 

I think Gif 5 is right after “we’re getting out of here” just to seal Dean’s pride in having accomplished his objective and heard the quest completion music. 

Then a gif of Benny cutting in because this nonsense has gone on long enough and he can see Cas is resisting all this and Dean after a minute of this conversation is wilfully blind to what is plain to Benny: Cas is resisting all this good cheer, and to Benny this is suspicious because you SHOULD only want to get out of Purgatory. Benny is being used here to show the absolute blinders Dean has on when it comes to Cas: to have a straight guy to the dynamic (ironically) simply to display that Dean is NOT on a simple emotional level here, and if he wasn’t already proving to be compromised over Cas in getting here, now they’ve arrived it’s become abundantly clear he’s on a whole other level with Cas to Benny when we’re talking Brothers In Arms.

(I mean Dean has a whole subtextually gay thing with Benny too, who comes across incredibly queer and in like a sad gay movie with Dean in the Benny-centric episodes, so when I say they exemplify Brothers In Arms and Benny is the straight guy, I am talking by Supernatural standards.) 

The I Prayed To You line then drops one of the biggest bombs in all of Destiel, and in later years will be amplified by the Longing Retcon two seasons later, which implies all prayer to a specific angel doesn’t need a whole formal letterhead and stamp and mailing address carefully written on it before it can be sent, but can just be a quick drunk text from your heart with no conscious intent. Making this entire year 1000x worse from Cas’s survival horror game perspective. Even before that, of course, this was the most dramatic statement of emotional intent from Dean we’d gotten thus far and as with the “has too much heart” statement being a thesis on Cas, this became basically the tentpole evidence for Dean’s point of view on Destiel, proving how much he cared.

Cas then reveals a sliver of how rough it’s been for him, and shattered Dean’s bubble with the explanation of where he went on arrival in Purgatory and why. That it was another self-sacrificial gambit, and a forbidden star-crossed lovers type thing of Cas being near Dean would doom him simply by proximity. Nom nom nom tropes.  

[the-scandalorian]

like a moth to the flame

Pairing: Monster!Din Djarin x Female Reader Rating: M, 18+ Word Count: 6.9k Content warnings: monster!Din, dark!Din, haunted!Din sort of?, stalking, obsessive/possessive/predatory behavior, creepy vibes, mentions of sex, angst, pining, canon-typical violence, nightmares, sort of a dark Beauty and the Beast AU, eventual monsterfucking probs, complete neglect of Star Wars flora and fauna for the sake of vibes Notes: Heed the warnings, please!

Thank you to @dincrypt​ and @ezrasbirdie​ for the help, to @stealyourblorbos​ for the idea, and to @tuskens-mando​ for sharing her monster!din! xx

YOU

He arrives in the summertime.

He arrives when the sun feels especially harsh overhead, even in the dewy shine of the early morning, even under the partial cover of the cherry trees. The air is stung with heat and sweetness, laced with the scent of berries and ripe with pollen—it floats lazily through the beams of light that filter down though the branches. The bees seem drunk as they zip and bob between the leaves.

You don’t hear the news right away. You’re out in the orchards, a bead of sweat breaking free from your hairline and sliding down your temple, and you absently swipe it away with the back of your hand, setting down your full basket before snatching up an empty one to move on to the next tree. The cherry yield is extra high this year—peaches and strawberries too. Overall, a very successful season.

In a few months, you will have earned enough for the final payment on your ship. It’s taken years of saving and dreaming, but it’s finally within reach.

You head into town with this week’s harvest feeling hopeful.

You sense the subtle shift—the low hum of electricity that permeates every corner of town—as soon as you arrive. No fewer than four people stop to tell you the story as you make your way toward the main thoroughfare: a Mandalorian checked into the inn late last night. It’s so rare to have a novelty to discuss in this sleepy place that everyone is eager to be the first to share. 

A couple hours later, when the outdoor market has opened, the story has yet to lose momentum. The entire street is abuzz. You can actually see the word spreading before your eyes: friends rushing over to friends, one and then the next, hands cupped around ears, jaws dropped open in surprise, fingers pointed toward the inn. They gossip and chatter as if there’s actually something of substance to discuss.

You’re sure he’s just another transient visitor, like so many others who come through. There’s nothing for a Mandalorian here: no riches or war, no one interesting enough to have a substantial bounty on their head. Yours is a small town on a backwater planet where nothing happens—hence your eagerness to leave.

The Mandalorian is probably stopping for fuel and supplies, two things that aren’t always easy to come by out here in the Outer Rim, especially not safely. 

He’ll be gone in days.

You envy him a little. Even before you actually see him, despite the fact that you don’t know anything about him, you’re a little jealous. Because he’s traveled the galaxy. He’s seen things. Done things. He has power and agency and purpose. 

You finally do get a glimpse of him late that Saturday afternoon. You have a clear view of the inn from your kiosk. You’re in the middle of a transaction with a customer when the bright glint of silver draws your attention. 

He steps out the door into the afternoon sun and sets off at a brisk pace. All you manage to catch is his impressive profile as he turns down a side street, and then he’s gone. 

He looks strange in this setting—completely out of place in this rural village, like a piece of silvery moonlight excised from the night sky and fallen planetside. A warrior steeped in myth, a legend extracted from the pages of an old book and dropped into the mundane reality of your daily life.

At least you got one look at him. So you know he’s real.

*** The next week at the market, the new word about the Mandalorian surprises you—even more so than the fact that he’s still in town. He’s taken up residence in an abandoned house. He’s going to stay, for a while at least. He asked the innkeeper about places outside town, anything remote and livable and available. 

The house he chose is set back in the dark part of the forest, miles away, where old-growth trees stretch so high that their thick canopies blot out the sun. No one has lived there for decades. You’ve only been that far into the forest once before: when you were a little kid, you were dared to go there, dared to go where the beasts lived—the hungry creatures with jaws that snap, the ones your parents warned you about. And at eight years old, you were too stubborn to resist once that gauntlet had been thrown. So you’d taken a flashlight and a kitchen knife and made the long, long walk out there. You saw nothing but huge, clawed footprints in the dirt and slashes gouged into the tree trunks that day, but you’d never been tempted to go back. The eerie silence was enough.

If you thought the gossip about the Mandalorian was bad last week, now that he’s staying, it’s rampant.

Violent. Brutal. Ruthless.

Hunted by The Empire.

On the run from the New Republic.

Exiled by Mandalorians.

Too bloodthirsty for The Guild.

Murderer. Mercenary. Contract killer.

Monster.

Where any of this came from, you have no idea—most likely, someone’s wild imagination. The innkeeper is the only person who actually spoke to him before he moved out into the forest. 

And after he moves out there, he only comes back into town on Saturdays for the market. Otherwise, no one sees him. You know because you casually inquire about him whenever you head to town for dinner, or a drink, or to visit a friend.

You can’t help it. You’re curious.

Now, over a month after his arrival, you’d think the regularity of his weekly appearances would prevent sightings from stirring up so much excitement, but that’s not the case. 

Today, he stalks through the tittering crowd, and an awed silence falls in his wake as it always does. Heads turn to follow his slow, purposeful advance, but his gaze is trained forward. He acknowledges no one.

You expect him to visit the largest kiosk, the one situated at the end of the lane, like every week prior. Instead, your hands still in the middle of tying up radishes and your eyes go wide when he turns abruptly and makes a beeline for you. He’s never come to you before. But here he is, standing before you, scaring away a couple lingering customers, who shoot you half-wary, half-jealous looks as they scatter. 

You gather yourself quickly, square your shoulders, and offer him your warmest smile. The Mandalorian nods once in greeting, then tilts his helmet down to scan the goods laid out in front of him.

Fuck, he’s broad. 

He looks even bigger up close, his armor and weapons even more intimidating. You note a blaster at his hip, charges on his other side, and something clipped to his belt that looks like the handle of a blade…without the blade. Peculiar. And you’re sure he’s packing more than just what you can see or make sense of.

“Looking for anything in particular?”

He spares you another quick glance but offers no response aside from a noncommittal grunt. His gloved hands work deliberately, collecting a selection of produce. Sensible, standard ingredients. Filling things that keep well in a pantry.

Your task of bunching radishes remains abandoned. You can’t help but admire him when he’s right here. The lines of his visor are harsh, the glass so dark you can’t even see a hint of his eyes. His pure silver Beskar shines like liquid mercury in the bright sunlight. You wonder vaguely if he too is dangerous to handle with bare hands. Toxic. Even more deadly to breathe in. 

What would he smell like if you tucked your face into his neck, pressed your nose into the rough fabric of his cowl? Woodsmoke, you think. The masculine tang of sweat after standing in the sun in so many layers. Leather, definitely. Metal, of course. Something sharp and predatory.

When he has a sizable collection of produce arranged on the counter between you, his helmet continues to scan like he’s searching for something else.

“Can I help you find something?” you ask.

He looks up at you, and his visor stays trained on your face for a few beats too long. He cocks his head to the side slowly, like he’s trying to make sense of your question, like you just asked him something fascinating. Or maybe he’s studying your face. Whatever he’s doing, it makes heat crawl up the back of your neck.

“What’s your name?”

You’ve never heard his voice before, and you didn’t expect it to be like that—like velvet dragged down your spine, a low, sultry purr made sibilant by his modulator. It makes every nerve ending in your body light up in a way that no other sound ever has, not even the voice of anyone who has shared your bed.

You tell him your name.

He repeats it back to you, and you’re sure it’s the only correct way to say your name, that every other person has been saying it wrong your entire life, and you’ve only realized it now that you’ve heard it spoken like that. When he rasps your name, it smolders like dark magic, throbs like the first crack and roll of a distant thunderstorm, melts—

“What do you like best?”

You stare blankly at him for a moment, caught off guard that he’s not just shopping at your stall but also talking to you. He’s making an effort to connect with you…or at least being polite. Most strangers on a stopover spare little more than a grunt, and you expected the armored Mandalorian to be even less generous with words and courtesy.

He gestures across your displayed goods with a gloved hand, prompting you for an answer.

“Um, what do I like? Oh, well, the peaches are extra good this year,” you say, motioning to their basket. “Really sweet. Just the right amount of ripe at the moment. And the strawberries.”

“I’ll take both.”

And me?

The ridiculous question tickles at the back of your throat, but you swallow it back.

You gather his fruit, do some quick mental math, and tell him the total. He stows everything in a bag slung over his shoulder and digs into a pouch on his belt. 

The pads of your fingers graze his leather glove when you accept his credits in your palm. You swear his hand lingers over yours for a few seconds longer than is necessary, that his fingertips brush your skin a few times even after the credits are in your possession, but before you can decide if that’s real or imagined, he leaves.

“Thank you,” he says. 

He’s vanished before you can even manage a goodbye, a flash of mirror-bright beskar and duraweave cape.

And you’re left there, standing in the sun, wondering why you feel a little drunk.

*** You don’t know him—don’t know his name or what he looks like or his purpose here or if he’s a good person. And yet, after one single interaction, he becomes an almost constant fixture in your mind. He lingers on the edges of your thoughts, the possibility of seeing him again next Saturday pulsing like a beacon.

You can’t help it.

You want to know him, this stoic warrior with a surprising hint of sweetness. You want to ask him every one of the questions bouncing around in your head, to tug his gloves off his hands and strip each piece of armor from his body until you reveal the man underneath. 

You only touched his glove—not even his actual skin—but the feeling burned through you nonetheless, leaving a residual tingle for the rest of the day. That night, those two fingers are the ones you slip under your clothes and snake between your thighs.

You heard just enough of his voice to piece together a very realistic growl of take it, take it just like that in your head.

What you wouldn’t give for the real thing.

DIN

The dappled gold-green light gradually gives way to shadow as Din makes his way deeper into the forest.

Overall, things are going as he planned. When he limped back to the public transport ship after his duel with Paz—burned and gutted and confused—he knew he needed to find a place to stand still.

