#& ‘hard to separate’ doesn’t mean ‘they don’t exist’

[celaenaeiln]

Small scenario ask:

A kid version of Robin!Dick gets teleported into the present day of the DCU, in particular during one of those times that Batfamily are split up and at each other’s throats with only Tim(my) and Alfred sort of trying to keep the peace.

They don’t know he’s present until he jumps in from out of nowhere to help the Batfamily take on a Scarecrow attack.

How would they react to this tiny version of Dick and his more chipper and lively attitude especially once he starts asking Batman if these other guys around them are their allies or something?

OMG I AM SO EXCITEEDD!!

THE FUNNY THING IS IVE ACTUALLY BEEN THINKING ABOUT THIS TOPIC SEPARATELY IN MY HEAD!!

Not this exact scenario but just like how much Dick has changed over the years.

This is SUCH a good fanfic idea!!!

Okay so Dick would jumps into the future where the whole family is fighting and all of a sudden, a brightly colored boy just "POP"'s into the dark batcave.

Everyone at that point had been growling and snarling and screaming at each other over ethics and morals and course of action for a case that devolved into tearing at family lines and loyalties.

The tensions are high and no one is on anyone's side because as united as the batfamily is, they are just as divided.

They're seconds from coming to blows when - pop (goes the weasel. lol jk) - a 3 foot 2'' boy in the most canary yellow cape, scarlet vest, and emerald green scaled shorts blinks into existence.

The batfamily immediately goes for their weapons at the sound and most barely refrain from throwing them at the sight of a boy but some weapons slip out people's hands too fast for them stop.

They watch with their hearts in their throats and move as one to prevent it, their minds barely registering the sight in front of them, the only thought in their heads is - STOP! As if mere words could halt assailing weapons hurtling at breakneck speeds towards the child.

They've barely started moving when the small child - he couldn't have been taller than Batman's hip at the height he was - suddenly bounced on his right foot and used the moment to twirl horizontally in the air. The brilliant yellow cape swirled around his body as he turned, almost acting like a cocoon. The batarang sailed underneath their twirling body while two knives sliced the air harmlessly above him, all three weapons embedding themselves soundlessly into the cave walls behind him.

The batfamily makes an aborted move forward, halting in their tracks as the imminent danger passed and the walking traffic light of a child uses their split-second of decision to stop to take the time to gracefully land on his toes before flipping far out of reach. His back arched back into a perfect elegant little backflips which absolutely should not be possible or done so smoothly for a boy as young as he, but the kid manages anyway to land perched on a railing from the upper batcave level, looking down at them from his spot.

Duke glanced around to see if the rest of them had seen the same thing he did. Clearly not because Bruce, Tim, and Alfred looked like they'd seen a ghost. Jason and Damian looked grudgingly impressed. Steph looked openly impressed.

"So, we’ve got surprise visitors, huh? Gee, swell! You folks friends of B? Wait a sec-that can’t be right. B doesn’t have any friends except for me!" The kid chirped - and Duke swore, honest to god, chirped - with a cheeky grin, hands on his hips like he'd just cracked the world's funniest joke.

Duke just stood there, mouth slightly open, like his soul had momentarily left his body. The kid’s mask squinted as if narrowing his eyes at Bruce.

Duke blinked hard. Am I hallucinating? Did I eat bad takeout? He thought.

Bruce, meanwhile, stood frozen, looking like he was wondering where in his life he went wrong.

“Gee whiz, mister, I don’t mean to jump to conclusions or nothin’, but it’s kinda bad manners to go borrowin’ somebody else’s clothes without asking first!” He gave Bruce an exaggerated once-over, the grin on his face making it clear he wasn’t intimidated in the least. “I mean, that cape looks swell and all, but it isn't exactly screaming ‘your size,’ ya know?”

He tilted his head and piped up, “A friend of Catwoman’s?” His voice was light, full of curiosity and mischief.

Jason suddenly snorted. "A friend of Catwoman's, alright."

Cass gently smiled. Duke suspected she had known from the beginning who he was and thus had not moved a muscle during the chaos. Duke couldn’t shake the feeling it wasn’t because of uncertainty. Nope, Cass had known. She always knew.

He sighed internally. Why was he always the last to catch on to these Batfamily mysteries? On the other hand, maybe he should be grateful. He was still wiping off the remaining sludge off his suit from the last batfamily mayhap.

"Dick?" Bruce’s voice was raw, breaking apart as if it couldn’t decide whether to hope or mourn. It was the sound of disbelief and desperate longing, the kind of ache you didn’t just hear—you felt it. Duke’s chest tightened, a lump forming in his throat. He couldn’t imagine what it must mean to Bruce, but the pain was so thick it was almost unbearable.

"Who are you, mister?" Dick - holy fuck that was Dick. Wait- Duke whipped his head around. Where was their Dick?!

Tim was looking a little peaky in Duke's opinion and that was saying something since the other guy always looked pale.

Bruce raised a shaking hand to his cowl, dragging it down the back of his head almost looking like he wanted to do anything but. "Bruce. It's me, Bruce."

"I know you're a guy who looks like Bruce, but you're not my Bruce."

If his kids' previous deaths hadn't killed Bruce, then that one single sentence did, Duke thought, watching the man.

He saw a flicker of something break inside Bruce. The hardened mask Bruce wore cracked, revealing the raw, vulnerable man beneath. It was like hearing the one thing he feared most—that he wasn’t enough for them—and the way it pierced him was brutal. The light left Bruce's eyes for a moment, and Duke could almost feel the weight of that rejection.

It probably hurts to hear it from an 8 year old version of a person that adored you. Duke realized sadly. He wasn't there for Dick's childhood with the man - none of them were - but he was sure it wasn't called the Golden Ages by everyone for show by all those who had known them then.

"Wait, Alfred?" Dick asked, boring holes into the elderly butler.

So, he recognizes the same Alfred but not Bruce? Duke fought back a hysterical laugh. That's gotta sting. Sorry, man. Duke sent a silent prayer to the man who looked like he didn't know if he was going to start sobbing or glaring daggers.

Alfred cleared his throat, rather wetly in Duke's opinion. "Yes, son." He said and smiled warmly.

The boy gave a hoot of laughter that sent the bats in a flurry as he threw himself off the railing. Steph and Jason scrambled to catch him but mini-Dick (Duke was still half-panicking over where big-Dick went. Big-Dick. Haha) hopped onto Jason's shoulder used Stephanie's back as a personalized springboard and landed happily in Alfred's arms.

He hugged the man's neck like it was a plush toy and Alfred tightly held the boy with one arm under his thighs and the other around his waist.

Duke noted with no small amount of surprise that Dick perceptively didn't point of Alfred's suspiciously wet eyes and near-silent sniffling. It was damn loud for the cave though.

"Hey, did you whip up some cookies? I gotta say, that casserole’s a real knock-out, and your filet mignon? Spot on! Say, after we chow down, how about a rousing game of badminton? I’m on fire today! Let’s shake a leg, have some fun, and see who’s got the best swing!"

"Of course, Master Dick." Alfred said and the two continued conversing as Alfred carried the boy up the stairs of the batcave.

"Say, did you get to the next chapter of Lady in the Lake? I gotta tell ya, there's something fishy goin' on there, like a real gumshoe mystery. I can smell a twist coming a mile away, like a crook with a bad alibi! Whaddya think? There’s more to this dame than meets the eye, I betcha!"

Dick's voice faded as the rest of them dumbfoundedly realized they needed to follow after the two of them. Except for Cass, of course, who was already tugging a stiff Stephanie along.

Duke couldn’t help notice Tim. The guy was practically glowing in the corner like he was about to faint, his face flush with excitement. Duke knew all about Tim’s obsession with Grayson—Steph had spilled enough gossip to fill a novel. Tim had ranted about Dick for years, quoting everything from his acrobatics to his smile. But now, seeing the younger version of Grayson in front of him? Tim was this close to passing out. His eyes were practically sparkles. If there were stars in the Batcave, they were all shining in Tim’s eyes.

“Tim, dude, you alright?” Duke teased, but Tim couldn’t even form words. He just gave a thumbs-up so exaggerated it might as well have come with a marching band soundtrack.

Duke couldn’t shake the feeling that Damian was acting a little… off. The usually fierce, unflappable kid was clearly trying to maintain his tough exterior, but Duke could see the subtle signs. The way Damian’s eyes flicked over to Dick with just a hint of nervousness, his stance rigid, like he was bracing for something, but not quite sure what.

"Is it just me, or is Dick an absurdly happy kid?" Duke suddenly spoke, thinking about Dick's demeanor. The older Dick Grayson was so strict and while he joked, there wasn't a free-hearted levity in him that his child version carried.

The kid had been practically shining, bouncing around the Batcave as if it were his personal playground. This was the same kid who had grown into the stoic, responsible, and sometimes brooding Nightwing. The difference was like night and day. Duke could see the weight of the years had changed him, and as he watched this boy, full of energy and warmth, he realized just how much had been lost. This wasn't the Dick they all knew. This was a Dick that had never seen the kind of pain that had hardened him into the man they looked up to.

It was a version of Dick they would never witness - laughing so freely, so full of life - one that was locked away in Bruce's heart, his memories paying tribute to their god-like figure he'd embellished of their brother.

It was a homage Bruce had unknowingly clung to and fed into, and a part of Duke wondered how much of this Dick, too, had buried inside himself.

Duke felt an ache in his bones, realizing just how much was buried under the weight of Dick’s current life. The boy before him was a ghost of the past that no one would ever get back.

Jason groaned. "One depressing revelation at a time, Duke." He stomped his way up the stairs followed by near swooning Tim, and an anxious Damian.

Bruce hadn't moved an inch. It was as if the air around him had thickened, suffocating both of them with tension. Bruce, usually so composed, was now locked in a frozen tableau of silent agony. His face was unreadable, but his eyes - Duke could see them - betrayed a terrible storm. Guilt, loss, and a deep, unspoken grief. The kind of grief that didn’t make noise but settled in your bones and dragged you under.

But Duke was The Signal. He was the Light, that's what his emblem meant. While Bruce was drowning in his own anguish, Duke could not afford to drown with him. So he patted the man on the back and followed his brothers up the stairs, readying himself for more horrifying realizations about the loss of innocence and joy from their favorite brother.

[quicktimeeventfull]

i feel like tisanes are one of those things that often get dismissed as kind of new agey and fluffy but they do actually fr have medicinal effects & i truly think everyone should give them a shot.

[what-even-is-thiss]

It’s weird being a “smart kid” and people bully you for being smart but also teachers and adults praise you for being smart so you like make being smart your entire personality to separate you out from the other kids even if they do bully you quite badly for it but then you grow up and learn that being “smart” doesn’t exist and also doesn’t mean much in the real world and you start spiraling especially as you go into college and everything is hard it’s so hard everyone around you seems to be doing so well you feel so stupid and then one day after graduation you’re lying down on the floor of your dad’s living room unemployed and wondering if you’re not smart what are you then and you don’t quite know because all of that reading never really got you anywhere in the end because you’re right back in your dad’s living room still having feelings about how people bullied you for reading adult level history books when you were ten years old

[gojonanami]

❝ 𝐁𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐊 𝐌𝐘 𝐒𝐎𝐔𝐋 𝐈𝐍 𝐓𝐖𝐎 (𝐁𝐔𝐓 𝐘𝐎𝐔'𝐑𝐄 𝐑𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐓 𝐇𝐄𝐑𝐄) ❞

c/w: spoilers for 261, angst, possible happy ending? i'm so sorry lmao.