Somewhere with enough space for his rage and grief and pain to expand and contract freely. Where he can take each of the things weighing on his mind, lay them out, and let them breathe.

Somewhere he has time to figure out exactly what he has become. What it means. How to get a handle on his new reality. What to do next. 

And what happened after he closed himself in his private room on that humming public transport ship made his plan less necessary and more imperative. Just the memory of that pain makes him shudder.

This planet, just as he expected, is completely untouched by the Republic and the Empire alike. Remote. Exactly what he needs. It took him a couple weeks, skipping from one public or private transport to the next just to get all the way out here. His anonymity is all but absolute. He has space and privacy and time.

After another twenty minutes of walking, the little house comes into view, almost completely lost amidst the cobalt twilight of the trees. The tight, throbbing coil of anxiety in his chest loosens, just a little. This will be the perfect place for him. He can do what he needs to do, completely undisturbed. And he won’t be able to hurt anyone, even if he loses control. 

The town is miles away, and when its inhabitants venture into the forest, it’s never this far. He was told they stay on the edges, where game is plentiful and there is food to forage.

It only takes Din a few days to make the house livable. The process is easier than he expected. The woman at the inn made it sound like it was crumbling and dilapidated, but she also stated out-right that it was haunted, so he took everything she said with a grain of salt. Din had brushed off the warning with a shrug of his shoulders and asked her for directions. She’d shared them with a resigned smile and a final protestation that no one in their right mind would ever want to live there. Din stopped himself from asking her about people in their wrong mind. 

Would it be a good place for someone like that?

In reality, the house is completely intact—totally structurally sound, well built—just long-neglected and hard to find. The most difficult job is hacking away the thick emerald vines that are trying to swallow the facade. Once that’s done, the rest is simple. He forces the old, creaky front door open and clears out the cobwebs and debris. He sweeps away the dust and scrubs away the grime until he unearths a gleaming hardwood floor, faded sky blue walls, and copper fixtures. 

It’s a beautiful house. Someone, years ago, put a lot of time and money and heart into it. And now Din is reaping the benefit of someone else’s hard work.

One more thing he doesn’t really deserve has fallen into his hands.

After a few days, he understands the origin of its reputation. The darkness and the unnatural stillness are constant here. It’s always night, and Din likes the quiet, the solitude. The old-growth trees are undisturbed even by animals. There are no birds tittering in the branches above him, no rabbits scurrying into their burrows when he passes. Nothing grows between the towering conifers because no light reaches the ground: the forest here doesn’t sustain. Nothing can survive for long—aside from Din and other occasional far-ranging predators. 

He’s only seen the hungry reflection of yellow eyes a couple times, and the crackle and spark of the dark saber being ignited are enough to make them melt away between the trees.

They don’t bother him.

On his first supply run, Din identifies the only problem on this planet.

He takes in the haze of the small town distantly, retaining none of the blurred details as he stalks through the dusty streets…until you. He sees you standing there at the market, behind one of the many stalls, and the heart he was sure existed in his chest seems to have disappeared altogether. 

Beautiful. 

It requires immense physical effort not to stop, even more not to stare. He keeps his helmet trained forward and just looks out of the corners of his eyes.

He’s alarmed by the intensity of the feelings that slam through him: he wants to rip off his helmet and breathe you in like fresh air. 

He can’t put his finger on exactly what draws him in. You’re gorgeous, sure, but it’s more than that. It’s biological or chemical or molecular. Magnetic. Something primal, a force he doesn’t understand—like the one that infected him when he took the saber from Moff Gideon. Overwhelming and completely out of his control.

He just barely manages to stride past like he doesn’t notice you at all. 

After a month of pretending to ignore you, though, he caves. You’ve been stuck in his consciousness like a burr since the first time he saw you, begging for attention.  

He has to buy supplies every week. What does it matter where he buys them?

Maybe if he talks to you, he can figure you out—figure out this pull—and that will help him disentangle you from his thoughts. 

As soon as he’s standing before you, though, he knows this is a bad idea. He picks out some produce—completely ignoring his very specific mental list in favor of gathering whatever his hands happen to fall upon.

Because he’s distracted.

By you.

You turn your head a little, and he thinks about biting the sweet juncture where your shoulder meets your neck, sinking his teeth in just hard enough to hear you whine, not hard enough to break your skin.

Would you like that? Would you squirm against his chest and beg for more? Would you let him touch you with rough hands and fingers that leave behind stormcloud bruises? Would you mind the hard ice of his armor and the hilt of the dark saber digging into your stomach if he crowded you up against the wall behind you?

Would you cower if you saw the true color of his eyes?

Din tries to busy himself by staring at everything laid out before him, but he can’t stop thinking about the plush of your lips.

When you ask him if he’s looking for anything in particular, he finally has a reason to settle his gaze on your face again.

He looks at your lips for too long—he knows that. He’s reassured by the fact that you can’t tell his eyes are fixed on your mouth. You must just think he’s odd. He tries to recover by asking for your name and what food you like most. Of course you pick the sweetest things, collecting the fruit with a discerning eye, choosing only the best of the bunch to wrap up for him.

You hand him his purchases, and he’s never been more tempted to slip off his gloves in public. He wants to brush his fingertips along the smooth, sensitive skin of your inner wrist. He needs to know what that feels like—what you look like when you shiver. 

He lets his touch linger for a fraction of a second and is rewarded with the subtle dilation of your pupils. 

He turns to leave before he can do anything he’ll regret.

And yet, you stay with him.

He stalks down the street, back toward the edge of town, onto the wide dirt road that parts the forest. With each step, he gets further away from you. With each step, he expects you to release him, to fade away, so his mind can quiet, and he can focus.

You don’t.

He doesn’t know what to do about that. Din has grown accustomed to living with blinders on; they have always been necessary for staying on track, for shutting out everything but one bounty and then the next. They’re familiar, comforting. A life of discipline and duty gifted him an iron will and laser focus, and he’s always relied on those. 

And yet here he is, distracted.

He’s never experienced this type of all-consuming attraction before.

He tells himself that if he just knew more about you, if he could solve the mystery of this feeling, he’d be satisfied. That would be enough to slake his curiosity, and he could move on.

*** Two days later, Din gets a chance.

He’s on a rare mid-week trip into town for real food, lost in thought about Grogu as he strides down the street, wondering what kind of caretaker Skywalker is. Is he patient? Thoughtful? Does he pay attention to the little things that make Grogu feel safe, like gentle back pats and low, murmured reassurances?

Surely, whatever complicated Jedi-magic bond that exists between them guarantees that he’ll know exactly what the kid needs. He’ll probably know better than Din ever did.

Jealousy radiates through him for a moment. But it fades quickly into grief, and that almost immediately spills over into a simmering anger.

Every feeling eventually gets twisted into anger these days. 

Din isn’t paying attention as he turns a corner and smack. Luckily, you react fast enough to catch his chestplate with raised hands instead of your face, but the force of the impact still sends you reeling backward a few steps.

His first instinct is to reach out and steady you, to catch your elbows and pull you back toward him, but he resists it. 

You manage not to lose your footing, but you do wring your hands like they’re hurting.

“Are you alright?” he asks.

“Yeah,” you laugh, rubbing your palms, “I’m fine.”

He stands there for a moment, silent. He wants to talk to you, but he has no idea what to say. So, irritated with himself, he makes to leave instead, offering you a nod and your name in some combination of greeting and farewell as he tries to walk around you.

“Wait,” you say, reaching out to grasp his elbow, your fingers curling into the space between his armor. “What’s your name? You never told me.”

He stills, looks down at you, relieved. His hands twitch with the need to touch you back. This close, your smell is overwhelming—floral and warm and tempting. 

“Mando is fine.”

Your lips pull to the side in an understanding but slightly disappointed smile, your hand dropping back to your side. “Not your name, but that’s okay.”

He wants to give you more than Mando, but he can’t.

Now that he’s finally letting himself really take you in, he notices a black smudge under your eye. “Were you just at the landing bay?”

You shoot him a suspicious look. “Yes, how did you—?”

His hand moves before he can stop himself. You watch it, a flicker of surprise in your eyes, but you don’t move away, don’t flinch. 

“Engine grease,” he tells you. He holds your cheek softly, swiping his thumb across your skin. You look a little flustered—caught off guard but not uncomfortable. His helmet tells him your pulse has kicked up significantly. 

He likes that. 

His own pulse starts a steady gallop in answer. 

“I have a ship,” you offer, staring up at him with wide eyes.

He actually chuckles at that, a warm, rich sound rumbling in his chest. It makes him realize how long it’s been since he’s heard his own laugh. “I figured.”

His hand is still on your face. If he slid it down just a little, he could touch your lips, see if they give as much under a light touch as he thinks they would.

“Well, I don’t have it yet,” you amend. “It’s almost done, though.”

There’s still a shadow of a mark on your cheek when he finally does drop his hand. He imagines pulling off his glove, sliding his helmet up just enough to suck his thumb into his mouth, and erasing the rest of it with the wet pad of his finger. 

What is it about you that makes him insane?

“Where are you going?” he asks. 

You light up, your smile radiant. “Anywhere. Everywhere. I have a list. What’s your favorite place you’ve been to?”

Din legitimately has no answer. No one’s ever asked him that. He considers for a moment. 

Maybe Sorgan, where he and the kid were able to lay low, where he got to watch the kid be a kid, if only for a few weeks. Even there, though, they weren’t safe.

Aq Vetina occurs to him next. It was also safe for a time.

No place is safe forever. 

He’s about to tell you he has no answer when an older woman crosses the street and calls your name, waving an excited hand. You turn to look, and Din takes that chance to step around you to avoid having to speak to anyone else. He murmurs your name again and brushes your arm with the tips of his fingers as he leaves, unable to help himself.

But he pretends not to hear when you turn back toward him and start to say, “Mando—wait—”

*** Maybe if he eats enough ripe peaches, he’ll be able to imagine the taste of your mouth. Spring, he thinks as he walks away, his hands fidgeting restlessly at his sides, two fingers tapping absently on his metal thigh guard. You must taste like spring: honey and tight pink flowerbuds and dewdrops. And if he pulled off his gloves, you’d feel warm under his hands, like sun-baked river rocks, and soft—fuck, yeah, definitely soft—like the brushed suede of new sage leaves.

As delicate under his rough hands as freshly unfurled butterfly wings.

Din scowls, and his hands curl into fists.

All of these are breakable things. Good things. Corruptible things. Things he’d ruin. He’d strip the scales from your wings until you couldn’t fly. Even if he didn’t mean to, even if he tried to be gentle. He’s too brutal and hard for you—all beskar and blaster fire. He always has been.

Even before he became… this.

His low growl—one that he expected to be too quiet to be picked up by the modulator—comes out a little louder than he intended. A cluster of locals startles like spooked rabbits, frozen and silent, as he stalks by. 

Fucking hell. 

He can’t even be mad at himself without scaring other people. He nods reassuringly at them, raising a hand in friendly greeting, and they give him a wary look before turning back to their conversation.

In that moment, Din decides he won’t ever speak to you again. Being close to you sets his thoughts to spiral, puts his teeth on edge. It’s too intoxicating, and if he’s truly honest with himself, he already knows the more he gets of you, the more he’ll want. There won’t be a point when his need is sated, and he can let go.

He’d want to possess you—for you to possess him (as if that process hasn’t already started).

An unnameable feeling, something both rapturous and raptorial, sears through his chest at just the thought of being able to look at you and call you his. He can’t imagine the real thing.

Mine.

There’s a lot he doesn’t understand about this new version of himself, and he hates that. But he does know his core, his true essence that can’t be uprooted by whatever is happening to him now—even if it can be distorted. 

Din knows his attachments run deep. He loves hard or not at all. He loves with teeth. The open wound Grogu left behind will take years to heal. He won’t let himself become vulnerable to that magnitude of loss for some time…maybe ever again. This, coupled with the new hunger and rage that simmer under his skin like a crackling electrical current, just waiting to spark and burn, means that he can’t be trusted around anyone. 