Body and soul — many in jujutsu had spent millennia contemplating the connection between these two — were they two separate entities co-existing, or were they always one, until they parted in death? And even if they were to part — does the soul still linger? 

You didn’t know — and you didn’t care. 

“What do you mean you don’t care what happens to your body?” Satoru wiped the blood from his hands, before brushing past you to wash it in the sink, diluted scarlet swirling down the drain just as your stomach had upon hearing what he said. 

You only knew that your heart belonged to one man. And he would take it with him with his death. Even as he left his body behind. But your heart wasn’t your concern, no, his body was. 

“Sweetheart—“ 

“No, don’t,” you already know what he’s going to say — a quick witted joke that you have no faith in him, empty reassurance that he’ll win — anything but an answer to your question, “I don’t know how people call you uncaring, the only person you don’t care for is yourself,” 

The Strongest. The Six Eyes User. The Gojo Clan Leader. Anything — anything but calling him who he is — Satoru Gojo. 

He’s shaking his head. “I’m not going to lose, so it’s a pointless—“ 

“Satoru,” and you grit your teeth, wondering if your words were a curse themselves, and that you dare not utter them, but you do anyway, “you don’t know that. Not for sure,” your words are a whisper, one you think wouldn’t be heard and manifested by a higher power — because you know that jujutsu is too cruel not to. 

“What is a dead body? I’ll be gone,” his back still faces you, wiping his hands off, and you’re shaking your head, “the body and soul—“ 

“They are one, in far too many ways—“ your eyes burn with tears as you hear his sigh, “so Geto’s body deserves a burial, but yours doesn’t?” 

You stab at a nerve — it’s a low blow, but one you had to deal, if only to get through that damned infinity of his — the wall he had kept up, even with you. Close, but never close enough. 

“Don’t—“ he cuts you off, gentle but hard, sword hitting shield, sparks fly as the metal meets, “it’s different—“ 

“How?” 

“I gave my consent, for one,” he says, his hands leaning against sink, head hanging, “and my body isn’t being used for a cheap trick,” and the bitterness still lingers on his tongue, and you know the moment flashes before his eyes, again and again — if he hadn’t hesitated, if he hadn’t let the past hold him, if he didn’t been such a fool—  “they need me—“ 

You need him. 

“I know, I know they need you,” you swallow the bile rising in your throat, but you spit acid all the same, “but do they have to take your dead body too?” 

And he finally turns, skies softening when they see the drops slipping down your cheeks, and his steps echo in the silence of the bunker, hollow just as this conversation was, “Y’know I have to,” 

“I know that, I know Yuta is making the right choice, it’s for the good of everyone,” except you, except us, “but it doesn’t make it any less difficult,” 

And his arms wind their way around you, pressing you against him, his fingers winding through your hair, “I’m going to come back to you,” hands sliding down your sides, “I always will,” 

“It’s not just this,” your fingers cup his cheek, his face leaning into your touch, “you’re not alone, Toru. I’m here.” 

“You’re here, huh?” he murmurs, more to himself than you, “if I die, you have my full permission to kick my ass,” 

“And I will be,” you kiss him, fingers sliding to the nape of his neck, brushing against his undercut, “I don’t care about the strongest,” your lips brush soft kisses against your cheeks, nose, chin, and forehead, before finally finding his lips, “I only care about Satoru Gojo, I just need you, only you,”

He presses his forehead to yours, nose brushing his, “You have me,” but you didn’t know for how long, how long you could touch his cheek like this and not feel cold rigid skin underneath your fingertips, how long you could kiss his lips and have him kiss back, and how long it would be until you could hold his hand again, “and you have my heart,” and he gives a small chuckle, “maybe not the part everyone wants—“ 

“It’s the one I want,” you cut him off with a soft kiss, “I want all of you, every inch, but your heart? That already is mine,” your head pressed against his chest, feeling the muscle contract underneath, as if it would reassure you that it would keep doing that. 

But it didn’t. 

“I’ll stay,” Shoko furrows her brow, “he would want me to,” Satoru Gojo’s body laid on a slab of cold metal,  cold as his skin was now — and cold as your heart was now, without the warmth of his love to dwell in. Ugly stitches marred his stomach, right where Sukuna had sliced through him — you watched it, you couldn’t look away, and you watched the smile on his lips until it fell slack. 

Just like the rest of him. 

“He would understand why you couldn’t—“ 

“It really did upset him that you didn’t object,” and Shoko’s mouth opens and closes, her eyes shutting, “but I know that’s only because you had faith he would win,” and you add, “and he knew that too — he was just pouting, what he does best,” and your fingers trace over his lips — Shoko had done a good job cleaning the blood from his face, “did best,” and Shoko frowns again. 

“You don’t—“ 

“I’m his wife,” you say, “for better or worse, it’s my duty to stay with him, it’s the least he deserves,” your fingers skin over his forehead, before pressing a sweet kiss to the rigid skin, knowing that the smooth skin would be overwritten with jagged stitches — the thread pulled from the fabric of your own life that laid before you, leaving you in pieces, “because he may be a monster, but all of us are the real devils — for letting him bear it alone,” and you shake your head, a tear slipping down your cheek, “I won’t make that mistake again,” 

You miss who you you used to be without this weight around your neck, desd bodies piled on top of your back, back broken under the grief, and yet you still walked on. Because you know it’s what he would have wanted, as his ghost whispers in your ear. 

Body and soul — if it was one, you wondered if he could feel your touch, sense your presence, and hear your words. And you hoped he could — but you know he was listening somewhere either way, so you whispered the only words you meant with your entire heart and soul—

“I love you," you murmur, before turning away — you don't see the way his fingers twitch for you.

Those words were still a curse all the same.

[beelinx]

the moment i knew

synopsis: between all the stress of volleyball and final exams, your boyfriend kenma happened to forget a very important day - your birthday. warnings: kenma might be a bit of a bad bf </3 angst w/ (somewhat) of a happy ending. NOT PROOFREAD ! 3.1k words fem!reader

based on this rec <3

it was no secret kenma gets tired easily – everyone can see it, really. he has always had a hard time keeping up with his overly energetic teammates, often opting to miss practice to relax and play videogames.

there were days when kenma was just so exhausted he forgot stuff and even neglected his studies.

well, he couldn’t really do that last one much lately.

final exams were tiring not only for him, but for all the students attending nekoma – and you definitely weren’t an exception.

you spent most of your days studying the hardest you could so as to get good grades and be finally able to relax. at least you had something to look forward to, though.

your birthday landing near finals season wasn’t exactly the nicest thing ever, especially considering most of your friends would be too busy. therefore, you opted for no party; just spending the day chilling with the people closest to you was enough.

as your boyfriend, kenma was one of the first people to be told of your plans for the day. you’d been forcing him to study with you, the idea of him failing because he preferred to play video games rather than studying bothered you immensely. 

“i’ve been thinking.” you’d said during one of your breaks, a half-opened bag of chips in your hand.

“about what?” he mumbled in reply, his focus separated between the game he was currently playing and your current conversation.

“well, i know that with finals and all, everyone’s been super busy.” kenma hummed in agreement. you ate a handful of chips before continuing speaking. “and since my birthday falls in between all this madness, i think i’ll just not do anything.”

he grumbled in reply, so you continued, “maybe just you and some of my best friends can come over, and we can watch a movie or something.” you nodded, already set on your idea. “we can eat tons of snacks, too. i want popcorn – and i can get the chips you like.”

kenma nodded absentmindedly, eyes currently trained on his game system. his focus on you was slowly slipping away.

noticing his detached spirit, you quickly added, “you don’t have to talk to them if you don’t want to though! i know you feel kinda awkward around my friends, but they like you. i promise!”

he hummed once again in reply and stood up slowly, giving you a quick kiss on your cheek – and that basically seemed to mark the end of the conversation. you’d mentioned the party again in later conversations, all in which he seemed to grow more comfortable with the idea.

around three weeks later, it was finally your birthday.

both your friends and your classmates at school had all congratulated you, some giving you gifts. your best friend even brought out a cake and sang you happy birthday, along with your other closest friends, during break. it was nice, receiving so much love from everyone; but something was wrong.

you hadn’t seen kenma all day.

you looked for him everywhere – all his classes, your lunch spots, and everywhere else. you even asked kuroo about it, but he told you he didn’t know, and that it was likely he just overslept and stayed home.

okay, no matter. just because he didn’t come to school doesn’t mean he forgot you existed or anything… right?

you texted him, of course. he replied to you quickly – he always does. he explained he was just feeling tired and that you shouldn’t worry, but that’s not what you were really concerned about.

throughout that whole conversation, never once did he wish you a happy birthday. it made you feel horrible. him forgetting your birthday broke your heart. i mean, it’s not like he didn’t know when he was. you told him. and, sure, maybe he was just so tired with exams that he forgot. but, your friends hadn’t. hell, even kuroo hadn’t – he wished you a happy birthday when you walked up to him earlier.

so, why did he forget?

your thoughts started becoming too much for you. the feeling that the person you considered most important to you currently forgetting such an important moment for you felt soul-crushing. suddenly, you felt tears start to pool in your eyes. you tried to blink them away – and when that didn’t work and the tears started to spill, you wiped them off your face as quickly as you could and rushed to the ladies room.

you rushed with your head down, trying to avoid anyone in the halls seeing your red face. once you got to the bathroom, you locked yourself inside a stall and started sobbing as quietly as you could.

you were suddenly startled by a soft knock on the door of the stall you were sitting in. “...are you okay?” said a soft, questioning voice – one belonging to your best friend. of course, she’d noticed you breaking down. seems like nothing can get past her.

you sniffled and wiped your nose with toilet paper before speaking. “yeah.”

“i don’t believe that.”

slowly, you stood up and unlocked the door of the stall, walking out to meet her. she looked startled upon seeing your red cheeks and puffy eyes, but her features quickly softened into that of concern and sympathy.

“c’mere,” she said, pulling you in for a big hug. then, she grabbed you by the arm and guided you to the sinks, where she ushered you to wash your face. meanwhile, she quickly sent a text on her phone, right before returning her full attention to you.

she gave you a few seconds of silence, waiting for you to comfortable to speak.

“he forgot my birthday,” you whimpered, tears still running down your cheeks.

“who?” she asked. “kenma?”

you nodded in reply, and you swear smoke was basically coming out of her ears. “oh that jackass,” she hissed. “i’ll kill him next time i see him, i swear. what an idiot. how could he forget your birthday? you’ve talked about it time and time again! seriously, i swear that guy better switch schools before i catch his bum ass and-”

before she could finish her threat, the door busted open, revealing your other two friends – yuki and hana. their faces looked red, too, and their clothes seemed disheveled. either they just sprinted all the way here, or they were up to some interesting activities.

your best friend turned around, face seething with anger, and quickly filled them in on the situation. almost immediately, they had all flocked around you, uttering many words of comfort and just as many insults on kenma’s name.

“well… maybe he’s actually planning a secret surprise party?” hana suggested, trying to get you to cheer up, it seemed.

you shook your head. “no, kenma doesn’t like surprises,” you said. “also – i’ve told him before that i wouldn’t like having a surprise party. and he knows today’s plans since i invited him.”

your best friend scoffed, “if he’s willing to forget your birthday then he’s likely to forget tons of other stuff. anniversaries, holidays, picking up your kids for school…” she trailed off, but her point had been made clear. “you should end it now that you know exactly what kind of partner he is, honestly.”

you bit your lip and scrunched your eyebrows in thought. she made a good point, and you knew there was a high chance she was right. but, kenma hasn’t forgotten any of your other anniversaries. in fact, he’s celebrated them all monthly, without missing any of them. you were close to being one year together with him, and during that time he’s been nothing but considerate of you. it seemed he always knew exactly how you were feeling, and what you needed. he doted on you constantly – complimenting your appearance, buying you gifts with all his money, and even trying his hardest to step out of his comfort zone and show more physical affection. despite how heartbroken you felt right now, it still didn’t feel right to break up with him over this.

“i know what you’re thinking,” your best friend said, taking notice of the look in your eyes. she always seemed to know exactly what you were thinking. “‘oh but he’s so nice! he’s never done anything wrong!’” she mocked your voice in a way that almost made you laugh despite the current situation. “but i’m telling you, that’s how it starts.”

“maybe,” you replied, “but i still want to talk to him.”

she sighed dramatically, “alright then, whatever you want.” she paused for a minute, clearly hesitating. “i’m just looking out for you, ‘kay? i do hope this is just a stupid mistake that will never happen again on his part. i really do want things to work out for you; i wouldn’t want you to get your heart broken – especially since i know how much he means to you”

you smiled softly and hugged her again. yuki and hana went on their way, not before wishing you good luck with your talk with kenma. your best friend lingered for a little longer, offering to walk to your next class after the lunch break, which you agreed to.

after school had ended, you said goodbye to your friends once again before heading out. you weren’t going to your house this time. well, you were going sometime, since your party plans with your friends were still on. but given that kenma had forgotten your birthday, you assumed he had likely forgotten about the party, too. therefore, going to his house served two purposes: to remind him of said party, and to have a really serious talk with him.

the walk over to kenma’s house somewhat relaxed you, the familiarity of the trees and buildings bringing a sense of comfort to your stressed-out mind. it was a road you had followed many times before, mostly with kenma, though. a sudden wave of sadness washed over you at the abrupt thought that, if this conversation didn’t go well, it would be the last time you walked through this path to visit his house. the thought made you feel sick to your stomach, the previous sense of comfort banishing almost instantaneously.

suddenly, you found yourself standing at his front door. given the lack of noises and lights, you figured his parents weren’t currently home – they were at work, probably. just as well, it might make this even less awkward for you if his parents weren’t here. because, if things went south and they heard that… yeah, you don’t think you’d ever be able to get over it.

your hesitated before knocking softly at his door. you waited for a few seconds, the sound of your heart thumping erratically in your chest being the only noise your ears could pick up. your heart only stopped once he had opened a door. just for a second though, because then it was back to beating at record speed.

kenma looked nice – he always did, in your opinion. despite his messy hair and wrinkled clothes that suggested he’d spent all day laying down, probably playing a bunch of video games, you thought he looked really good. handsome, even. the corners of your lips almost quirked up at the memory of your friends making fun of you the day you confessed to them your huge crush on him.

“oh.” kenma was clearly startled, not expecting you to be the person knocking at his door. “hey, y/n,” he finally said, smiling softly at the sight of you. it was sweet, but you weren’t here for that. you were here for serious matters.

“can we talk?”

he was taken aback by your sudden tone. it was rare for you to act this way, usually the second he’d opened the door you would have jumped in his arms and started rambling on and on. so, obviously, given your change in attitude, he knew this was going to be a serious talk.

kenma nodded and opened the door more, allowing you to enter. you walked up to his room, the house all too familiar. his bedroom smelled like him – well, obviously it did. a video game was left paused on his desktop, the music coming from it stopping abruptly as he saved his progress and closed the game. he sat down next to you on the bed and stared deeply into your eyes. neither of you said anything; it seemed that he wanted you to take the initiative.

“do you know what today is?” you asked him. maybe you still had a sliver of hope he was just waiting to tell you in person. maybe hana was right and he was throwing a surprise party. maybe.

he paused before speaking cautiously, “last week of finals?”

you scrunched your eyebrows and looked down, “check the date, kenma.”

following your orders, he turned on his phone and checked today’s date. his eyes scanned over his phone for a bit, clearly trying to piece together what you were trying to hint at. it wasn’t your anniversary, not yet. he couldn’t remember any special holidays taking place today. maybe it was another one of those dumb trends based on songs. no, you would’ve told him about that. you would’ve…

wait.

kenma’s head snapped towards yours, eyes wide. “it’s your birthday.” he stated. it wasn’t a question, he knew it was. he didn’t know how he forgot, but now he felt awful – especially after noticing your reaction to his words.

“yeah.” you replied simply, your voice raspy.

he stayed quiet for a second, trying to figure out what to say or what to do. his eyes seemed trouble, no doubt he’s mind was off calculating again.

finally, he opened his mouth to speak.

 “i’m… sorry.”

…

“that’s it?” you said, astonished. “is that all you have to say after forgetting my birthday?”

“i don’t know what else i can say,” kenma responded, “i really am sorry. i’ll make it up to you, i-”

“how exactly do you plan to make it up to me, kenma?” you asked him, trying your hardest to keep your voice level and the tears from making an embarrassing return.

“i don’t know yet but,” he took a deep breath, “i will make it up to you, i promise.”

you scoffed and looked away, “so what? am i supposed to take your word for it?”

he swallowed before speaking softly again, “yeah.”

you took in a breath and closed your eyes. “alright then. i’ll see you around,” you said plainly, right before heading over to the door.

“wait!” kenma exclaimed, grabbing your arm before you could get away. he softened his grip once he’d realized he might hurt you. you felt his fingers caress your arm softly, an action he always did to comfort you. “i know you’re upset, it’s my fault. i was tired and i was stupid, but i…” he took a deep breath, “i’m sorry, okay? i’ll do anything it takes for you to forgive me.”

hearing kenma so desperate was a rare sight. his eyes looked red, as if he was close to actually starting crying. it wasn’t common for him to show so much emotion. so, in your heart, you knew he meant every word he said. kenma was never the type to lie for his own gain. but… still.

you wanted to forgive him, you really did. still – it didn’t feel right to forgive him so easily, your best friend’s words ringing in your ear. however, it also didn’t feel right to not forgive him. so, you made up your mind on what you’d do.

you kept your gaze averted to the ground, knowing deep down that if you looked at him you’d immediately give in.

“kenma,” you started, “i understand you didn’t mean it, but it still hurt my feelings. so i… well, i’m not breaking up with you.” he seemed to relax more at your words. “but i’m also not forgiving you this easily. you need to make it up to me, and then i guess we’ll see where it goes, ‘kay?”

he nodded, “do you still want me to go to your house?”

you bit your lip, unsure on what to say. “my friends might be a bit… hostile towards you, and it may be better if i had more time to think. so… it might be better if you don’t, actually.” he once again nodded, understanding your point.

“we should do something – tomorrow, maybe. i don’t know,” you continued, “you can think about how you’ll make it up to me during that time, if you want.”

“okay,” he said softly, watching as you walked away, not making an effort to stop you this time. he lowered his gaze and stared intently at his hands. you didn’t forgive him, but you also did? he wasn’t sure what to do to fully make it up to you, but he’d have to try his hardest now. he imagined kuroo would make a comment about how down bad he’d become that he’d actually put so much effort into something that wasn’t a video game.

“kenma?”

his head snapped up at the sound of your sweet voice. you were standing just out of his doorway, looking awkwardly at him.

you hesitated, debating whether or not you should tell him that he does have a chance, that you really wanted to forgive him. but if you did then maybe he wouldn’t try, so…

“nevermind,” you shook your head, “good luck on your game. i’ll see you tomorrow.”

his eyes followed you as you scurried away. he only relaxed once he heard the sound of the front door slamming.

you might have backed down whatever it was you were going to say, but the fact that you lingered for a longer while made him feel as if he did have a shot. for a second he’d worried you would never forgive him. that you – kind, sweet, and understanding you – had finally had enough with him and would leave him all alone.

knowing he had a chance motivated him to try his hardest, already planning what he’d say, what he’d give you, and what else he could do. he kept kicking himself over how your birthday managed to slip his mind. it was such a stupid mistake, and he’d make sure it’d never happen again. that’s not what you deserve. kuroo would, without a doubt, call him an idiot, too. 

it didn’t matter, he deserved that.

and you, you deserve the best of the best – which he’ll try his hardest to give you. 

even if it takes him years, he’ll never stop trying to make it up to you.

because you’re you, and you’re way too good for him.

he has a lot of work to do for tomorrow, huh?

[betelgo0ze]

Obi-Wan and Anakin are implied and outright confirmed to have seen each other as brothers, but I’d like to take this a step forward by defending my weird ass helluva boss inspired headcanon: Anakin also sees him as his father(only sometimes)

Anakin was nine when Obi-Wan took him, and a nine year old probably can’t separate an old person from an older person. Yes, he knows Obi-Wan is younger than the other Jedi Masters, but he doesn’t think about it like that. To him, Obi-Wan is on the same “level” and age is just another factor in his mind. Obi-Wan isn’t going to sit him down and explain that the only reason he’s his master is because Qui-Gon died and that every day he walked on thin ice around the other masters, being the youngest and knighted on a technicality. Anakin would soon realize this on his own in his early teens and after a long conversation he came to learn that Obi-Wan regretted nothing that had happened. It was hard, yes, but Obi-Wan loved Anakin with all his heart and Anakin saw Obi-Wan as respectable as Mace or Yoda even. He put Obi-Wan on a pedestal so it’s easy to see how Anakin, meeting him at nine, having him be in a parental position, not having a father of his own, may see him as a father.

Yes, there brothers in every sense of the word, but Obi-Wan still raised Anakin and was probably the worlds best teen mom who’s a guy. I love the idea of him fretting over Anakin and calling him “Ani” to sooth him or just randomly whenever it slipped.

I bring up helluva boss due to that one scene in episode 8(pretty sure eps8) where loona calls Blitzø dad.

Again, Anakin sees Obi wan as a brother now but as a kid he saw him as a father.

all this to say I like the idea that if Obi ever got a major injury or was in trouble or simply in trouble or a hostage situation whatever- he might let “dad” slip

Ashoka never mentions it bc she understands it’s a confusing topic, there brothers yes, but Anakin has still referred to him as his “father” in dire situations.

think drunk Obi(inevitable)who’s probably a sad drunk eight beers in(idk how alcohol works, party animal until sad ig)and Anakin might be the one that night to help him into bed and rub his back as he throws up. He’d probably have to reassure him that he’s a good master and a good general, and feels more comfortable letting “dad” slip.

Ok this is poorly written but in my defense I’m dyslexic it’s flooding where I am and I don’t have time to un-dyslexia my post and by that I mean beta’ing it twenty times

also never mentioned anywhere in this post but Codywan exists and he’s probably called Cody dad too only bc I say so

[inkykeiji]

anonymous said: i just wanna sit down on sukuna’s massive thigh. is that so much to ask?? character: ryomen sukuna notes: anon, i want to ride sukuna’s massive thigh so so so badly!!!!! and so of course i had to write something!!! warnings: 18+ minors do not interact, daddy kink, size difference, thigh riding, implied cureless!au, fem!reader, humiliation and degradation, toxic relationship, bit of noncon overstim right at the end words: 1.8k

It’s custom practice, at this point, that Sukuna places you on his lap whenever he’s engaging in an activity that requires sitting; when he’s working in his office, when he’s in a meeting (because his precious little baby is always with him, no matter what time or place or occasion), when he’s reading, when he’s lounging, when he’s eating. 