It’s painful for him to admit he doesn’t trust himself anymore—that he’s so off-kilter, so mercurial he can’t even predict his own behavior—but the first step toward mastering this is accepting that he’s changed. It’s why he’s in this self-imposed exile in the first place.

So, he’ll keep his distance from you, for as long as you remain here. He doesn’t know if it’s a matter of days, weeks, or months, but soon enough, you’ll be gone, lost to the vastness of the galaxy. And there will be no more distractions. 

This planet can still work. He can do what he needs to do. One small, temporary snag is nothing. He’s dealt with so much worse.

What’s one more thing abandoned when he’s already lost so much?

*** Over the next week, Din keeps his word to himself in all the ways that count. He doesn’t speak to you again, doesn’t approach you. Sometimes, he watches.

For your sake.

At least, that’s what he tells himself.

The first time it happens, he’s skirting the edge of town at night, restless and sleepless, when he sees you walking alone on the main road. It’s dark out, the sky spattered with dim stars, and he’s been walking through the forest long enough to know that slinking, orange shapes regularly prowl through his thermal readout. They’re lying in wait for something just like you.

It’s not safe out here.

He reminds himself that you’ve probably walked this road hundreds of times. You know this planet better than he does, know how to take care of yourself.

He tries to resist it, but a flood of something hot and vicious douses all reason, his protective instincts overriding everything else.

It’s easy enough to follow you home like a silent shadow. His senses are heightened, even keener than what the helmet affords him, and he finds that he can stalk you as easily and stealthily as any of those creatures that leave massive, clawed footprints on the forest floor.

With him around, none of them can hurt you. 

You live in a small cottage on the outskirts of town, surrounded by fields and orchards, ringed by the dense forest. Alone. He wonders why a pretty thing like you is alone—must be your preference. You’d have no trouble finding someone if you wanted to.

He wonders who keeps you safe from the things that lurk beyond the trees when he isn’t here. If your bed ever feels cold.

Once he knows where you live, he visits whenever his willpower isn’t enough to keep him away. He watches from the cover of the trees and tells himself he’s only there to check on you.

He should feel bad about it. Creepy and invasive. Predatory.

He doesn’t, though. Not really.

He’s not here to hurt; he’s here to protect.

He learns about you as he watches. How hardworking and resourceful you are, how sweet you are with your animals, that there is always a vibroblade tucked into your ankle-high boot. He finds that out one day when he follows you into the forest, where you go to forage for wild raspberries.

You pick your way carefully through the brambles, slowly filling the basket looped around your forearm, humming quietly to yourself. Din watches leaf-filtered sunshine play over your features: your soft lips, the hollow of your throat, the swells of your breasts. 

Beautiful, he thinks again.

He has seen a lot of this galaxy—more than most. He’s seen it from its forgotten, frayed edges to the center of its vital, beating heart. He knows one thing for sure: there’s a lot of raw pain in every place, suffering and struggle. Ugliness and mundanity and horror. 

He can’t remember the last time he stopped and looked at something simply because it’s beautiful. 

It’s probably just your novelty. 

No, he doesn’t think this fresh sense of awe would go away even if he saw you every day, up close. Even if he had you. If he woke up to your warm body curled against his side morning after morning, your head tucked into the crook of his neck, he thinks it would feel like a miracle each time. Maybe—

Din is yanked out of his reverie by the sound of rustling. Something is moving very close by—too close. He should have heard its approach, but he wasn’t paying attention to anything but you. 

He moves quietly, taking a few silent steps forward and falling into his defensive stance, feet planted wide, hands poised on his weapons.

You haven’t noticed anything yet, and his thoughts are racing as he tries to decide what to do. 

Should he reveal himself before the threat does? Would he scare you more than whatever is making that sound, the one that’s getting ever louder? 

He doesn’t think it’s a predator making its approach; a predator would stalk and slink, not blunder like this, and would likely be larger than the small-ish orange blur that is visible on his thermal readout. But there’s no way for him to be sure. He doesn’t know this planet well enough to have names for all of its hazards.

Why haven’t you noticed it yet?

Din is one breath away from bursting through the trees and putting his body squarely between you and this oncoming threat. He’ll reveal himself if it’s the difference between your life and death. And only then.

Finally, when the thing sounds like it’s just a few paces away, you go very still, listening carefully. Din waits. 

Run, he thinks. 

But you don’t have time to react. It makes its final approach in a rush, crashing through the undergrowth and into the small clearing where you’re standing. 

Din sprints forward at the same time, his blaster aimed, his forefinger heavy on the trigger when he realizes what it is. He barely manages to stop himself. 

It’s a fawn, its legs tangled in what looks like an old, unraveling fishing net. Its eyes are round with fear, and it freezes when it sees you.

Din skids to a halt just on the other side of the ring of trees circling the clearing, and he takes a few silent steps backward. The crashing of the fawn covered the sound of his heavy footfalls, so he hasn’t yet blown his own cover, and he’d like to keep it that way.

He watches as you assess the creature and takes deep breaths to slow his thunderous heartbeat.

Already dead, he thinks as he looks at the fragile little thing.

It’s harsh but true. Its loud, frantic movements are sure to draw predators eventually, and no mother is in sight. It’s alone and injured, likely from flailing around the forest half-bound. It’s standing on three legs, one of its back ankles clearly broken. A quick death would be a mercy—might as well spare it the drawn-out misery.

Din watches as you lower yourself to one knee, a placating hand held out toward the trembling little creature, and ruck up your skirt, revealing the well-worn handle of a blade. Slowly, whispering quiet reassurances, you unsheath it. 

Aside from an occasional nervous quiver, the fawn remains a statue. Your empty hand reaches out to stroke reassuringly along its flank, the other slowly raising the knife. For one shocking second, Din thinks you actually are about to slit its throat—and realizes how much he doesn’t want you to kill it—then your prodding fingers reveal a loop of rope wrapped tightly around its neck. You slice easily though the cord there and a few other places, careful to keep the sharp edge of the blade facing away from the fawn, and the tangled mess of the net falls to the ground.

Even though it’s free, the little thing stands there like it doesn’t know what to do.

“Where’s your mama, hm?”

It stares with wide, blank eyes. You look around the silent forest.

“You’re all alone out here, aren’t you?”

Din scans the trees and knows you’re right. There are no large heat signatures anywhere nearby. The fawn takes a tiny step toward you.

“You want to come home with me?”

You reach out again and rest a gentle palm on its chest, testing its comfort. It doesn’t flinch.

“Alright,” you say, “we’ll fix up that ankle, okay?”

You carefully, slowly move forward and gather the little thing in your arms. It cooperates as if it understands your invitation.

Din watches you care for this broken, lost thing, and he wonders who takes care of you. He wonders if you have a soft spot for broken things.

What about permanently broken ones? What about things with no chance of being made right again?

*** Din falls into a routine.

He knows it’s wrong. That he is wrong.

After a couple weeks, he’s forced to admit to himself that his constant presence isn’t really for your sake. He’s there to protect you from the things that howl, but he is one of those predators now.

Why fight it?

He’s there because he wants to be.

He denies himself so much else, and what you don’t know can’t hurt you.

He can’t stop, anyways. Or won’t? There’s no difference between the two anymore.

Either way, you’ll leave this planet soon, and that will solve his problem.

At night, Din satisfies himself with a glimpse of you moving around your kitchen through the big picture window that frames your oak table. Sometimes, the only reassurance he gets is the flicker of a candle casting dancing shadows on your curtains. 

During the day, when you’re working outside, Din settles against a trunk on the edge of the forest as you work your way down a row of apple trees until you’re nothing but a paint stroke in the distance. And when you make your way down the next row back toward him, for a little while, he can trick himself into thinking that you’re coming to him. 

Willingly.

It’s enough.

It’s enough because he gets you in his dreams too. He can’t help it; you’re on his mind when he’s falling asleep, so you’re in his dreams. Sometimes, when he lingers on the edges of sleep, he can almost taste your skin on his tongue. He can picture your smile and your soft hands, and he feels like he’s under the shade of your peach trees with you, your body pinned between his and the trunk, as he dips his head to kiss your neck.

When he finally does succumb to sleep, though, his mind snatches his fantasy and twists it into a nightmare. 

The tongue he dips into the hollow of your throat and drags up your neck is changed: it’s long and dextrous, like that of a hungry carnivore. You like it, though. He laps over your pulse point until a bead of spit slides down the column of your neck, and you moan, your hands scrabbling against his shoulders, pulling him in, like you’re desperate to be closer even though there’s barely enough space between your bodies to breathe. 

When he sets his teeth against your skin, they’re no longer human and blunt—they’re the saw-tooth edge of half-shattered glass, and they pierce your skin too easily, like the point of a sharp knife to fine silk. 

You whine and writhe in this arms—in pain, in ecstasy. 

And the worst part? The part that haunts him during the day? You taste good. Your skin is tart and fresh, like the first apples of the season... and when he punctures it, the hot rush of your blood in his mouth is startlingly saccharine, as if he left one of your peaches in the sun too long.

He wakes up salivating, panting open-mouthed inside his humid helmet.

What is wrong with him?

No, that’s not the question that matters. He knows what’s wrong with him. He doesn’t know how to fix it.

Din groans, his body stiff and sore from sleeping in his full armor, and hauls himself out of bed. He’s not going back to sleep now; he’s sure of that. So instead, he rips off his helmet and eats strawberries over the sink. The juice drips between his fingers and down the back of his hand.

He didn’t buy these from you, since he’s been avoiding your stall at the market, and they’re less flavorful than the ones you’d grown. These are an anemic light red in color, instead of a dark ruby.

When they’re gone, he licks up the sticky pink trails, his tongue laving between his knuckles, and his thoughts wander back to your taste—how could they not? He thinks about your scent, about the way you taste in his dreams, about the salty sweetness between your legs.

Has anyone known you that way? Has anyone had the privilege of that intimacy, of taking you apart with their tongue?

The thought makes his cock twitch.

He’ll watch you again tomorrow. He’ll get a little bit closer, just a little. Not close enough for you to notice. And who knows? Maybe he’ll get lucky, and you’ll be hanging your laundry outside again and the light, floral smell of it—of you—will catch on the breeze. He’ll get what he needs, and you’ll never know. He will be sated by the occasional sight of you, by knowing you from afar. 

He’s going to repeat these things to himself until they’re true.

He’s going to repeat these things to himself until you leave.

This is a compromise he can live with—he gets to indulge, and you stay safe.

It’s enough.

It has to be enough.

[gettingfrilly]

Where is Peach Creek?

People have been theory crafting this for decades and the canon answer is somewhere in America and that's about it. BUT if you have my flavor of autism and require accuracy and details then here's my own personal headcanon.

Here's all the canon information we have:

According to the series bible, Peach Creek is an American suburb.

Peach Creek experiences all four seasons. We've seen a hot summer, fall foliage, and a snowy winter, so it can be assumed there's a spring time as well. This combined with the broad leaf forest between the cul de sac and the trailer park places Peach Creek in a temperate deciduous forest biome.

Peach Creek has a peach orchard that was there since settlers first arrived in the area. The peaches native to North America grew solely in the southwest.

Peach Creek was founded over 300 years ago by pilgrims. We don't have an exact canon time period for when Ed Edd n' Eddy takes place, but its safe to say it's somewhere towards the end of the 20th century, which would mean Peach Creek was founded some time in the 17th century (the 1600s.) This would place Peach Creek east of the Mississippi, as the west was being colonized by Spain at this point.

In BPS, we learn that Peach Creak is a day's walk away from what APPEARS to be the ocean (more on that later.)

Between Peach Creek and the possible Ocean exists rural farmland, a desert, and a swamp. There is also a snowy capped mountain range visible from Peach Creek Junior High.

This is all a lot of conflicting information! There's no place in America that checks all these boxes. I commonly see people place the Eds somewhere on the north or central Atlantic Coast, because of the possible ocean seen in BPS and the fact that Peach Creek was founded by pilgrims in the 1600s. This checks the most important boxes for me, too, and I would agree, however...