It isn’t always in the same position; sometimes you’ll rest against him, your back pressed flush to his chest, one thick arm wound around your waist for stability; sometimes you’ll straddle his massive thigh, your face buried in his neck, lips painting strokes of saliva across his collarbone in messy little pecks, lashes leaving gentle butterfly kisses against his shoulder.

But irregardless of the situation and your posture throughout, if he’s sitting, you are there with him.

It is also customary that you behave while you’re in Daddy’s lap—no fidgeting or squirming, no whining or whispering, no complaints of boredom at all, and no getting down until he releases you. 

So it’s not a shock, exactly, that a low, dark chuckle rumbles beneath his ribs the moment your hips begin to rock—barely anything more than shallow ruts, something that might’ve been mistaken for an innocent restlessness, had he not known better.

But he knows you much too well.

“I thought Daddy had a rule against wiggling, sweetheart.” 

“Can’t help it, Daddy, swear I can’t.”

“Is that so?” he hums, flexing the muscles of his hard, defined thigh between your legs, snorting a little when you gasp. “And why is that?”

“M’horny, Daddy,” you whimper, nuzzling your cheek against the column of his throat. “Don’t wanna bother you, Daddy.” 

“Oh? And what makes you think this isn’t bothersome?” 

It’s not—you know it’s not.

Because as well as your Daddy knows you, you know him, too. 

His four simple rules don’t exist because he can’t concentrate when you’re on his lap—he most definitely can. If there’s one thing you’ve come to learn about Sukuna in the short but intense time you’ve been his, it’s that he retains an exceptional amount of control over himself—body, mind, and soul—and it’s a fact he takes immense pride in. 

Because, sure, Sukuna may live for the pursuit of pleasure, a hedonist in the purest sense, but that doesn’t mean he can’t control himself, his self-discipline and restraint sharper and stronger than a tungsten needle when he wants it to be. 

His four simple rules are all about power. 

Doesn’t mean they’re going to stop you, though.

Your hips are still shifting, cunt pressed flush to his thigh with only a thin layer of lace separating it from his pants, slit sliding along his firm, strong muscles in slow, hard strokes.

“Are you sure one pitiful little orgasm from pathetically humping my thigh is worth it?” 

No, you’re not. One measly clitoral orgasm probably isn’t worth the hefty punishment that’s going to follow, but you’re too sleepy, too needy, to care. 

An indistinct little noise vibrates at the back of your throat, head moving in ambiguous motions, rubbing thick cords of drool across his shoulder, leaving tiny webs shimmering on cashmere.

Your hips roll with more purpose, falling into a steady rhythm of rocking—back and forth, back and forth, smearing your cunt along the sleek muscle between your legs.

It already feels so good, using his thigh to stroke your clit in repetitive motions, the cotton twill of his trousers providing just enough resistance to make the friction delicious, a dull, dense heat flooding the pit of your stomach.

“God, look at you,” he scoffs, a peculiar mix of disgust and devotion saturating his voice. “Trying to fuck my thigh like you’re some sort of animal.”

Exhaling a snort, he jiggles his thigh in accentuation, sneering a little at the choked moan you try so hard to snuff out, pleasure clawing at your tongue.

“I guess it doesn’t make much of a difference to a desperate little slut, does it? My sick little girl will take whatever she can get, won’t she?” 

Your head nods lethargically, smearing your own saliva over your chin.

“Aren’t you embarrassed to be acting like this? So eager, so ardent.”

“Jus’wan’ you, Daddy,” you slur out. 

Because it’s true; you just want him, in any way you can have him. 

Maybe you really are just a dirty, desperate little slut. Maybe it doesn’t matter either way.

“You know, I can feel your slick soaking through my pants,” Sukuna says, lips against the curve of your ear, dark, low voice reverberating against the cartilage—little tremors that snuggle into your flesh, skittering down your spine in a shiver. “It’s fucking disgusting, how wet you are from this.”

It is, he’s right, an obscene amount of arousal already staining his leg—far too much to be decent, to be normal, don’t you think, baby?—the copious amounts of slick making the grind along his strong muscles effortless, lace molded to your drenched folds and soiled all the way through, leaving a large gleaming patch on the material of his trousers, fabrics gliding together easily, aiding in your motions as your humping gains speed.

“Do you hear yourself? Do you hear how fucking lewd your cunt is?” 

You do, of course you do, vulgar squelching echoing out among the home office with every buck of your hips, sopping clothes sloshing together, procuring a sick sort of gurgling.

It’s so humiliating, salacious sounds complemented perfectly by his silky laughter, but you can’t stop, movements accelerating to hard, quick gyrations of your hips as you lose the friction of his pants, now too slippery to be anything other than teasing.

His derisive remarks, coated in icing sugar, do nothing to tame the blaze in the pit of your tummy, his voice like kerosene, flames flaring with every word that drips from his mouth.

“You’re so easy, aren’t you? Easy to please, easy to pleasure, all you need is something nice and firm to rub your cunt on, huh?” 

“Feels good, Daddy,” you mumble against his neck with another clumsy nod, words weighted with spit. “Feels s’good.”

“Yeah, I can tell, baby,” he snorts. “Look at how fucking sloppy you are!” 

Leaning back a little in his office chair, he looks down at where you’re conjoined, a soft whine slipping from your lips at the loss of his chest. A thick layer of sheen coats his thigh, turning the charcoal shimmery in the beams of sunset streaming through the windows. His tongue clicks against his teeth in a disapproving tut, as if it’s such a shame that you’ve ruined his trousers so terribly. 

It really is, though, sticky substance having accumulated on his pant leg so much that it’s merely collecting atop the material now, unable to soak any further. You whine again, yearning to bury your scorching face, pricks of humiliation stinging your cheeks.

“I should make you lick it up, honestly,” he muses to himself, humming a little at the prospect. “Such naughty little girls should be made to clean up the messes they make, don’t you agree?” 

Aside from the light notes of beguile infusing his voice, he sounds normal—calm and unaffected—and you’d think him to be, too, if you couldn’t feel his massive cock, hard and straining against expensive slacks, brushing against your thigh with each of circle of your hips. 

It twitches a little with every gentle graze of your body, but Sukuna does nothing to pursue it, nothing to satisfy it or solve the problem, too focused on you to care.

Your arms wind around his neck, bringing him back to you with a discontented little mewl, and he laughs again, going willingly. 

Always so needy. 

You’re really riding his thigh now, vigorous enough that the wheels of his office chair shift against the hardwood, Sukuna planting his feet more resolutely, keeping you both in place, muscles pulled taut with the motion.

Damp little moans seep into the skin of his neck as your hips work, each one pushed from your throat on an airy little gasp, and he can tell that you’re close.

Because that’s so easy, too—you’re so fucking obvious with it, with the way your thighs keep tensing around him, almost as if they’re trying to readjust their grip; squeeze him tighter, hump him harder, siphon his thigh up further, urgently chasing that building high.

That heavy heat is amassing in the pit of your stomach, sinking into your gut as it grows with every swivel of your hips, hotter and hotter, higher and higher until it feels smothering, sweltering, engulfing you from the inside out and weeping through your pores, ragged little pants of his title exhaled from parted lips. 

“You’re such a perverted little girl,” he murmurs in your ear, voice deep and decadent, tinged with just a hint of amusement. “What would everyone think if they knew how sordid that pretty little mind of yours really is? All of your university professors who praised you so much, all of your esteemed colleagues at work, how would they feel to know of your true nature?” 

“They’d be disgusted,” you sigh out, almost dreamily. 

A chuckle rumbles behind his ribs, rubbing his jaw line along your temple in a possessive caress. 

“Yeah, they would. And you’d like that, wouldn’t you? You’re so sick.” 

“Only for you, Daddy, always for you, Daddy.”

“That’s right,” he purrs, hands finally finding their rightful place on your hips, so massive the tips of his thumbs overlay your ribs. “Now be a good dirty girl for Daddy and make a mess all over his thigh, sweetheart.” 

And that’s all the permission you need, really. 

Oh, it’s so cute, the way your cunt clenches against his sculpted muscles, the way he feels your hole flutter eagerly around nothing as wet, sticky warmth floods his thigh, the way your clit throbs in time with it, pressed tightly to his leg.

You’re whimpering out his name, skin clammy and glittering with sweat, tiny dewdrops beaded along your temples catching in the waning sun rays as you snuggle into his jaw, pliant and languid.

But Daddy isn’t done with you just yet.

The hands on your waist flex, blunt nails carving deep crescents into the flesh—latched onto you, firm and stable, using his grip as leverage to force your hips to keep moving, even as they start to jerk.

A hiss is spit through the gaps of your teeth, sharp and sudden, whole body recoiling from the involuntary overstimulation. Shudders ripple through your flesh in vicious bouts as Sukuna aggressively rubs your sensitive cunt along his leg, pressing his thigh upward and grinding strong, defined muscle into your aching clit. 

“Daddy!” you wail, clinging to him despite the agony, fingers twisting knots in his immaculately pressed dress shirt. “St—ah!—S’too much, it hurts!” 

“Oh, poor baby,” Sukuna pouts, oozing condescension. “You didn’t really think Daddy would just allow you misbehave in such a manner and get off without some sort of punishment, did you?” 

No, you didn’t; of course you didn’t, but—

“Quite stupid, my pretty girl is,” he shakes his head with a chuckle, spikes of ice prickling your spine. “You wanted to ride Daddy’s thigh, so you are going to ride Daddy’s thigh, over and over and over again until your cute lil cunt has been rubbed raw, until Daddy decides it’s enough.” 

[daistea]

Hello dais! I’ve been binge reading all of your content recently and first of all I have to say I’m obsessed with all of your writing, it has changed how I look at character from Dungeon Meshi entirely. and second of all, I’ve been thinking about Mithrun with a tall-man reader, or just any short-lived race really and how he would react after they had passed away? I don’t know how you feel about angst really but I’m a sucker for pain and can’t stop thinking about this. Sorry if this seems messy, I’m just thinking too many thoughts about Mithrun right now.

Thank you so much friend!!! Sorry for the late response! This was a good prompt, something close to my heart.

Mithrun x gn, short-lived Reader

tw death, loss, angst

»»-------¤-------««

Mithrun would not do well. 

When he loves, he loves deeply. He wasn’t always so loyal, but after the demon and after working so hard to cultivate desires, Mithrun would attach himself to those he cares about. He isn’t clingy in a traditional sense, but he’s intense. To you, even more so. 

He’d always known it would happen; you started moving slower. You started aging. He didn’t care how you looked. He was aging as well, though at a different rate. Mithrun had never cared for the sentiment of ‘growing old’ with someone. He didn’t understand it, mainly because he truly believed he’d die once the demon was gone. 

Yet, there he was, in his mid-200s. He had you. He couldn’t let you go. When you slowed down, complained of joint pain and laughed at your gray hairs, he’d always brush you off. There was time. There was always time. 

 Awareness did not equal acceptance. Simply because something was a fact of life did not mean it deserved to exist in peace. Most facts of life had negative contexts, but people spoke of them as if they expected Mithrun to be content, to lower his fists, to stop fighting. 

 He knew the day would come. No amount of preparation made it easier. 

 “You’re 252 years old, Captain,” Lycion murmured. 

 Mithrun wasn’t sure what that had to do with anything. He glanced up at the ex-Canary, though the look in Lycion’s eyes immediately made his blood run hot. He forced himself to look away simply to keep from breaking something. 

 “And?”

 “You still have around half your life left,” Lycion continued with that tone that had become all too familiar— insistent, worried, pitying. He should’ve known better than to use it on Mithrun. 

 “And?” “And you still have time to move on.”

 Unacceptable. There was anger, of course, there was always anger swirling within him. But lately, Mithrun had become more sensitive to dread. His stomach churned and sickness crawled up his throat. Move on? As if that was an option. 

The sight of your body haunts him. 

Your skin was cold. Everything was wrong. He couldn’t stop feeling, so much more than he’d felt in ages. All he wanted was for it to stop. When he closed his eyes, he saw you. When he tried to sleep, he heard you. He recalled the lilt of your voice and it refused to leave his brain. Despite how desperately he craved peace, he didn’t want to forget you. He held onto the memories for as long as his imperfect brain would allow. 

Mithrun doesn’t leave his house. 

He only eats because he knows you’d be mad at him if he didn’t. 

He changes nothing about the decor. If you left a sweater on the floor before you died, it will stay there for years. 

Things start changing. If you caught bugs and released them, he’d start doing that as well, despite how he just squished them in the past. If you seasoned food a certain way, he’d do it too, no matter how salty or spicy it is. 

Truly, Mithrun hangs onto every tiny detail of you. He’s never been a detail oriented person, but he knows you. Perhaps now, he knows you better than ever. 

At first, he’ll be doing a chore and, without a second thought, call out for you. He needs your opinion on how to separate this laundry. There’s a sale on veggies he knows you’d be interested in. But right as he says your name, he realizes the truth. You’re not there. He won’t hear your footsteps cross the house, or see your smile as you ask him to repeat himself, or see you roll your eyes at the dumb laundry question. 

It’s a huge change. Mithrun can’t sleep for a bit. His body eventually forces him to sleep. 

He’s lost people before. He’s lost friends, people who helped build Melini. It’s different with you. He isn’t quite sure what to do with himself. 

Mithrun returns to what he did when first regaining his desires— he busies himself with hobbies and work. His universe is falling apart, but he’s getting very good at making noodles. (He’d like you to try them.)

 “I’m not moving on,” Mithrun says. 

 “They were just a—”

 “And you’re just an idiot,” he retorts. 

 Cithis’s jaw sets, tense. She looks at the wall over Mithrun’s shoulder instead, as if looking him in the eye was too tempting, as if she was ready to strangle him. “You know what I mean.”

 He didn’t. He didn’t know much of anything these days. 

 “You’re not usually this concerned,” Mithrun mused as he leaned back in his chair and folded his arms. “Bored of your own problems?”

 It was cruel, he had enough wherewithal to know that. Cithis may have lacked general empathy, though she cared about her friends to a certain extent. If only she was better at comfort. If only Mithrun wanted comfort. 

 Her gaze finally shifted to land on him, “You’ll have to start living again at some point.”

It takes Mithrun around 50 years to realize that life continues. Your death felt like the end of a world— in a way, it was the end of a world. He can’t forget you. He won’t ever stop grieving. He’s so angry sometimes because you dared to leave him, even though it wasn’t your fault. 

Yet, Mithrun is an expert at restarting. 

 “I know,” Marcille murmured. Her voice was thick with emotions Mithrun didn’t bother to identify. He simply glanced at her, his good eye wide. 

 “What?” He asked. 

 “I know how it is,” she explained. She had her hands behind her back as she rocked on her heels in an almost childish manner, despite her age. He supposed that for her, the early 100’s was still shockingly young. He’d never understand how a half-elf’s mindset worked. But he knew she’d lost someone. Everyone. 

 “You couldn’t possibly,” Mithrun told her despite how much of a blatant lie his words were. 

 Marcille rolled her eyes. She looked nearly done with him, and he wouldn’t blame her for that. Still, she managed to send him a half-glare, “It gets slightly easier. You’ll still do stuff and think ‘wow, I wish they were here to see this.’ You’ll still crave their company and attention and touch. You’ll still dream of them.”

 He knew that. “What part of this is supposed to be comforting?”

 Marcille scoffed, “I’m not trying to be comforting. I’m just telling you the truth, as someone who's gone through it too. They’re still there, with you. But life gets easier.”

 What a simple phrase. It wasn’t as if everyone in Melini hadn’t already told him that a hundred times over. 

 Mithrun looked away. Marcille grumbled to herself about useless attempts and arrogant Canaries.

 Perhaps he was arrogant. Perhaps he was angry. Perhaps he wanted to sink his fingers into the fabric of the universe and tear it to shreds for daring to take you. 

 But there was no time for that. He had laundry to do.

[tinycozycomfort]

flowering

pairing: jackson era!joel miller x f!reader

day four of @pascalisbaby and i's joeltober: degradation -> read her day four here

summary: Always itching to be blamed for something, just so he can try and redeem himself; some kind of penance has sunk its teeth into the soft belly of his desire, staking its hold.

warnings/tags: degradation/humiliation kink, sub!joel, name calling (whore) + pet names (sweetheart, honey), misuse of underwear (i know), c*ck grinding, finger sucking, edging

word count: 1.4k

rating: explicit! 18+ only, mdni

a/n: yes this is late. yes i will beg for forgiveness.

main masterlist

“I didn’t even talk to her.”

“That’s exactly right—you did nothing. Just stood there with that stupid look on your face while she tried to touch you. And you let her.”

Joel is panting under the arch of your legs so hard that you have to readjust your body, rocking your hips back to allow his chest more space to swell. His cock catches on the downturn, the wet film of your still-attached underwear enveloping his head. 

You stifle a laugh at the hiss that leaks through his teeth, leaning forward to compensate for the new position—a small mercy—thighs bracketing the knobs of his waistline, seam of your cunt aligned with the underside of his length, hot and slick and what has to be painful for him at this point. 

The lip of cotton around your waist curls with resistance, tugging at where it’s wedged between his stomach and the mash of your joint movements, trapping him inside. 

“I didn’t mean any of it, you know that.” 

“I don’t care if you didn’t mean it, Joel. If you want to act like a whore, I’m going to treat you like one,” you tsk at him, stale, like you can’t believe you have to spell it out for him, “Falling over at the attention of any woman willing to look at you, even when I’m in the same room. You earned this—remember that.”

You careen yourself into a start again, little jostling thrusts that make the material holding you together peel and reattach with a wet slap on each pass. Your clit rubs against the ridge that separates his tip and you moan, light and sweet and selfish, your head thrown over your shoulder. You can hear the sheet stretch to accommodate his fist under you, the uptick of his whining; you beam.

“N-No, fuck, please–” He tries desperately to keep himself still, knowing better than to extend his punishment. He’s been at the edge of something he doesn’t deserve more than a few times over the last hour, the glide of your heat over him and cruel delivery of your words enough to have him on the verge of absent, dizzy with pleasure. 

You almost feel a twinge of guilt until you peer down to find he’s squeezed his eyes shut to remain focused, to keep his release at bay; he likes this, asks for it, he’d much rather be good than come. 

You hold a moment to just take him in—the soft haze of sweat that mists his face, the curl his hair takes in the presence of it, the twinkling sheen around his mouth of everything he couldn’t clean up with his tongue after he'd eaten you through two orgasms. He has the sweetest flush flowering across the flat of his cheeks, every bit as pretty as he insists he’s not, even more so when he finally allows himself to unfurl.   

Joel knows you’re looking, rolls his neck like he can hide—always dipping into a place of embarrassment over your attention. His eyes blink open and beyond his squirming you can see a shimmering glaze—that need that demands a cruel hand. Always itching to be blamed for something, just so he can try and redeem himself; some kind of penance has sunk its teeth into the soft belly of his desire, staking its hold. They fall in tandem now, hand in hand—one can’t exist without the other.

Joel loses his words, mouth floundering open and shut, so you wrap a hand around the line of his jaw to center him, fingers dimpling the skin over his teeth until you can make out the shape of each hard lump.

“No what, honey? Try it again.” 

“I’m sorry. I don’t want to be a whore. Let me make it up to you, please.” A fold of bone in his finger twitches at his side, the dragging motion rippling the bed near your ankle; his tell, he’s close. You are, too, the spool of liquid fire in your core unwinding, sloshing until it licks at your spine. You love to see him like this, so eager to do right by you after an offense he hadn’t even committed.

“So earlier when you said you didn’t do anything wrong, were you lying? Or are you lying now?”

“I was lying before. I was a whore, but I don’t want to be. I want to be good,” he breathes, and that’s what you’ve been waiting for, there’s that declaration—of better, of changing, of promise.

“Of course you do, sweetheart. It was a horrible thing you did, so I can’t just let you fuck me. What good would that do?” You pause the swing of your hips, bending at the waist so you can rub the crest of your nose against his neck, his jaw still gathered in your clutch. 

Trained to answer, he doesn’t hesitate, “Nothing.” 

“Right again,” you tap your longer fingers against his cheek and he preens, taking any reward he can get, “What should we do about this, then?” It’s as much a check-in as it is a threat, trying to gauge just how much more of this almost-there he can take—though you assume he’d toe this line until his body gave out, relishing in the feeling of being afforded repentance. 

“Let me make you come again. Wanna taste you.” Joel’s voice is broken, hoarse, and as much as you want to allow him his atonement, the thick shape of his cock isn’t lost on you, the pulse from within it thrumming devastatingly hard on your clit. You want to feel him, want to be able to have him undo you once he’s accepted his scolding, just as desperate for his prize as he is. 

For him, you see it through, keeping the routine intact—wrong-doing, judgment, penalty, reassurance, compromise, forgiveness, “I can’t just give you what you want, either. ‘M gonna have to make it a long night for you, baby. Think you can take it?” 

He’s nodding before you even finish and you’re grinning again, so enamored with the pile of man beneath you, fierce and hard and soft and delicate, everything he told you he wasn’t sure he could be again. 

“So polite. Come for me, then. This is just the start; gonna wear you out so good you couldn’t whore around even if you wanted to.” 

“I don’t w—”

You shush him, little tuts of your teeth that tell him no, as you maneuver your hand to be able to slide two fingers between his lips, pressing down firmly on his tongue. He moans, curling the smooth muscle between them, face going slack.

Joel sets off immediately, canting his hips up into yours, heaving when he ruts into the strip of fabric encasing you both, the strung-up spots having run cold—no skin to steal warmth from during your lull. 

You can feel yourself bridging the gap to completion but you refrain, wanting to see him apologize for finishing before you—he’ll thank you for it later. 

He thrusts shallow enough to continuously notch against your opening—tight, purposeful dips that bring him right to the cusp.

“Come on, honey. Shouldn’t be that hard for you. You drool for all the other girls, what about me?” 

That’s the last straw, apparently, hard intakes of air popping in his throat like gnarled cries, pieces of voice that sound like thank you, I’m sorry, I love you breaking the gulps between them. He spills everywhere, most of it getting caught in the halo of material still somehow propped on your waist, squelching when it drips back between you. 