Pop. The kids call carbonated beverages pop. NO ONE on the north or central east coast calls it pop. We call it soda. This is a minor detail for sure and considering all the conflicting information about Peach Creek's location, one that can very much be ignored. But as someone who grew up in New England, I can't ignore it (refer to beginning of post, my flavor of autism.)

"But HOW could they be so close to what looks like the ocean, live in a town founded by pilgrims, and NOT live on the east coast?" I hear you ask. Well, here's my answer: The body of water in BPS isn't the ocean. It's one of the great lakes.

Picture id: Hamburg Beach, Hamburg New York, on the shore of lake Erie.

Sure, Mondo A-Go Go is very ocean themed (the whale trailer, the shark head, the wild prawn) but it could be just that; a theme.

Another reason I like this theory is that THIS GUY:

Picture id: Danny Antonucci, creator of Ed Edd n' Eddy

Also grew up in The Great Lakes region.

And to cinch the deal:

Picture id: Color coded map displaying which U.S.A. regions predominately say pop, soda, or coke.

They say pop!

The further east the Eds are, the more their location makes sense, so I place them in western New York, near lake Erie. It's a rural area with a large city sky line nearby (Buffalo, NY) and there are also Appalachian ski resorts, which would explain the mountain range. There's some swamp land as well, which ticks off all the landmarks seen in the show other than the desert and native peach orchard (though peaches can certainly be cultivated in this biome!)

Also, when looking into travel times in the area, I came across this:

Pictue id: Google map screen shot with a town called Cherry Creek in the center.

Picture id: Incredibles meme. Top text: Coincidence? Bottom text: I think not!

SO that's my theory. The Eds grew up in rural western New York, close enough to the shore of Lake Erie that they could get there in a day's walk. Thanks for coming to my TED talk, etc. etc.

[silenzahra]

Anything for him ✨

Chapter 2 is up! ✨

TW: Blood, injuries, angst

It's done! 🤩 Chapter 2 of my Luigi's Mansion fanfic is here at last! I'm really sorry I took this long, but I hope it was worth the wait!

As you can see, this one has some TW, so check them out before reading! But hey, it also has some sweet brotherly love moments, and believe me when I say I enjoyed writing every single one of them 🥹 (and the angsty ones too ofc 🤭)

Here's a short sneak peek! ✨

You'll see it's also longer than Chapter 1, which is why it took me so long 😅 That, and the festive season and adult life kinda getting in the way 😂

Again, let me point out that this is a translation from Spanish, which is my mother tongue, so it's the language in which I write. This means that I may have made some mistakes, for which I apologize in advance 🙏 Please feel free to let me know in case you find some so I can fix it! 💖

But anyways! I really really hope you guys like it! I'll start working on Chapter 3 tomorrow, and once I post it, my first public fanfic will be complete! 😁

See you tomorrow! ✨

EDIT: Decided to add the chapter here too for anyone who'd rather read it on Tumblr! Please keep reading below the cut if you haven't yet!

Chapter 2: Mario

Mario is tired of his confinement.

He ignores how long he has been trapped in that painting, but he does know that he will go crazy if he cannot get out soon. If only he could find a way to slip past the magic of the portraits... After all, some time ago, he managed to save Princess Peach and the entire Mushroom Kingdom by jumping inside paintings, getting powerful stars and then going back to Peach’s castle.

But this one works in a very different way.

In the painting in which he is, the magic of King Boo reigns.

And Mario knows nothing about its powers and workings.

Just as he knew nothing about what he would find when he entered that abandoned mansion that, allegedly, his brother had won in a contest in which he had not participated. Mario was wary about this, so he decided to go ahead and check that everything was fine before Luigi arrived, for he was not going to allow his little brother to be the victim of a scam. Not in a million years.

However, as soon as he crossed the door and found himself in the most absolute darkness, a swarm of Boos materialized in the middle of the blackness, jumped on him and pinned him down. Mario only remembers jolting and struggling with all his might to free himself, but the annoying specters must have stunned him, for he does not remember what happened next.

He only knows that, when he opened his eyes again, with a severe headache that, fortunately, has been subsiding, he was already locked in a tiny room whose only contact with the outside world consisted of a glass. A glass that, no matter how hard he has hit it since he woke up, he has not been able to break, not even crack a little.

Through that glass, however, Mario has had the chance to observe the luxurious room in which he has been trapped, with brick walls, golden moldings and three lamps full of lightbulbs that prevent the place from plunging into darkness. There are also a couple of columns with strange motifs, and right in front of the painting in which he is in, Mario can see two torches from which smoke is billowing. A little further on, behind one of the columns, he can make out two other torches, also smoking, and on the other side, he is surprised to find a stone lion’s head.

Also, to his misfortune, Mario came face to face with his captor, King Boo, who watched him from the other side of the glass with a twisted grimace on his face and emitted those shrill laughs that made his hair stand on end. Mario returned a look of rage and hit the painting with very tight fists, but his reaction only served to make the ghost double his laughter and disappear right under his nose without saying a word.

So here he is now.

Mario has no way of knowing how much time has gone by since he was locked up, but he does know that every second that goes by brings him closer and closer to madness. No matter how much he has knocked, jumped and investigated, he has not been able to find his way out of that tiny prison, which he has quickly started to detest. Dejected, he sits down, his back against the glass, his eyes fixed on the unfathomable dark infinity that surrounds him, his mind exhausted. All he can think is that he hopes for Luigi to have backed out at the last moment and have not come to the mansion, or if he has, that he has turned back as soon as he came across the sinister building. Ghosts scare him to death.

Then, to his ears comes that thunderous laughter which, even though he has only heard it once before, he has come to loathe. King Boo floats into the room; Mario does not need to turn around to know it. He remains where he is, fed up with his captivity and his captor, and folds his arms, unwilling to give the ghost the satisfaction of seeing how jaded he feels or how frightened he actually is of what might happen to him, no matter how hard he tries to hide it.

“Mario,” croons King Boo from outside the painting. The plumber closes his eyes and sighs. “I have a little surprise for you...”

The specter’s laughter chills his blood, but Mario pulls his cap down and shrinks in on himself. He has no interest in anything his kidnapper might tell him.

“Someone has arrived at the mansion,” continues King Boo, still in a singsong tone. “Someone you know very well and who is looking for you with great desperation...”

This does capture Mario’s attention. A shiver runs through him from top to bottom and he hopes, he wishes, that it is a lie, that the Boo is making fun of him, that it is not true...

However, it does not take him long to hear a voice calling him. A voice full of fear and insecurity, a voice he knows better than his own, a voice he has heard all his life and that he adores more than life itself.

A voice that has the power to give him hope and, at the same time, take it away.

“Mario?”

Startled, Mario finally turns and stands up, and he rests his hands on the glass that separates him from the outside world. Before him, suspended in the air, there is an image that King Boo has conjured up with his strange powers and around which he flutters with joy. Mario can make out what must be the corridors of the mansion, dark and gloomy, with their wallpaper walls, worn by the passage of time, and a red carpet that extends through each and every one of their corners.

The trembling light of a flashlight illuminates them. A few hesitant footsteps run through them. Blue eyes watch everything with fear and reticence.

Luigi.

Mario, unable to help it despite his initial fear, smiles as soon as he sees his little brother. His heart warms at the sight of Luigi walking in the gloom, facing his fears and calling out to him, looking for him, anxious to be reunited with him. A surge of intense affection sweeps over Mario and draws a deep sigh from him, and it takes him a few seconds to realize that the flame of hope has ignited within him, so powerful and burning that Mario is convinced that, no matter what happens, nothing can extinguish it.

Then he notices the device that Luigi is carrying on his back and looks at it with curiosity. It is some kind of vacuum cleaner from which, however, emerges the flashlight with which his brother illuminates his steps. Mario wonders what it is, where he got it from, what it is used for, but he soon notices, not without some satisfaction, that King Boo twists his face at the sight of this object. Mario squints his eyes, intrigued.

In the image, Luigi continues to advance down the corridor, slowly, looking around him in fear. Some ghost bats hanging from the ceiling fly towards him, but even though he is startled, Luigi continues forward without turning to them and increases his speed a little. Mario bites his lower lip, feeling inside him that older brother instinct that urges him to go to Luigi and protect him from those specters, but he cannot do that. He has no way to reach Luigi, so he must be content to watch his progress from the canvas in which he has been trapped.

The corridor divides into two forks and Luigi chooses to take the one on the left. Mario sees him approach the two doors that await him at the end of the hallway and try to open the first one with no success. When he tries the second, however, Luigi enters a dark bathroom that, judging by the light of his flashlight, seems very neat. Luigi takes a few steps towards the bathtub but is startled when a lilac-colored ghost appears behind him. Mario wants to scream, to warn Luigi to run away from there, that it is going to catch him, but Luigi walks a little more, letting the specter float behind him, and when it is about to pounce on him, Luigi turns around, shines his flashlight on it and leaves it petrified, dazzling by the intense beam that his machine gives off. Mario notices the pink heart that beats inside the spirit, the one that has appeared before the light, but then Luigi begins to vacuum, catching both Mario and the ghost unawares, and it tries to resist and flee, but does not succeed.

Dumbfounded and amazed, Mario watches as his little brother, the same one who has always been afraid of darkness and ghosts, captures the lilac spirit with his vacuum cleaner, the one he carries on his back and that King Boo seems to fear so much. The being resists, tries to escape, but Luigi steadies himself on the ground and grabs the vacuum cleaner’s nozzle, gritting his teeth from the effort, until, defeated, the specter is sucked inside the object. When Luigi relaxes and smiles with satisfaction, Mario does the same, admiringly.

“Yes!” he cheers, delighted. “That’s my brother!”

He knows Luigi cannot hear him, but he claps anyway, happily. He has never doubted Luigi’s abilities to achieve whatever he sets his mind to, he has always believed in him and all he has to offer, and now he is simply seeing his suspicions confirmed.

And the same thing happens next, as a new ghost materializes behind Luigi a few seconds later. Luigi acts in exactly the same way and Mario laughs, delighted, as the spirit is dragged into its personal prison. Immediately, the bathroom lights come on and Luigi breathes a sign of relief, so Mario deduces that there is no longer any danger in that room; otherwise, the place would still be dark. He smiles, elated at his brave brother’s success, and watches him pull aside the shower curtain and gently tap the sink, from which a glistening heart emerges, and Luigi deftly catches it.

Mario watches, curious and attentive, as Luigi brings the heart to his chest and takes a deep breath with his eyes closed. He sees him press his hand against the top of his overalls, fully open, and after a short sigh, Luigi lowers his arm and opens his eyes again, his smile warm and relaxed. Mario blinks slowly and it takes him a second too long to understand that Luigi’s body has absorbed that little heart. He then realizes that it must help him feel better and less tired, and imagines that, had his brother been injured, it would have healed him too.

Mario nods with a thoughtful smile. The world he and Luigi discovered by accident will never cease to amaze him.

In the meantime, Luigi has started vacuuming toward a small shelf near the shower. Mario raises an eyebrow in puzzlement, but his doubts are dispelled as soon as he sees a key falling from the shelf into Luigi’s hands. Hee grabs it with a pleased smile and puts it in the back pocket of his overalls. After giving himself only a few seconds of respite, Luigi takes hold of the flashlight again and, with a deep breath, returns to the hallway.

And, trapped inside the painting, while King Boo hovers around the image of Luigi he himself has conjured up, Mario watches, fascinated, the progress of his beloved little brother. Luigi captures those bats that he saw earlier and that were once again flying towards him, and he does it with no hesitation and no trace of fear in his bright blue eyes. He is startled when a pink ghost emerges from the ceiling and throws a bomb at him, but despite the initial fright, Luigi manages to get far enough away to avoid being hit by the detonation and, without wasting time, he aims his flashlight at the specter before sucking it up. Mario breathes a sigh of relief and puts a hand to his chest, for his heart has started to race as he believed that his brother was going to die because of that bomb.