You coo at him to guide him through it, an inversion of everything you’ve accused him of, freeing yourself from his mouth to press kisses to the corner of his lips. 

When he comes to, he looks small—sweet—the swath of color in his face running red. “Again,” he whispers, the bend of his mouth letting you know he’s giddy—unwound, “Please, again.”

[ivycoveredstars]

Something clicked for me

“You don’t fear failure. You fear your own power”

I came across this video on TikTok

It started off okay, I usually stick around for his content as he’s a great storyteller and speaks on good things. But his messages are usually pushed to the back of my mind after I scroll.

This one though- It made something click for me

I have manifested many things, and my self concept is growing stronger everyday. But there has always been something that felt off. I tend to fall back into this pattern of wavering thoughts and doubts, even though I know everything I need to and have had great success with manifestation.

But it never felt right.

I tried reworking my thoughts around failure, and assure myself that the only way things fail is if I let them. But sometimes I would get so close to knowing something is mine 100%, and then I spiral, waver and lose my grip on my desire.

Now I realize I’m scared of my power.

“You don’t fear failure, you fear your power”

We don’t fear failure. If you don’t have an inherent understanding that you are the true creator of your life, failure is common. We always find our way through. It’s not new, so it doesn’t make sense that we fear it.

Power on the other hand, it can be new to many of us. People in power are able to do basically anything within the means of their power, which usually vast. They can control entire buildings of people. They can create laws that have to be followed, destroy entire populations, control who gets to live and who doesn’t. And that is scary. But power can also be beautiful.

We put power on a pedestal, specifically the power of creation. Religions worship great beings of power, who have created the entire universe and beyond, capable of erasing any and everything with a simple thought. Humans do the same thing with other humans. When we view these beings as magnificent entities separate from us, of course the idea of being like them beyond imaginable.

But power is easy, letting yourself feel worthy of it is the hard part. We have to stop viewing creation, power and success as this grand thing that only the ultra intelligent, talented and rich can accomplish. We create every day. We have power over so many things in our lives. We succeed with each thing we get done. We just have to now adjust the scale and view all things as smaller than us.

A finished painting usually gets all the limelight, but the painter is the one who made it. The painting isn’t really the art work, the painter’s mind, imagination and creativity is the true art piece. The painting is just a bunch of strokes coming together to bring what exists in the artist’s mind to reality. That’s exactly what our desires are as well.

You’re just becoming the painter. You’re seeing yourself as the spearhead of what you experience. It’s not this spectacular thing, everyone has the power to create.

I think of it as similar to the creation of false idols in religion. Those things may be made of gold, silver, diamond. Fancy clothes and bags may be highly coveted after. But none of it would exist without creation. Without the ultimate creator. And that’s how we have to view ourselves. None of our desires would exist without us. They wouldn’t be thought of. We have to treat them as such and put ourselves on the pedestal.

[scary-grace]

(secret) santa, baby - part 2 of a shigaraki x f!reader fic

Shigaraki doesn't want to participate in the office's Secret Santa exchange, but when Toga promises to make it easy on him, he gives in. But making it easy for him makes it a lot harder for you -- you're the one who got his list. Office AU, no quirks. A fic in 12 parts. Divider by @ wcnderlnds

part i part ii part iii part iv

part ii (secret santa)

“Special delivery!” Toga ambushes you in the break room while you’re waiting for the electric teakettle to heat up. She’s holding out a piece of Christmas stationary folded into a heart. “This is for you.”

You’ve watched her do this to almost everybody in the office over the last few days. You started working here in March, and you didn’t realize how seriously everyone takes Christmas until they started talking about it in September. People are friendly to you, but you haven’t really had a chance to make friends, and you figured participating in the office’s favorite tradition would be a good way to start. You made a simple, straightforward list, and handed it in right away. And then you watched everybody in the office get a list but you.

This feels kind of last-minute. Like she forgot about you. You hesitate, and Toga notices – and reads you so easily that you cringe. “I didn’t forget,” she promises. “But I had somebody in mind for you, and he was being lazy about his list. Sorry about the wait!”

“It’s – um, okay.” You take the origami heart and unfold it, looking for a name. But there isn’t one. Just a short list in cramped, messy handwriting. “Who is it?”

“He didn’t write his name?” Toga sighs. “It’s Tomura-kun. You know him?”

“In IT, right?” you ask. Toga nods. “I know him. Not really. I mean, I haven’t talked to him, but – I know who he is. Everybody knows who he is. He’s kind of – hard to miss.”

Every place you’ve ever worked has had prickly IT guys, but Shigaraki Tomura is the prickliest by orders of magnitude. You’ve never had to call him, but you’ve heard him on the phone with your coworkers, and seen the kind of emails he sends. Nobody can eviscerate somebody with punctuation like he does, and the only reason he’s never gone after you is because you’ve never flunked a phishing test. And even if he wasn’t famous for being kind of a dick, his looks would make him stand out. He has the longest hair of any guy in the office, and his is white.

New girl who keeps to herself gets scary white-haired guy for Secret Santa. It’s not hard for you to figure out Toga’s play here. “I’m his Secret Santa because he doesn’t hate me yet, right?”

“Maybe a little bit,” Toga says. The teakettle beeps and you pour hot water into your cup. “But look at it this way! If you can get Tomura-kun to like you, it’ll be even easier to make friends with everybody else.”

You hope she’s right. You’ve been hanging back, hoping that making friends will happen naturally, but it hasn’t. Maybe it wasn’t fair to expect it to. You need to put in some effort, too, and maybe this will be a good start. Toga walks away while your tea is steeping, and you take a closer look at Shigaraki’s list. He didn’t give very many items – or any items, really. It’s more just categories of things he must like. Video games is kind of a given. You haven’t met an IT guy who doesn’t like video games, and roughly fifty percent of the population likes dogs – but corgis seem like a weird favorite for Shigaraki to have. Or maybe it doesn’t. You don’t really know him,

He likes candy, although the way the parenthetical written makes it hard to tell whether he means ‘chocolate’ as a separate qualifier than ‘sweet and sour’. Does sweet and sour chocolate exist? You really hope not. Maybe you can ask Toga for some more specifics. With categories this broad, Shigaraki can’t expect you to know exactly what he wants, but you have a feeling that won’t stop him from being unhappy if you get it wrong.

“What is that?”

You glance over your shoulder and find some of your coworkers approaching. You refold Shigaraki’s list in a hurry. “Nothing. Just my list for the Secret Santa thing.”

“Ooh, who’d you get?” Ashido leans in to inspect the list, and you tuck it away. “No, it’s okay! You can trust me!”

You can’t, really. Only one person is supposed to know who got everybody, and you don’t want to get caught breaking the rules. “Did you get someone weird?” Hagakure asks. “Is that why you’re making that face?”

“Whoever it is must be really lonely,” Uraraka observes. “Or else they wouldn’t have folded it like that.”

You’re pretty sure Shigaraki didn’t fold the list into a heart. And based on the way the list is written and what Toga said, you’re pretty sure he didn’t want to write the list at all. Shigaraki’s given you exactly one specific instruction, and it’s about what he doesn’t want. But you can work with that, you think. If he hates the cold, you’ll just find him something warm. For ¥4000 per item or less.

<- part i part iii ->

[seikkoi]

ꜱᴜɢᴀʀ | dom!tony stark x sugarbaby!reader ( ᴄʀɪᴍᴇ!ᴀᴜ )

ᴘᴀʀᴛ ꜰɪᴠᴇ [1, 2, 3, 4] | ʀᴇᴀᴅ ᴏɴ ᴀᴏ3

There was nothing that could keep Tony from having exactly what he wanted—and he deserved a little sweetness in his life. All he had to do was keep from ruining you in the process.

content/warnings: 18+ minors do not interact. non-canon, non-superhero au, sub/dom undertones, slight emotional/verbal manipulation, obsessive + possessive behavior, age gap (reader described as mid-twenties, t.s as mid-forties), mildly dubious consensual situations, explicit mentions of alcohol and drug use, generally not for the light of heart, rough sexual content, reader described as petite word count: 9.8k

There isn’t any conversation surrounding Pepper’s visit, or the divorce, but it’s all around you regardless.

Random items disappear from the penthouse–a Pollock (your present takes its place), some throw pillows from the study, and a few Turkish ceramics you never knew existed. The phone rings far more than you care for. Tony has far more meetings than you care for. A bespeckled lawyer and his blonde associate nearly become housemates, spending hours behind the frosted glass door. Natasha makes a few appearances as well, which confuses you the most. You find the spice in her perfume too bold.

On her third exit in as many weeks, you question Tony on it. He absently traces patterns on your calves, seemingly not paying attention to you or the film on screen. 

“Should I be worried?” you hide your sincerity behind a glass of wine, twirling the stem between your fingers. The red liquid mirrors the motion inside, spidering against the walls.

“About Natasha?” he asks incredulously. 

“Yes,” you draw out, “and you–all of it, really.” 

“Now why on Earth would you be worrying about me?” 

You would love to point out the obvious and address the building-sized elephant in the room that says  ‘you’re recently sober and just got a divorce’ but the look on his face tells you it’s unnecessary. 

Tony finds a way to answer the unasked anyways. 

“It’s a shit ton of paperwork, and signing things, so it’s annoying, yes but I am fine. Scouts honor.” 

He kisses your hand and grins with all the confidence in the world. It’s so fucking arcane each time–close to magic in how it undos every worry and mirrors his gleam. 

You wished it had more permanent effects. Something long-lasting and memorable. Easy to spread over the evening and into the early morning hours, when he’s inconsolable in your arms. You could turn it back into magic words. Banish whatever miasma racked his body and go back to peaceful nights (because you had those at some point, right?).

Being able to ask the hard questions doesn’t mean shit if the answer’s always a dismissive work of fiction. You never learned what caused their separation, or sent ‘everything to shit’ as Tony put it. Not because you didn’t ask, no that question came the same night Pepper did.  Apparently it’s the same driver of every modern American divorce–money. Tony summarizes the event as a fatal disagreement over corporate shares, though like always you feel you’re being told an official story. Clean cut with all messy details chopped away. 

“You don’t have a signature stamp at this point?” you joke.

“Oh no,” Tony’s hands brace your ankles to pull you closer, “ every squiggle needs to be authentic and fresh.”

“Right, how could I assume anything less.” Your eyes roll but you let your legs drape over his lap. 

“Seriously, I’m doing fine–things will calm back down soon.” A gentle squeeze drives the point home. 

A thought crosses your mind. An insecurity, really, but one you haven’t let go since meeting Pepper.

“If it’s like, I don’t know,” you hesitate under Tony’s raised eyebrow, “–I can head back to my apartment if it’s too much.”

Stark Industries was still footing the bill even though you spent less than 10 hours there in the last two months. There’s a fear in overstaying your welcome, or whatever it is you were doing here. Either way, you figured it was less than ideal to have your girlfriend around during a divorce. 

“If what’s too much?” 

“I don’t know, if you need your space right now or–” you answer exasperatedly.

“Honey,” he gives a hearty laugh, “if I ever start asking for space, call a doctor.”

All resistance becomes futile.

You keep your apartment (for unnecessary security), but more time lapses between visits. You issue a long overdue farewell to bartending. Even being driven, the commute to that side of town is hellish and the whole thing got more pointless with each day. You drank in the fruits of this life, but not without a tiny bit of unease. It’s unease that you bury down under all the other feelings. The affection, the simplicity, the serenity. So you swap mixers for paintbrushes and solitude for the man you love. 

Other subtle changes require a quicker adjustment, but you’re getting dangerously good at adapting. With Tony’s birthday past, you recognize a pattern to Harley’s visits. Every three months like clockwork. You begin to anticipate them well enough, and start appreciating his occasional presence during your early morning tea. By his third appearance, you brew two cups.

On the first visit he barely utters a word. You were ready for some witty insult that never came, and offered him a cup in silence. You want to ask why he arrives so early just to sit in his father’s kitchen, but opt for peace instead. 

Once Pepper’s placard is gone in the parking garage and Natasha stops showing up (at all hours of the day, atleast), he’s there a second time. 

“How he’s doing with the,” he trails off, peering at you over an empty mug as the sun starts to break. He doesn’t need to motion at the empty space for you to pick up his meaning.

The official story is dancing on your tongue. The one you’ve told two times over at this point (Jarvis, Natasha). He's perfectly fine, better even. It was a piece of cake then, but now you can’t seem to look Harvey in the eye and speak in half-truths. 

“Honestly,” you sigh, “Good–not good, I don’t know.”  You were dying under  the irony of it all. Consoling Tony in the darkness of morning and then watching him make million dollar deals by noon. You don’t know how he’s managing any of it, and if any of this qualifies as okay. 

Green eyes blink slowly through an overgrown fringe. Barbers were clearly scarce in the last three months, wherever he spent them. Exhaustion forces a yawn before he speaks again, pinching his nose. 

“Figured as much.” Harley stands for the sink.

He goes through the labor of washing the ebony cup, a rare quirk amongst the obscenely rich. You’d learned they are very reliant upon their quiet servants. You wondered if he did it out of modesty or good manners.  

“Do you know why they separated?” If he was in the mood to talk about Tony, you weren’t going to pass up the chance.

“Uh, something with the company, her share or whatever. Always about the money with them.” he answers casually, tossing a look over his shoulder. 

It’s genuine enough, but all too similar to the rehearsed lines. You half-expected him to call you nosy. 

“No real loss there.” Harley adds, a hint of disdain in his voice

“Not a fan I take it?” The flimsy tag finally crumbling under your ministrations.

He chortles as he slumps back into the bar stool. 

“Pepper can be, uh,” A yawn and an eye rub take precedence, “overbearing, yeah that’s a good word for it.”

“Yeah, can’t imagine that worked well for Tony.” You murmur into your tea.

“Oh it most definitely did not.” Harley laughs again. “Not for a guy that does the opposite of whatever you tell him.”

His laugh is infectious (like father like son), and you smirk even though instead the mental picture makes you cringe. A lull passes between you. Outside, morning traffic begins, trickling upwards to interrupt the quiet. It cues Harley to get back to whatever it is he comes here to do, while you move on with the day. 

As an advantage of all the free time, you get to invest more time in your estranged friendships. Being around old friends turned out to be surprisingly good. You had anticipated more awkwardness, but there was something comforting about not having to wear a mask for once around someone besides your boyfriend. 

At this point, you slowly filled in a few close ones about your relationship with Tony. Clearly you were in this for the long haul, and keeping things under wraps was becoming futile. The general consensus was positive, thankfully. Obviously, that’s due to a great deal of details being omitted. The act left a sour taste in your mouth. Not from the content–how easy it was. You hated to repeat such behaviors, but it was less complicated this way. You wouldn’t have to labor through justifying your relationship, or hear concerns you didn’t already have. 

Tony’s reception was, oddly, less positive. He didn’t care much for your old ‘starving artist’ clique. He thought you should take advantage of his access to New York’s greatest–the real pioneers. It took little arguing from you for him to drop that thought entirely, and he conceded to just be happy to see you happy. 

Like good friends, they tease about your newfound love. One asks when they’ll get to meet ‘Mr. CEO’ and you have to brush it off casually. You like your worlds better separate. 

A sweltering autumn soon becomes frostbitten winter. This gives you less light to work with, resorting to find shuddering shoulders in complete darkness. You don’t think it’s worth searching for warmer pastures or a simpler life. No, you order a cashmere robe and get used to seeing by touch. 

Late nights in the tower turn out to be a great place to hone such skills. The halls are narrow and void of any windows, so you ghost the pads of your fingers around for customary shapes. A cushioned nook and a neglected book lull you into a nap one evening and you wake past the sunset. If you were able to sleep so late undisturbed, Tony must be preoccupied. You planned to tiptoe into the kitchen without a sound, but your ears catch words murmured behind the glass. The door is cracked slightly, just enough to let a streak of light breaks across the hardwood floor

“–fifteen, ten, maybe if we’re lucky.” 

The bespeckled man’s words are measured, precise as usual. You can almost picture his lips barely parting to utter syllables behind round-trim frames. 

“Jesus christ–the fuck am I paying you for? Because I am paying you, like a metric shit ton” 

At Tony’s voice, you press closer. 

“I’m not the idiot getting a divorce.”

“Okay, okay, let’s just stay focused here.” Natasha raises her voice above the two men, and you hear a chair drag across the office.

“Uh-uh, don’t think you’re getting off scot free–we wouldn’t even be having this conversation if you did your job a tad better too.” 

“I will say it was ‘lot easier to spread the financials between two people.” 

Social norms concerning privacy start to get to you, urging your feet to pivot and take you back upstairs. Your escape goes undetected, and you seek refuge in the shower. 

You wash the day away under warm jetstreams. Part of your mind is stuck replaying everything, wondering how he was handling it all, trying not to indulge in the urge to check the sink drawer. In a flash, you toss the thought away. It’s easy to not overthink at this hour. Especially when coconut vanilla soap tugs you back towards exhaustion. You make it back out to the bedroom, where you find Tony removing his shoes at the end of the bed.

He smiles at the crack of light from the bathroom. Tony’s days were getting longer while the rest of the hemisphere’s got shorter. He would say he missed when life was simple, but he can’t remember such a time. Life growing up was anything but simple, then the older he got the more it sucked out every ounce of his energy. Everything after became, well, everything after.

Picturing a new future keeps him going. One in a coastal city, something global like New York but much, much warmer. He fights the urge to picture your silhouette amongst the waves. It’s not guaranteed. He might find himself in this dreaded cycle all over again. Then his coconut scented fantasy would be tarnished. 

No, it’s better to cherish the present with you. Like right now, watching coconut scented water droplets descended down your legs and shoulders. Even though he knows he won’t be here long. Truly, he’d wish you weren’t awake,  knowing he’d have to leave soon.

“Take a picture, it’ll last longer.” You teased, abandoning your towel as you pulled the dresser open.

He’s easy to rile up, and you know exactly what you’re doing–bending over slowly to pull your panties above your hips. You can’t help it when he stares like it’s his first time seeing you, every time. 

“Please don’t tempt me.” 

Tony’s voice is low, barely above a whisper. He’s unmoving on the edge of the bed, hands braced beside his thighs as his eyes follow the movements of your hands around lacy black fabric. Truly he’s perplexed. Who knew watching someone get dressed would be just as much of a turn-on. Or maybe it’s just you.

You toss one of his faded band tees on, and he thinks this might actually be better than any sun-soaked dream (it’s definitely just you). 

You cross the bedroom, the loose cotton brushing against your skin with each step. As you approach, you snake your arms around Tony's neck and straddle his lap. His large hands ghost up the smooth skin of your thighs, leaving a trail of warmth as they make their way to your back. The moment your skin touches his, Tony’s eyes lock onto yours, but you can tell his focus is elsewhere.

“What are you thinking about?” you ask softly, raking your hands through brown coils.

You assume his mind is still on the conversation downstairs, but the grin spreading on his face says otherwise. His lips move to pepper your exposed neck with kisses, still smiling.

“Really wanna know?” 

“Sure, hit me.”

The ghosts across your veins turn into full blown grazes. 

“You, in a bikini, drinking margaritas somewhere with no extradition laws.” 

You chuckle at the notion and swat his shoulder when his teeth find your pulse point. 

“Hey, you asked,” he laughs into your skin, gripping your hips tighter, “besides it’s your fault–’smell like I’m damn near there already.” 

Tony’s mouth turns hungrier and hungrier, moving feverishly across every exposed inch until the flesh is tender and you're panting in his lap. It’s just encouragement, so he doesn’t pause for a moment as his fingers slip behind your lace. They work at the wetness already ruining the fabric, dragging it across your length and making your shiver. 

Okay, sure, maybe another period of minimal alone time was getting to you, maybe. Sue me, you thought. Honestly, Tony should be more grateful to have such a willing partner–and you told him as much. Unfortunately, this elicited a need for Tony to instill a sense of gratitude in you.

In the next second, you're tossed onto your back, wrists pinned tightly above your head. His other hand pulls your panties down your legs and you try not to make a joke about the futility in getting dressed. Instead, you soak his weight against you, the roaming hand between your thighs and teeth on your neck. 

Marking you is the obvious goal-sucking harder with each breathy whimper. He wasn’t kidding earlier, either. You smelled good enough to devour and he intended on doing so. His danced along your folds, a cufflink scratching the supple skin at the top of your thigh.  They are never anywhere long enough to give you any real pleasure. Just to take more breath from your lungs and feeling from your legs. 

You squirm against vicuna dress pants, trying to gain more friction on his hand. Instead of catering to your needs, he stops all together and the noise you make is almost pathetic. Who are you kidding, it’s fully pathetic–it couldn’t have been over two weeks, and pleas can hardly form on your tongue for more. 

Tony reels back with a smirk that flips your stomach. A scheme is brewing behind darkened pupils. His eyes stay on you as his hand returns to your center, slow and heavy over your clit. 

He doesn’t relent when your wrists strain and hips buck against him. No, a tighter grip and knee over your hip hold you steady enough for his fingers to work faster. You want to chastise yourself for how much you missed this–then two fingers slide into you and there isn’t room to think of much else.

He moves quickly and silent, like a serpent, finding that perfect rhythm that makes your eyes flutter. Your soft moans fill the quiet space. He’s too steady, not changing a muscle as your peak comes closer. The most desperate you get, writing against his palm to get even one extra inch of depth, the slower he moves. 

“Did you have fun sneaking around?” 

Your eyes flutter open in the dim bedroom, Tony’s sly grin shining above you. It cuts straight through the fog of pleasure taking you over. 

“I don’t know what you’re–” you start to bluff. 

“You’re not very sneaky, you know? Or a good liar. That’s a particular skill set that you, my dear, sorely lack.”  Slow and teasing, he slides two fingers back into you.

“Okay, okay. Maybe I was eavesdropping a little.” He finally moves with purpose again, but of course not enough.

“A little? Let’s not start underrepresenting things, hm?” 

Before you can debate him further, he withdraws and you think you might honestly cry if this continues.

“Okay, point taken, would you please stop torturing me now?” 

“Now, why would I reward bad behavior?” he asked, lowering his gaze.

“If it helps, I wasn’t trying to.”

“It doesn’t.” 

His palms grip your hips, flipping you onto your stomach and lifting your waist upwards. The sudden movement leaves you breathless, searching for balance on your forearms until they’re pulled behind your back. 

“You know exactly which nerve to press, don’t you?” he breathes into the base of your neck, chest flush to your back as he hands work at his zipper.