Luigi lets out a high-pitched squeal when he discovers a golden mouse running towards him, but it only takes him a few seconds to compose himself and, once again, he directs the vacuum cleaner towards the ghostly animal. Mario is stunned again when, after the mouse disappears, piles and piles of money are left in its place. A laugh of disbelief escapes Mario’s throat as Luigi picks up each coin one by one, though he keeps looking around, alert for any specter that might approach him by surprise.

“Your little brother is getting very lucky,” mumbles King Boo, indignant.

“It’s not luck,” replies Mario, crossing his arms. “It’s bravery.”

“Bravery?” the ghost repeats, bursting into laughter. “We’ll see that when he runs into my Boos. It’ll show what a coward he truly is.”

“My brother is no coward,” Mario says slowly, clenching his fists. “He’s a lot braver than you’ll ever be, and he’ll beat the crap out of your Boos, you’ll see.”

“The same way you did, Mario?” mocks the King.

“I was unarmed.” He shrugs and smiles. “Unlike my brother. I’ve seen the way you look at that thing on his back.”

King Boo gasps and turns to the image he has created. In it, Luigi is putting the last of the coins in his pocket and smiling to himself, a smile that Mario mirrors, full of pride at the poise his little brother is showing in facing his fears. However, as soon as King Boo turns to him with an expression of indifference in his face, Mario gives him a look full of distrust.

“The Poltergust 3000?” he says disdainfully, crossing his tiny little arms.

“So that’s its name...” Mario murmurs, nodding.

“He won’t be able to do anything with it,” the king proudly assures him. “When all the Boos unite, we are invincible!”

“Then Luigi will find a way to make your subjects split,” Mario answers, convinced.

He does not hear the ghost’s reply, because Luigi’s voice, calling him again, demands his full attention. His brother has already finished collecting the money and moves his flashlight from one side of the corridor to the other, looking for him tirelessly. Mario feels a pang in his heart at the eagerness with which Luigi calls him, not willing to give up until he finds him. He rests his hands on the glass again and looks helplessly at Luigi, wishing he could answer him, meet up with him, tell him where he is, but he himself does not know. Where exactly is that room where he has been locked up, that kind of altar that is nothing but another mockery of King Boo? If Mario knew, if he had the slightest idea, perhaps he could try to find a way to get a message to his brother.

But he is bound hand and foot because of the magic of his captor, who made sure to stun him so as not to allow him to see even a small hint of the path to that room.

Therefore, all Mario can do is watch Luigi as he moves around the mansion, flashlight in hand, the Poltergust 3000 on his back and his big brother’s name in his throat.

Luigi stops in front of the central room in the hallway, rummages in his pockets and pulls out the key he found in the bathroom. With trembling hands, he inserts it into the lock, turns it and opens the door. He comes across a ballroom with the floor laid out like a chessboard and white walls with a few columns embedded in them. Here and there, he finds small corners arranged for the dancers to rest, with luxurious red velvet chairs and curtains of the same color and texture to provide some privacy. Chandeliers hang from the ceiling but are now turned off.

As he advances a couple of steps extremely slowly, Luigi illuminates every corner of the room more than once, wandering the beam of light around the room and not ceasing to look to one side and the other, frightened. From his portrait, Mario holds his breath, wondering what new danger his brother will now have to face.

It does not take him long to find out: around Luigi, pairs of dancing ghosts suddenly begin to appear. Upon closer inspection, Mario notices that they are Shy Guys, as they are wearing their usual masks.

Only these Shy Guys are armed.

Luigi is not intimidated by the bidents carried by his new rivals and Mario can only admire, once again, the courage of his little brother. It is obvious to him that Luigi is afraid, very much so, as he walks around trembling, swallows very often, clutches his flashlight tighter than necessary and looks at the specters as if they represented the worst of his nightmares, which, Mario knows for sure, in his brother’s case is true. However, Luigi is not paralyzed by terror, but dares to move forward step by step, and Mario thinks that would be his exact definition of bravery: to venture to do anything in spite of fear.

He sees his brother use the Poltergust 3000 to start sucking up the Shy Guys’ masks, but as he does so with one of them, the unmasked one’s partners approaches Luigi to attack him with its bident. Mario stifles a scream when he sees Luigi narrowly dodge the blow and is glad that, at that moment, his brother chooses to run away from the ghosts to safety. Mario sighs in relief when he sees that the pair of Shy Guys opt to ignore Luigi and just resume their curious and chaotic dance.

Looking for his brother with his eyes, Mario finds him cowering in a corner, clutching the flashlight of his vacuum cleaner as if his life depended on it. His legs tremble and panic has taken over his face, and once again Mario feels the imperious need to go to his side, to hug him, to comfort him, to protect him, to assure him that everything will be alright and that they will never be separated again. His desire to embrace Luigi is so intense that his chest begins to ache. He drops his forehead on the glass and wonders how much longer that will last. Has King Boo not had enough fun already? Has he not tortured both brothers enough?

Fortunately, Luigi’s expression, although not entirely free of terror, soon also reflects intense concentration, as his eyes narrow and follow the movements of the dancing Shy Guys. For a few moments, he observes from afar the three couples dancing around the room without leaving the corner where he has taken refuge. For a few moments, both brothers remain still and silent, although only one can see the other, separated and united at the same time.

Then Luigi stands up, frowns and raises the end of the vacuum cleaner on his back. He strides purposefully toward the nearest pair of Shy Guys, though he does so slowly and on tiptoes. Mario covers his mouth with one hand and holds the other to his chest, nervous about what his brother is about to do.

“Come on, Luigi,” he encourages him quietly, even though he knows Luigi cannot hear him.

In the ballroom, Luigi waits until the pair of Shy Guys are lined up in front of him, and only then does he start vacuuming. He manages to pull off the masks of both ghosts at the same time, and not wasting a second, Luigi turns on his flashlight at full power, dazzling them. Once the hearts are visible, Luigi only has to vacuum, and Mario thinks he could start applauding when he sees how Luigi manages to hook both ghosts at the same time. It is not easy for him, as both try to throw him off and trip him up, but Luigi does not lose his footing nor his concentration and does not let go of the Poltergust 3000 until both Shy Guys end up inside it.

“Yes!” Mario shouts enthusiastically, and then he does not hold back and claps his hands, still screaming with joy. He ignores the disdainful look that King Boo gives him.

Slowly but surely, Luigi does the same with the next pair of Shy Guys. This time he stumbles, loses the connection with the ghosts and has to start all over again, but he never gives up and, although he gets a small bump after a more serious fall, he gets up again, holds his vacuum cleaner and tries once more.

Mario feels like his heart could burst with pride for his little brother.

At last, there is only one couple left, the first one Luigi tried to capture, the same one that attacked him after he took off the masks of one of its members. Mario sees Luigi swallow before moving towards them, his step a little more unsure, no doubt fearing that they will pounce on him again.

Still, he walks towards them, and Mario wrings his hands inside his portrait, uneasy.

Luigi stops next to the pair of Shy Guys and bites his lip, clutching the Poltergust 3000. He waits patiently for both ghosts to line up so he can suck their masks up at the same time, just as he has done with the previous couples. Mario thinks his heart is going to burst out of his chest due to its rapid beating.

Then, Luigi begins to vacuum.

The Shy Guys’ masks shake, but Luigi is too far away and cannot get them to come off. The specters continue their dance, masks in place, spears in their hands, and Luigi is forced to take a small step forward to try again. If it were not for his gloves, Mario would be biting his nails.

Again, Luigi starts to vacuum. Again, the masks of the spirits tremble, but nothing more.

This time, however, they both turn to Luigi.

He lets out a scream of pure terror and runs away from them, but the Shy Guys chase after him. Mario screams and hits the glass of his painting helplessly, wishing to get Luigi out of there, wishing he could go to help him, wishing to warn him that the ghosts are surrounding him, but his brother runs without looking behind him, moved by fear, and does not stop to look at what the spirits are doing.

One of the Shy Guys, the first one Luigi unmasked when he entered the room, intercepts him while he is running: it appears right in front of him with its arms outstretched, making Luigi stop in his tracks and let out a new screech. Luigi turns, frightened, and starts running in the opposite direction, but the other ghost, the one that attacked him, is waiting for him with its bident raised.

And this time, it does not miss.

Mario lets out a heart-rending scream as the two prongs of the Shy Guy’s weapon plunge into his little brother’s chest. A dull ache pierces his heart, and he brings a hand to it out of pure instinct, but he cannot pay attention to it, not when his brother has just been wounded and he has not had a chance to do anything to prevent it. Luigi, in turn, stifles a cry and slowly lowers his gaze, his eyes widening in surprise as he notices the spear sticking out of his body. He drops his knees to the ground, exhaling heavily, and Mario hits the glass that keeps him apart from the world with all his might, desperate and raging.

The Shy Guy pulls out the weapon with a sharp jerk, wrenching a gasp from Luigi that turns into a groan, and floats away with a guttural chuckle as Luigi falls forward and rests his elbows on the ground, his eyes tightly shut. Mario inadvertently holds his breath, his hand still pressed hard to his chest. His brother, wheezing, slowly raises one arm and directs it towards his wound. Despite his posture, on all fours on the black and white floor, Mario can make out his pained expression, the sweat that has begun to bead across his forehead, the way he grinds his teeth, and soon after Luigi’s hand rests on his chest, his white glove begins to turn red.

King Boo’s laughter echoes throughout the room.

“And my Boos didn’t even need to show up!” he sneers.

Mario ignores him, too upset to pay attention. He gasps, his breathing as rapid as his pulse, and tells himself he has to do something to help Luigi. He cannot stand there, he cannot stand by and watch his brother die before his eyes, he cannot...

His frantic thoughts come to a screeching halt when, to his surprise, Luigi pushes himself up with one hand. King Boo’s laughter abruptly stops, and Mario allows himself to retain a modicum of hope when he sees his brother open his eyes and compose an expression full of anger that he does not hesitate to direct at the Shy Guys. His hand is still resting on his chest, his glove is still filling with blood, his breathing is becoming more and more labored, his face continues to be drenched in sweat, but in spite of all that, Luigi grinds his teeth, slowly rests his free hand on his knees and forces his legs to hold him up.

Mario lets out a silent exclamation of astonishment. Pride floods him again, stronger and more intense than the previous times. There is Luigi, his little brother, shaken by convulsions, blood pouring from his chest and staining the denim of his overalls, but still standing up to the ghosts who have dared to hurt him. Trembling, Luigi once again grabs the end of the Poltergust 3000 and points it at the Shy Guys. Without hesitation, he activates the suction mechanism while taking a trembling step forward. Mario holds his breath again.

The specters, who had gone back to dancing casually, paying no more attention to Luigi, are startled when the sound of the vacuum cleaner fills the ballroom. Mario cannot help but smile as he witnesses their vain attempts to flee from the Poltergust 3000. Luigi, relentless, moves heavily after them, making sure to remove their masks to leave them unprotected from the powerful light of his device. Mario is aware of the huge effort his brother is making, of how difficult it must be for him at this moment to stand up and fight the spirits, and pride mingles inside him with a deep admiration for his little brother, for his strength, his temperance and his courage, for his strong capacity of resistance, for his tenacity and his bravery. Silently, Mario watches Luigi catching the last two Shy Guys inside the Poltergust 3000 and smiles, a deep surge of love for his brother filling his heart and invading his insides. He wishes he could hold Luigi in his arms at that moment, cradle him, help him, heal his wound, let him rest, tell him how much he loves him and how willing he is to do anything for him, to protect him at all costs.

Luigi staggers for a few moments, panting, after capturing the specters. He lets go of the end of his vacuum cleaner, which slips from his fingers and dangles to the side of his body, and closes his eyes with a prolonged wheeze. Mario’s alarms go off again, and he straightens up, uneasy, as he sees his brother fall to his knees once more. Luigi leans back on his heels and, very slowly, with increasingly louder pants, raises his hand back to his chest, from which blood has not stopped gushing. His breathing becomes more and more irregular and resounding, as if he was having trouble filling his lungs with air, and Mario rests his palm on the glass with his heart in his mouth. He watches Luigi slump to the side, he watches him clench his eyelids and teeth as he twists the fabric of his overalls between his fingers, and Mario hits the glass again, his brother’s name escaping his lips in a hysterical scream, as Luigi’s head falls, inert, to the ground, followed by his blood-stained hand.

Mario gasps, overwhelmed, anxious, nervous. He ignores King Boo’s raucous laughter and tries to concentrate. He needs to get out of there, he needs to get to Luigi and help him, he needs to… But how? He is trapped inside the painting, he ignores the rules or the boundaries that govern King Boo’s magic, and he does not have time to stop and try to understand them now either. He should have done it before, before his captor allowed him to see Luigi, because now it is too late, and his brother is going to die, and he cannot do anything...

But Mario will not give up.

He will not let his brother bleed to death. He is not going to let Luigi pay for his own thoughtlessness, for his impulsiveness in going to the mansion earlier, for his anxiousness to make sure that everything was in order and nothing could harm Luigi. How ironic, he thinks to himself bitterly, that his intention was always to protect his brother, and, in the end, Luigi was seriously injured.

All because of him.

But Mario has not time to berate himself. His brother needs him. He has to go to his side; he has to manage to break the magical barriers that enclose him and get to Luigi as soon as possible.

He has to help him.

“I’m coming, Lu.”

With his eyes fixed on Luigi, who lies motionless on the floor of the ballroom, Mario begins to step back. He does it slowly, so as not to attract the attention of his captor, but King Boo is too busy laughing, so he does not notice his prisoner’s movements.

Therefore, Mario keeps retroceding, as far as he can, as much as the space inside the frame allows him, and when he thinks he will get enough momentum, he starts to run. He clenches his fists, frowns, and braces himself for the blow, for his attempt will most likely come to nothing, his idea will come to nothing, but he does not for a second consider stopping running.

Luigi needs him.

So Mario runs, gaining speed and momentum, and just as he is about to run into the glass of the painting, he jumps.

He cannot help but let out a scream from deep his gut.

To his surprise, his body crosses the edge of the canvas, remains suspended in the air for a few seconds between the painting and the image of the mansion, and then falls into the latter.

Due to his speed, Mario is unable to brake in time and rolls across the floor of the ballroom until he collides with one of the embedded columns. He immediately gets to his feet, however, and gives himself just a few seconds to collect himself despite the dizziness that assails him. After shaking his head a little to clear his head, Mario turns around, desperately looking for his brother with his eyes.

He finds him very close, with his back to him, completely motionless.

“Lu!” he exclaims, anguish permeating his voice.

Before he even finishes uttering that single syllable, Mario gets up in a hurry and runs to Luigi. He circles his body so he can see his face and his heart breaks a little more at the close-up view of the wounds whose blood stains the black and white tiles of the floor red. With a gasp, Mario drops to his knees beside his brother and places a hand on his forehead and the other on his cheek in an attempt to cradle his face.

“Luigi,” he whispers, wiping away with his palm the sweat from his brother’s forehead.

But Luigi’s eyelids remain firmly closed.

Mario finds it hard to breathe, but he forces himself to remain calm. Carefully, he puts one of his brother’s arms through the handle of the Poltergust 3000 and then lifts his body a little to remove the machine completely. He places it on the floor, behind Luigi’s back, and looks anxiously at his brother again, hoping that that has made him react in some way, but Luigi does not show any sign of having noticed anything. Mario then slips an arm under Luigi’s head and pulls him to himself, gently cradling his brother. He watches Luigi’s unconscious face for a second and his heart shrinks as if a claw were squeezing it. In a sudden rush, Mario wraps his free arm around Luigi’s body and lifts him up a little, holding him close as he shuts his eyes tightly and breathes in, breathes out, breathes in, breathes out, in a vain attempt to calm himself. If only he had been there to protect Luigi, if only he could have stopped it from happening, if only...

But not all is lost. Luigi is wounded, but his heart is still beating. His breathing is slow, paused, irregular, but existing. Slowly, Mario lays his brother on his lap, his eyes fixed on Luigi’s closed eyelids, and runs his hand over Luigi’s forehead once more before daring to look down at his brother’s chest. Mario’s blood runs cold in his veins as he discovers the two wounds, just two small red dots on the denim, through which his little brother’s life is escaping, and he wrinkles his forehead in dismay.

“Mamma mia, Lu...” he mumbles in a broken voice.

With trembling hands due to the nerves that grip his heart, Mario undoes the straps of his brother’s overalls and slowly opens the top buttons of his green shirt. Both garments are heavily stained with blood, as are Mario’s gloves and his own overall after the quick hug he has given Luigi, but he does not care. None of that matters.

All that matters is plugging the wounds and trying to stop the bleeding.

At the last second, however, Mario lets his hand hover, not daring to lay it on Luigi’s pale skin. What if, in trying to help him, he ends up hurting Luigi even more? What if he makes his already bad condition even worse? But the blood will not stop flowing, and his brother is breathing harder and harder, so Mario has to do something. And he has to do it now.

Straining to ignore the worry that runs through his limbs, Mario focuses on his task. He grabs his left sleeve roughly and begins to pull. The fabric is tough and resilient, but Mario is overcome with a panic that gives him more strength than he already possesses by his very nature, so that, in the end, his shirt eventually gives way and Mario manages to tear it. He grasps the resulting piece with both hands and, despite the tremors that shake him with nervousness, he folds it as deftly as he can and lays it over both wounds. Fortunately, they are so close that he does not need to spread the piece of cloth, as he manages to cover them both with ease.

Mario purses his lips and looks again at his brother’s face. He raises a hand to wipe the sweat from his forehead again and ends up turning the gesture into a soft caress, but Luigi remains motionless, inert, unable to feel his presence or the touch of his fingers on his pale skin. Mario takes a deep breath, the knot in his heart tightening with every second he feels he is losing his brother, and he struggles to summon the courage to take the next step. Slowly, he returns his hand to its place next to the other, on Luigi’s chest, and biting his lips, he begins to exert light pressure.

He is not completely sure about what he is doing, but the first squeeze causes a slight whimper to escape Luigi’s throat. Mario is startled, and his heart begins to flutter as he sees Luigi shake his head slightly and feels his brother’s fingers, weak and trembling, rest on his. Relief washes over Mario with the force of a raging sea as Luigi’s eyes widen, and in the midst of worry, Mario composes a wide smile.

“Luigi!” he exclaims and moves one of his hands to place it on Luigi’s. “I-I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to hurt you, but...”

“M-Mario?” Luigi mumbles, trying hard to keep his eyes open. “I-is it... really you?”

“Of course it is!” Mario assures him, leaning over Luigi so he can see him better, and caresses his cheek affectionately. “I’m here, Lu. I’m with you and I’m not going anywhere.”

Despite not being fully conscious, Luigi manages to smile and raises his other hand to place it on Mario’s. Mario is still trying to plug his wounds, but the blood continues to flow, and his brother soon drops his arm, fainting again. The hand he had taken to the wound slips over Mario’s fingers until it touches the ground, and Mario gives it a quick worried glance before looking back at Luigi.

He feels devastated, but at the same time, seeing his brother awaken, even if only for a very brief moment, has filled him with a fierce determination. Moreover, he is well aware that he has to act quickly, for he has not forgotten King Boo for an instant. If he does not manage to help Luigi, if he does not find a way to heal him, the ghost will reach them, and Mario will not have another chance to try and save his brother’s life.

So, after exerting some more pressure on both wounds, Mario takes off his cap and carefully removes Luigi’s too. He feels the urge to ruffle Luigi’s hair, as he always does when they are joking, but he restrains himself, as it is not the right moment. With extreme gentleness, Mario holds Luigi’s head and begins to pull his own legs out from under his brother’s body. He quickly replaces them with both hats, positioned in such a way that they function as a pillow, trying to get Luigi as comfortable as possible despite his situation. A pang pierces Mario’s heart as he looks at his unconscious face again, and filled with anguish, he places his hands on Luigi’s cheeks, leans over him and deposits a soft and deep kiss on his forehead. If only Luigi could feel it, if only he could feel all the love and affection Mario intends to express with that gesture, if only he could feel how much Mario cares for him and how he wished he could have found a way to spare him all that suffering.

Slowly, Mario turns away from Luigi, gently but firmly presses the wounds again and stands up. He looks around and wonders where he might find the solution to all his problems.

“There has to be something...” he mumbles, undecided.

Unfortunately, there is hardly any furniture in that room, since it is designed only for dancing, so Mario knocks on the walls, shakes the curtains and the chairs, and even kicks a few tiles that seem to be loose, just in case there is a heart hidden in the least unexpected nook. Mario remembers the heart that sprang from the sink, and without hesitation, he tears the red velvet cushions of the chairs with his bloodstained hands, but inside he finds nothing but feathers.

There is nothing.

But it cannot be. There has to be something – there has to. Luigi’s life depends on it. Mario needs that there is something in the ballroom. He cannot consider any other possibility.

A faint whimper catches his attention. As he turns to Luigi, he notices that his facial features have contracted, the sweat has increased, and his head has tilted slightly to the left. Luigi gasps and then turns to the right, and Mario rushes to his side, panic welling up inside him again.

“Lu?” he calls out to his brother, stretching out his hands.

Even though he feels Luigi’s forehead with his glove on, Mario immediately senses the fever. Anguish oppresses his heart, and he feels on the verge of tears, but he must remain calm. His brother needs him more than ever, so he must keep a level head and try to find a solution as soon as possible.

Luigi shakes and mumbles in delirium. Mario carefully wipes his forehead and covers his wounds again, feeling helpless for not being able to do more for his brother. His mind is racing, and he comes up with the crazy idea of leaving Luigi there and venturing into the corridor in search of a heart. He dismisses it immediately, as he refuses to leave the room without Luigi. Whatever happens, he will not leave his brother behind.

Not to mention that, without the Poltergust 3000, Mario would not stand a chance against the ghosts that undoubtedly await him on the other side of the door.

He purses his lips and gently rests his brother’s head on his lap. He continues to press Luigi’s wounds and wipe the sweat from his forehead, and suddenly notices that Luigi’s constricted face appears blurred before his eyes. Angrily, Mario runs his unbroken sleeve over his face and wipes away the tears that were threatening to overflow, but despair floods him and he needs to let it out somehow or he will go mad.

Mario throws his head back with his eyes tightly closed, and from his throat escapes a heart-rending cry that, in a way, is liberating for him. He runs his hand through his disheveled hair, his teeth clenched, his eyes watering again, and wonders what he will do, how he will save Luigi, if he will even find a solution...

He half opens his eyelids a crack, his head still tilted back, and tries to swallow to undo the knot in his throat.

However, something catches his attention so much that it compels him to open his eyes fully.

Something... red.

Mario succeeds hi swallowing when he realizes that what has caught his eye, what rests on the huge ceiling lamp, is nothing but a huge, gleaming heart.

There, at last, lies the answer he has been searching for.

A deep sigh of relief escapes from his lips, which, without him even realizing, have drawn a smile. Mario looks down at his brother and gently caresses his cheek.

“You’ll be all right soon, Lu,” he promises in a faint whisper.

He then turns his attention to the Poltergust 3000, which remains on Luigi’s other side, and observes it for a few seconds, before he dares to extend an arm towards it and pick it up carefully. He lifts it over Luigi and places it on his other side, under the lamp. A bit unsure, as he feels he is meddling in something that does not concern him, Mario grabs the end of the machine, where both the flashlight and the vacuum cleaner are located, and examines the buttons, trying to understand how they work. He fumbles carefully but ends up inadvertently activating the vacuum function. After a brief start, Mario hastens to aim at the ceiling, at the lamp, which shakes and shakes back and forth.

And to Mario’s delight, the glowing heart falls out of it.

The plumber lets out a cry of joy and pulls Luigi tightly against him.

His beloved brother is saved.

[saltygilmores]

THOUGHTS WHILE WATCHING GILMORE GIRLS: SEASON 3, EPISODE 2: HAUNTED LEG-TUMBLR IS HUNGIE AND KEEPS EATING MY POSTS

The Netflix synopses (synopseses? Synposi? Where are you, Jess Mariano? You're my only hope) made this episode seem like it was going to be heavily En-Crusty'd (Christopher focused) but then the lovely @frazzledsoul told me that in this episode Rory takes Christopher to school (metaphorically) and this is also the episode where Jess takes RORY down a peg in a GLORIOUS confrontation at Doose's Market. If there's one thing I love seeing in Gilmore GIrls it's a good peg lowering. In fact, it gives me such immense satisfaction to see Rory in particular get taken down a peg that the three times Dean does it to her are the only times I actually side with Dean. Let the Notch-Taking-Down Party commence. But first....Happy 18th birthday, Jess! You're legal, mister! I am solidly and forever in the Late August/ Early September Birthday Camp (I have my reasons) and we're already there on the show! It's been almost a year since he arrived in Stars Hollow as a 17 year old! I'm gonna make it easy and say it was September 1st.

Now you can visit the strip club, and buy porn and cigarettes legally! You're a man now! (well, at least you could buy cigarettes at 18 years old 20 years ago. It's 21 now). Episode begins with Emily still being predictably salty about last week's FND, where Lorelai snuck out of the house while her parents were fighting over her breakup with Crusty.

Don't listen to her. You do can do whatever you want, even while you're on the clock. My little shmushkins. My apple dumpling. My peach tart. My banana muffin. My jelly donut. You're gonna make a bazillion dollars with your books some day and show em all. *pinches his cheeks* Lorelai is coming down with an illness which I shall diagnose as mononucleosis (aka the kissing disease) that she contracted from making out with Dean Forrester.

Lorelai has no qualms about leaving the house to eat out every single day in a crowded diner and spread her germs all over town, instead of keeping her ass in bed, I guess. She's also incapable of purchasing and opening a can of soup and dumping it in a pot on the stove (or hell, even sticking it in the microwave) so she wakes up each day and chooses to be a Disease Vector. If she wasn't (presumably) still married to Luke in 2020 to cook her meals for her at home I don't know how she survived the pandemic. Luke: You know what helps a cold? A healthy immune system. You know how to get a healthy system? By not eating crap and blowing out your brain cells with coffee. Eat a vegetable now and then or some high fiber cereal. At least eat the carrots in the soup? Three minutes in and he's already Insulting Lorelai (while, uh, also insulting himself at the same time?) Whee, I'm loving this episode already! More Peg-Lowering, please! Several people on this show are going to be HUMBLED and I am HERE for it. But why is Luke always downselling food that he puts on his own menu? I know Lorelai and Rory don't ever pay him anyway, but doesn't he want to attempt to make some money? "My food will make you fat and sick and kill your brain cells. Don't eat it. Go eat somewhere else." Or is it that he's a-okay with poisoning the rest of Stars Hollow with copious amounts of junk food but wants to spare Lorelai and Rory the same fate? One would also suppose he doesn't actually have said vegetables or fiber rich cereal on his menu in the first place (it's a fucking diner) and that would mean Lorelai would have to pour herself her own cereal at home. Perish the thought. Is Luke secretly some kind of California Hipster in denial? Would he be more at home opening some kind of vegan cafe where he serves wheat grass shots and kombucha and avacado toast, you know, all the stuff Milo Ventimiglia eats. (But Milo’s a big junk food junky too, he's a bit of a paradox, that man). What does he feed Jess, by the way? In his first appearance he was planning to stuff his already neglected and malnourished nephew full of Corn Flakes and Pop Tarts.

Grandpa here is going to live to be 115 probably, but only if you shut up, you're already sending him to an early grave.

EVERYONE STOP EATING AND TALKING. THE QUEEN HAS ARRIVED! Anyone else think its funny that Lorelai and Rory and Luke are ilke the mayors of Stars Hollow who know everything down to when the mailman's dog farts but nobody knows who Shane is, where she came from, who her family is, when she moved in, where she lives, how she ended up with Jess...ANYTHING? Nobody even seems to know her name? Silence from Miss Patty and Babette? Lane and Dean never informed Rory that Jess was never in school, that he supposedly pulled the fire alarm, stole 500 baseballs, etc etc. again, shouldn't Lane be absolutely losing her mind to spill this piping hot tea that Jess has been hooking up with some mysterious blond skankbag all summer? And Dean too, shouldn't he always be dying to tell Rory anything that would cast Jess in an unfavorable light and make her think less of him? What is with this town where they'll hold an emergency meeting because he drew on a sidewalk with some chalk but when he actually does something worth talking about, nobody wants to narc on him? They fear him, that's what it is. What is Shane's last name by the way? I made up a poll and asked you to decide on her last name and I'm currently awaiting the results, which I will use going forward.

Jess and Shane continue to give Rory Gilmore a sexual awakening so immense it could knock our fucking solar system out of alignment. That boom you just heard was Jupiter and Saturn crashing into one another from the sheer force of Rory Gilmore's quivering loins.

Tomatos Sign. I wonder how much money Jessica Kiper was paid to stick her tongue in Milo's mouth and say "Hey" and "Jess". Did she have to audition? I would do the job for free. I would keep screwing up just so the director could yell "Cut" and I could do as many takes as possible. Warner Brothers could own me for the rest of my life just for that opportunity.

Meow! All she did was say his name, lol. Someone's cranky. You know what would cure that bad mood? A good handjob from Shane (last name soon to be announced). This whole "no strings attached sexual gratification" deal that was seemingly dropped in his lap? Meh, whatever. He'll do it, but he'll be reading the entire time. Meanwhile, this is Dean waiting 5 years for Rory to put out:

(By the way, Mr. Mariano, don't ever tell a woman to "relax") Jess sighs and leaves in the middle of his shift (Lorelai should be proud), leaving his customers wondering where their pancakes are, to go have sex with Shane somewhere public and indecent, leaving Rory in their horny wake. Perhaps Jess has the intuition that the cold, clammy, looming hand of Celibacy (aka his own hand and a jumbo size bottle of lotion) will soon be upon him so he better seize these opportunities.

Love it when she says shit like this as if her boyfriend Dean Forrester is some fucking chatterbox (he'll grunt a few words as he's also a typical teenage boy like Jess and she'll go "That's So INTERESTING Dean! Do go on. I love you, little buttered croissant"), and also like she should actually expect Jess to talk around her when he knows she's going to pick on him even worse if he does have something to say.

Too late. That's hilarious- I forgot that Dean was about to show up just now and prove my point.

She's still wearing that stupid quarter on a string on her wrist. I will give this show credit for being very consistent with some of the small details like this. Every day for 2+ years straight, Alexis Bledel shows up at Wardrobe and they slap that thing on her wrist. That cup is HUGE.

Yeah. What? I could teach a comatose goldfish to say "I already ate breakfast." The hell is your point?

Oh god. It's that episode where Kirk and Lorelai go on a "Date". I do not remember how it goes but I'm gonna take a stab in the dark here and predict that it was sufficiently awkward. Honestly...Lorelai has done MUCH worse before and will continue to do much worse than Kirk. Mommy issues aside, Kirk has more redeeming qualities than Max or Crusty. Like, at least Kirk is ambitious. Lorelai is still only a few months removed from banging Crusty who wouldn't know the meaning of hard work if it bit him in the ass. I hope something bites Crusty in the ass. Like a rabid possum. Kirk...."Let's go out...In two weeks. I heard you have a cold. It takes two weeks for a virus to leave the immune system." He's also smart and would survive the pandemic. "You might be the prettiest girl I've ever seen. Outside of a filthy magazine."

It's the first day of senior year for Rory and our other Stars Hollow teens.

It's all downhill for Rory after high school.

Nobody tell her. L: I cannot go out with Kirk! R: Why not? L: He's Kirk! Poor Neurodivergent Kirk.

Fixed it.

i was about to say "What the what! Lorelai is actually pouring her own cereal?" but it's Rory wno's making her own breakfast and Lorelai is just pouring marshmallows into the bowl (who does that? That's not a thing. Here in The United States of America, there are already cereals that come with marshmallows). I mean, at least she's eating at home and "helping". Good for you for helping to feed to your chiild, Lorelai. Even if she's eschewing the (marginally) more healthy Raisin Bran in favor of Rice Krispies. I'm going to add a new feature to the ends of these posts: I call it: Things Googled While Watching GIlmore GIrls. Birthday Party Icons, How Old To Buy CIgarettes in Connecticut, Definition of Proclivities, How Many Words Can A Parrot Learn

[zilari]

Electric Giggles

DISCLAIMER: Contains tickles and spoilers for season 3! FANDOM: Lucifer WC: 2877

After getting the brilliant idea from Detective Douche -- although Lucifer would never admit it -- he takes matters into his own hands during a sting operation... it doesn't end well...

A/N: I was watching Episode 1 of Season 3 -- They're Back, Aren't They? -- and there's a part where Lucifer is "kidnapped," and they have him tied to a chair. They use a cattle prodder on him, but instead of hurting him, he starts laughing and tells them to stop because it tickles, and, well... this fic was born!

The idea occurred after Lucifer attempted to make Detective Daniel Douche feel better about Charlotte -- in hindsight, he could've worded it better, but that's beside the point. He forgot what Dou-- Dan said, but his snarky response to Lucifer spawned the idea initially. They were on a sting operation to find the killers of some random man they found in the desert, close to where Lucifer woke up after getting knocked out by an unknown assailant.

Of course, the details didn't matter. All that mattered was finding out who in the hell -- pun intended -- gave him his wings back. After all, they needed to be punished for what they did to him. Well, more his father, but since the old bastard was in heaven, the next best thing was his emissary -- the one who kidnapped Lucifer in the first place.

"Listen, I know you were talking about Charlotte," He was referencing the discussion Dan and Chloe were having -- something about Detective Douche being sad that she couldn't remember him, "And as douchey as you may be," He continued, scoring a dirty look from Dan, "And I know you can't help it, her current behaviour has nothing to do with you. Okay?"

Dan shook his head in disbelief, "And as much as I appreciate the pep talk, Lucifer, it's kind of you that got me in the whole Charlette mess in the first place." The Detective frowned, a pang of sorrow shooting into his heart, "So, maybe you should just take care of your side of the street for a change, all right?" Dan gritted his teeth as he began turning to walk away, "Good talk."

Lucifer watched as he walked away, a metaphorical light bulb appearing in his head, "My side of the street..." It didn't take long for the plan to formulate in his mind, "That's a good idea!" He muttered to himself as he snatched the laptop off the van's front seat.

All it took was some alterations to the form he initially sent to the company, Snatched -- they 'kidnapped' people as a prank, or whatever; humans are weird. Once he finished his task, he carefully put the laptop back on his seat, glanced back at Chloe, who seemed busy monitoring the screens, and easily walked out of the van without anyone noticing.

He arrived at the destination he had placed on the form, and after a bit of waiting, a black van came to a screeching halt in front of him, "Oh, lovely, right on time." Masked men flooded out from inside the van, "Hello!" He grinned as one of the 'kidnappers' roughly latched onto his arm and dragged him towards the vehicle, "Right, how do we-- Careful, I bruise like a peach." The man ignored him and tossed him inside before entering himself and slamming the sliding door shut.

Lucifer was pinned against the metallic wall as one of the masked figures roughly put a bag over his head and zipped-tied his wrists together, "Smile for the camera!" Someone said in a menacing voice, well, not really menacing, more like he was deep-throating something. Regardless, he gave two thumbs up and grinned when he heard a phone camera going off.

Suddenly, he felt a pair of hands digging through his pockets -- likely looking for his phone, "Easy! This suit is worth more than what you make combined."

It didn't take long for the one groping him to discover its whereabouts. The wannabe kidnapper passed it off to his buddy, who opened a window and threw it out of the vehicle. Lucifer frowned slightly at the thought of them throwing his phone out of a window; he was pretty fond of it. Well, he was more fond of the embarrassing photo of Dan he had on it, but regardless, he could always get a new one -- photo and phone.

After some time of driving in silence, the van came to a stop. The man in the back with Lucifer grabbed him by his wrists and practically dragged him out of the vehicle, "Easy! No need to drag me. I'm quite capable of walking on my own, thank you." He yanked himself free from the oaf, only for one of the others to shove him in the back -- Lucifer made a mental note to punish that one more thoroughly.

They escorted him to some sort of room filled with... things. Making anything out with the wretched sack over his head was challenging. The bigger of the two pushed him down into a chair and undid his binds as the littler one left the room. Lucifer's arms were secured to the chair before the other followed his partner, leaving the devil alone with his thoughts. He huffed in annoyance and shifted into a more comfortable position -- the trademark crossing of the leg and smirk.

The wannabe kidnappers left Lucifer in there for quite some time, letting him stew in his juices, so to speak. He'd cry his little heart out if he were a feeble human. But he was Lucifer freaking Morningstar. Ruggedly handsome devil, well... he was until whoever gave his wings back stole his devil face. A deep-rooted rage lit inside him, making his smug grin vanish like smoke on a windy day. He needed to find who was at the bottom of this. He needed his face back and wings gone. Otherwise, what kind of devil would he be?

He exhaled sharply, attempting to calm himself down. It didn't take long for the devilish grin to return. To save himself from boredom and to distract himself, he started to see if he could make out his surroundings. A leaky pipe dripped water somewhere in front of him, and debris was everywhere. The room smelt musty with a hint of something else he couldn't quite make out. He could make out more if he didn't have this damn hood on. Lucifer settled on him being in a warehouse of some kind, purposely set up in a way to scare the victim.

Finally, the two men returned. Lucifer could hear one of them pushing a cart with, what he assumed, to be props or torture tools. At least, he hoped so -- he wasn't in the mood for something kinkier, "Ah, there you are. I have to say, the leaky pipe is a nice touch. It's very Blood Simple," Lucifer elaborated When the kidnappers offered no response, assuming they had no idea what he was talking about, "Coen brothers movie?" Nothing, "No?"

The stuffy sack was ripped off his head, startling him ever so slightly, "Well," He finally got to stare his kidnappers in the face, and they were nothing to gawk at, "hello, kidnappers." He took a moment to look hard at both of them, his mind churning with a million different ways to make them suffer, "Finally, I have you right where I want you."

The two men exchanged an amused, albeit confused expression before the smaller of them walked over to the cart, examining the array of tools they had piled on top of it; not that it scared Lucifer, he was more focused on getting answers to his many, many questions, "Let's see, so many questions, but let's start with how did you abduct me the first time?" Anger bubbled up inside of him, "Hmm? How did you render me unconscious?"

As he approached Lucifer, the scrawny man held a cattle prodder in his hands, "How did-- AHH!" Without warning, he placed the prod onto the devil's stomach, sending bouts of electricity through his body; however, instead of hurting, it tickled like hell, "What are you doing?" He cried out, curling into himself, "Stop it, that tickles!"

The one electrocuting, or more so, tickling him, pulled the device away with a perplexed expression on his face. He exchanged looks with the bigger man before stabbing Lucifer again, sending another wave of electric tickles through the devil's body. Again, he yelped and demanded they stop, claiming it tickled. Dumb, the skinny one, pulled away and glanced at Dumber, the bigger one.

"Did you forget to charge it?" He asked, clearly annoyed.

Dumber shook his head in disbelief, "No, I absolutely charged it! I remember because that's when--" He paused, staring at Lucifer, "It is broken, maybe?"

Dumb poked Dumber, who released a high-pitched squeal, "I'd say it's working perfectly fine. Then... why isn't it working on him...?" While they contemplated, Lucifer waited for the opportune time to free himself from the binds.

Unfortunately, that time never came, "Try it again!" Dumber suggested, and Dumb unfortunately obliged.

Lucifer could barely cough out a 'wait' before the cattle prod was placed on his midsection again. This time, however, the wannabe kidnappers left it on for longer. The angel let out an ear-shattering squeal, even louder than the one Dumber let out, and laughter ensued. Luci curled into himself again, well, as much as he could. He attempted to bring his legs closer to his stomach, but all Dumb did was move the wretched device to a new location.

Unfortunately, the location change revealed a new and even more ticklish spot, "Waitwaitwait! Stahahap!" Lucifer belted out, throwing his head back with a cackle.

Usually, he'd be able to break his binds. He was strong enough, after all. Although, that didn't seem to be the case. The ticklish sensations ripping through his body turned his brain into scrambled eggs. Any logical thought was thrown out the window alongside his pride. He had two types of laughs -- his seductive and the... other. It was something he discovered when he was a child. Whenever one of his siblings would get crafty and somehow sneak up behind him, jabbing a finger into his side, he'd giggle madly. It wasn't a cute giggle but a high-pitched, snorty, squealing giggle. It was something he rather others not hear, but with these two cretins tickling him... it wasn't something he could conceal anymore.

Dumb snickered, "Hey, you hear this guys laugh?"

Dumber nodded, sporting a smile of his own, "Screw the other plan. Let's just torture him with this!"

Dumb nodded, a mischievous glint blossoming in his eyes, "Hey, open his shirt. Let's see if that does anything."

The skinnier of the two finally removed the prod, which allowed Lucifer to suck in mouthfuls of precious oxygen, "Don't you... dare... touch me... I'll-- ACK! NOHOOOO!" Before he udder another word, Dumb poked his stomach again with the prod, sending him into another fit of laughter.

Once Dumb removed it and Lucifer was recovering, Dumber ripped his costly silk dress shirt open, revealing his stomach and torso, "Hey, hold him down! I have a feeling he will start bucking like a bronco when I zap him with this."

"I will... kill you... both!" Lucifer growled as Dumber practically bear-hugging him from behind.

All Dumb did was grin before pushing the cattle prod against Lucifer's stomach again. The devil squealed like a schoolgirl and thrashed around, his laughter growing louder and more screechy. He tried to headbutt the Neanderthal, crushing him, but his body twitched when Dumb moved the prod to the side of his stomach, making him miss Dumber's head entirely. To make matters even worse, the bigger man seemed to want to be included in the torment and used one arm to hold the devil steady, which freed the other.

Lucifer tried his damndest to see where Dumber was reaching, but with the cattle prod and the behemoth of a man right in his face whenever he turned to look, he didn't see it, but he certainly felt it. Four fingers pinched the backmost ribs near his underarm, which caused his already high-pitched laughter to somehow go up another octave. Dumber seemed to pick up on the change in Lucifer's voice because he scooted his fingers up and into the spot, which the devil really hoped he wouldn't.

Once those soon-to-be amputated limbs wiggled underneath his arm, he screamed bloody murder, and his body involuntarily thrashed around like a fish out of water, "NOOOO! STOPSTOPSTOP!" He cried out as his legs flailed wildly.

Dumb had moved to the left side of Lucifer to avoid getting kicked by their captive, "This is so much better than the gerbil idea!" He chuckled, moving the prod just above his waistline.

Lucifer howled with laughter, tears brimming his eyes as he craved the sweet embrace of death. He much rather sit on the throne of hell for another eternity or listen to his mom describe one of her escapades with Detective Douche, just anything that wasn't this. Suddenly, the prod left his stomach, and Dumber released him. It was so abrupt, in fact, it took his brain a few moments to register that the torture had stopped.

He felt the binds tying his wrists to the arms of the chair be cut, and before he knew it, his arms were painfully pulled behind him, "What are you--" He began saying, until the return of the cattle prod, "NOHOHO! Plehehease, STOP!" Lucifer cried out, "CAHAHAN'T WEHEHE MAHAHAKE SOME KIND OHOHOF DEHEHEAL?!"

He fought against Dumber, who was attempting to zip-tie his arms to the sides of the backrest. When that proved too tricky, he changed tactics and settled with pulling Lucifer's arms above his head. He did the ol' pulling-arms-above-head-then-quickly-shoving-hands-under-said-arms-before-he-can-pull-them-down, to which he succeeded. The devil had no idea what was coming, and the minute he felt Dumber's fingers bury into his armpits, he practically leaped out of the chair. However, that was thwarted by Dumb resuming the cattle prod torture on his stomach.

"Nah, no deal is worth this. Most fun I've had since, well... ever." Dumb responded with a cackle.

Lucifer's laughed turned silent, and if it weren't for the fact he was the bloody devil, he would've passed out from lack of oxygen, "PLEHEHEHEHEASE!" He screamed, "STAHAHAHAHAP!"

Unsurprising, they didn't. If anything, they increased their efforts -- Dumb pushed a little harder on his stomach, and Dumber dug a little deeper. But, by the grace of his Dad, he saw an opening. The two men were exchanging a look, not paying attention to Lucifer. So, with what brain he could scrounge up, he sprung into action. He kicked the cretin holding the battle prod where the sun didn't shine first. Dumb's face twisted into a grimace as he groaned loudly, dropping the cattle prod and falling to the ground.

Dumber paused, which gave Lucifer the opportunity he needed to strike. Well, he would've if it weren't for the fact his blasted coat got caught on something. With him being distracted by trying to yank it free, kidnapper number two snapped out of his shock and practically lifted Lucifer into the air and slammed him into the ground. The air left his lungs, and the next thing he knew, he was being sat on. Dumber had managed to pin the devil to the ground, and with the cattle prod in hand, he poked Lucifer in the stomach and turned the device on.

"NOHOHO! Come OHOHOHOHON!" Lucifer screeched as he desperately tried to grip Dumber's wrists and push them away, which proved futile.

"Nice try," His assailant smirked, "Hey, Larry, are you alright?"

Dumb, apparently named Larry, was still on the ground clutching the family jewels. He offered a slight groan in response, confirming he was still alive but in tremendous pain. Dumber dropped the prod and scooped Lucifer's arms into one hand while the other reached behind him and pulled out a zip tie. When the devil attempted to retaliate, the cattle prod would return. Luci had no idea why that damned thing made his powers go offline, or maybe the horrendous ticklish sensations nipping his nerve endings. Whatever the case, he had very little time to free himself before the bear of a man straddling him completed his task of tying Lucifer up again.

When Dumber finally pulled the cattle prod away, he made the man think he was subdued. For added effect, he feigned desperation, "Please... I will do anything you want... just stop torturing me. I'm begging you..." Lucifer peered up at Dumber, eyes pleading for mercy.

He could see a glimmer of regret in Dumber's eyes, which ended with him hesitating. That was all Lucifer needed to snatch the cattle prod away from his assailant and use it on him. The lumbering mountain squealed rather loudly, which Luci would find hilarious if he weren't on the receiving end of that thing only mere seconds ago -- although he doubted it tickled, more stung like a bitch. Once he was sure the kidnapper got a taste of his own medicine. He used the device's handle to hit Dumber in the forehead -- hard. The imbecile groaned as he teetered before finally collapsing to the ground.

"Bloody hell..." He muttered as he laid back down on the floor, breathing heavily.

After a great deal of recuperating, he finally got to his feet and stared at the two morons who were in for a world of hurt. He took a moment to button up his shirt -- he was shocked to discover all the buttons were still intact, despite Dumber ripping it open -- readjust his clothing, smooth out his hair, and get his game face on. Lucifer slapped on a devilish grin, deciding to never speak of the experience to any living soul again, and got to work. He was going to get his answers, one way or another.

A/N: Wowza, this story was... looong! Apologies for that, and sorry for how blech the quality is, too. This is my very first fic, well... ever. So, hopefully, you enjoyed it.