How ironic, considering he spends the next hour tuning your body like an instrument. Knowing exactly where to press, where to ease off, until you finally unlock, bare and moaning into the mattress.

Afterwards, you fall asleep to the steady beat of his heart. 

You’re half way to sleep when Tony slinks out of your arms. At first, you don’t bother stirring. Then, the soft draw of the dresser catches your ear. 

You flip over onto your stomach to get a better view. You watch Tony’s shadowy figure attempt to quietly dress. For a rare sight, he abandons the tailored suit for dark Levis and a t-shirt. It hardly looks like him, in the best way possible (ignoring the obvious question of where the hell he planned on going in that. Less larger-than-life, more real. This, now this was someone you can imagine running into at the grocery store. The sharp edges of his suits always added a degree of gravitas to everything.

“Where are you off to?”

“Going to see a man about a horse.” 

He leans down for a bright smile and a quick kiss before he leaves, and you let sleep suppress any thoughts about what that could possibly mean.

You awake to a sun that has long outran the horizon. The sheer curtains were already pulled back, with the smell telling you Jarvis made a feast for breakfast. Tony’s side is empty. Which is no surprise there, but you don’t expect him at the kitchen table. 

He grins behind a newspaper as you approach. Jarvis is busy with the espresso machine, muttering curses under his breath. 

“Tell me, what are your thoughts on cyclamen–oo, or actually, narcissus, yeah, that’s better.” Tony asks like you've been having some sort of conversation before five seconds ago.

Jarvis clicks the tamper in with a satisfied click as you stare back confused. You’re two blinks away from falling back asleep and desperately craving something stronger than green tea. 

“What are you-Is-Are those restaurants?” 

“Oh, morning ma’am. Shall I prepare you a tea, perhaps breakfast?” Jarvis turns at the sound of your voice, wiping damp grounds from his hands.

“Good morning, but no, just some coffee, please.” You try to sound natural. It’s weird giving someone else orders. 

“Nope, flowers. We could do something simple like a peony but I don’t think that matches the whole vibe with the satin garlands.” Tony continues. 

“Tony, hon, I have no idea what you’re on about right now.” you groggily slouch in the chair beside him. 

“We, my dear,” the newspaper is folded and plopped onto the table for dramatic effect, “are having a Christmas party. The proverbial ‘we’ in this situation being the company, of course.” 

“A Christmas party?” you muse with a laugh.

“For tax purposes, a gala. For my purposes, and therefore to make it fun, it is indeed a party, yes.” 

Espresso warms your veins as you listen to Tony ramble through plans for catering, guests, decanters and a whole bunch of other shit you can hardly keep up with. Good thing that responsibility falls to Jarvis, who jots away on a worn notepad. Once your eyes fully open, the thought starts to excite you. Your yearly festivities normally boiled down to a bottle of chardonnay and some loosely Christmas film like Die Hard. “Plus, if I auction some art, it works out even more.” He punctuates his brilliant plan with a bite of a muffin. 

“That’s not like a massive trigger for you?” 

High-volume social events dropped off the radar recently, for good reason, you assumed (not that you minded a break from fake smiles and cold handshakes) . Instead, Tony dragged you along to more intimate dinners with whatever broker or councilwoman he needed to charm. Your role as plus-one never went anywhere, but doing so at Tony’s your home would give you more confidence. 

“What are you, my sponsor?” he teases but you're less amused at the thought. 

“You don’t even have a sponsor.” You know so, because Tony believes Narcotics Anonymous is a, quote, ‘sad-ass glorified tea party’. 

“I have Jarvis.” He’s completely serious, and Jarvis hides his laughter behind a stack of plates.  

You don’t want to point out the obvious cognitive dissonance. That a man who spends his nights in petrified somnolence might crack under the pressure of dozens of inebriated colleagues. Not now, in a moment of peace. Not in front of Jarvis. You’re not sure how much sound slips out into the hall.

Tony watches the worry creep over your face from the edge of his newspaper. With a sigh, he abandons it again.

“Look, all you have to do is look pretty–which is no sweat for you, maybe drink a few apple cider cocktails, and relax. I’ve got everything else perfectly handled.”

He gives you a look, both reassuring and decisive. It’s a simple message meant to be taken without debate, ‘trust me’. 

You get one more peaceful morning drinking tea in the dark with Harley before the holiday season.

The event overtakes your life from Thanksgiving onward. You really don’t know how this sudden festive fervor spawns, but it slowly creeps into everything. From the elevator music, to miniature elves by the door, to candy canes everywhere, and more Christmas ties than days in December (you can’t be sure he’s not switching them multiple times a day). 

You weren’t a total Grinch, not by a long shot. Tony just so happened to be creeping into that weird overly festive zone reserved for suburban moms and kindergarten teachers. 

“Tony, what’s all of this?”

Vivaldi plays faintly on the record player. There’s a delicately placed mistletoe just off of the elevator, accompanied with a haphazard trail of roses leading out onto the balcony. You navigate through a candlelight kitchen juggling a heavy box of resin. 

“Tony?” you call out again once the box makes contact with the counter,

“Out here!” 

You follow the voice and rose trail to the balcony. Unsurprisingly, he’s donning a god awful Christmas sweater, grinning and pointing to the wool like it’s runway fashion. A small table holds two covered silver platters, and a tall bottle of champagne rests in a bucket of ice. It’s the kind of overtly romantic display you’d gotten since night one, but it never fails to sink your breath straight in your heart. Something about the way he’s standing there, beaming like a nervous, lovestruck fool, tells you this isn’t just a normal gesture of affection.

Still, your lips part to thank him, but he stops you instantly. 

“Just wait–” he pleads, “I got like thirty minutes of practice into saying this and I can’t fuck it up.” 

His voice is rushed enough that you believe. Clearly the words were threatening to jump out of him. It sets you a bit on edge, trying to anticipate what this was about. You indulge him anyway and nod. 

Tony crosses the balcony to take your hands in his, thumb brushing over your knuckles. 

“Okay, I know things haven’t been copacetic around here. And I know I’ve asked for a lot–more than I ever thought I would–and you know sometimes it feels like I’ll never be able to return what you’ve given to me, but I swear I’m going to make this worth it.” 

He squeezes your palm, tired brown eyes searching yours for something, any sign that his words meant a single thing. It’s a fast-winded speech that makes you wanna laugh at the irony. Tony, the man who’d move the stars if they had a price tag, somehow feeling the need to repay you.  Yet his voice is raw like a frayed nerve. Exposed to the cold winds whipping against the tower glass. 

“Tony, you’ve made it more than worth it, everyday.” You smile, though it’s worth wondering what’s driving him to say all this. The words ring true regardless.

“Not nearly enough,” he says softly, “but I’m going to–I’m going to give you the world.”

In that moment, you see it: the weight of everything he’s been carrying. Your ribs seem to tighten inside your chest. That unspoken fear you’ve both been trying to avoid–it was far easier twenty seconds ago when you thought it was yours alone. You realize now that the fearless man you saw in fact was scared of something (losing you, primarily). Yeah, you comforted him through nightmares, but even then he managed to carry an aura of control.  

This wasn't about  holding onto the life you’ve built together, the one that’s felt so fragile lately. And for the first time, you see how much that matters to him, too.

He starts to say something else, dropping your hands. His fingers fiddle behind his back, seemingly nestled in his back pocket. He stares like he intended to say something else, lips parting and closing right back. In the next second, he seems to shift gears, pulling you into a hug. 

You welcome the warm embrace, as the chill has started to gnaw at your bones. He plants a kiss to the top of your head, and you want to stay in that feeling for the rest of your life.

Sadly, he does eventually pull away to admit dinner on the balcony would be quite miserable, and the two of you move inside. 

You could spend the rest of the evening overthinking about what all that meant, but you don’t bother. Why go through that mental labor, when instead you could drink $500 champagne, carefree while your handsome boyfriend flirts with you like it’s the first date. 

You don’t think about it then, or later in the night when your legs are pressed to your chest and you can’t recall a single thing he said. You focus on what he’s saying then–filthy words about who you belong to, and exactly where you belong–a whimpering mess underneath him.

Even when it turns possessive (more so than usual), when your throat is littered with marks and his hand stands to leave another on his hip, you don’t think of it. But it’s the only thing on Tony’s mind. When another orgasm rips through you, all he can think about is how much he needs you. He whispers ‘you’re mine’ over and over and over as you fall apart just so your broken moans can still echo–so he can hear just how true it is. How could you, with such a dutiful guide at the helm?

Afterwards, when you’re drained of every ounce of life, it still doesn't bother you. You don’t wonder if tonight might be another night he slips into plain clothes and disappears until sunrise. You can’t muster a single thought as his arm slinks around your waist to pull you closer. 

You simply close your eyes, and let sleep take you. 

Eventually the days tick by to the gala, and you’re somewhere between impressed and overstimulated with all the ensuing holiday glamor. 

Though, you can’t say he doesn’t go all out. 

The first floor of Stark Industries is transformed from a cold minimalist space to Ebenezer Scrooge's worst nightmare. A makeshift stage sits at one end, complete with enough tinsel to suffocate a horse and twinkling garlands. Piles of fake snow anoint the corners, and a particularly large one sits beneath a 12-foot tall Christmas tree in the middle of the lobby. The open bar even serves drinks in frosted holiday glasses. He even has the guards wearing reindeer ears. 

By ten p.m. the vast floor seems smaller than a shoebox, packed with guests in evening gowns and tailored tuxedos. Initially, you’d planned on wearing a new piece for the gala–something to make the overwhelming festivity Tony demanded. Once it came time to get dressed, your eyes caught the sanguine dress. You hadn’t gotten the chance to wear it since your first date. It had felt too exquisite for any other occasion, but for some reason you were drawn to wear it tonight. 

You wish you could say Tony had a good reaction–or a reaction at all. From sunrise until the doors opened, he’s caught up in planning and preparations. Matter of fact, you were two hours into the gala and had only seen glimpses of him shaking hands in the crowd. It takes away from the expected familiarity. You imagined this night to be simple, easy for you to blend it with Tony on your arm, in his home your home. Instead, you wander like a lost gazelle, feeling every pair of eyes on you. You want to blame the dress. Revealing and bright red.

In the blurry swarm of faces, bright auburn stands out. Natasha wouldn’t be your first pick, but she’s the only familiar face and you need a respite.

You squeeze in next to her at one of the corner tables. The spice of her perfume permeates your nose but you can look past it for the moment. She pays you no mind at first, legs crossed and head turned to the crowd. You don’t mind one bit. It’s quieter towards the back, and you have no issue with it staying that way. 

Natasha sighs deeply, almost in boredom, maybe annoyance, but not with you. 

“I don’t know how you stand him.”

“How do you figure?” you respond absently, picking apart at a stray piece of tinsel.

“One of the richest men on Earth-I know he’s got the ego to match it.”

“You’d know better than I would, wouldn’t you?” you answer. You’d gotten the sense Natasha and Tony back way further than him and Pepper a while ago,

“Touche, but I’m not dating him.” she shifts to take another sip from her glass, “though, I’m not really sure why you are.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, do you really love him, or are you just after a family fortune?” Emerald eyes points like knives, her tone blending from casualty to scorn.

“W-what,” you stammer, “Of course I love him–Tony pursued me.”

“Please, he’d pursue anything with a pulse,” Natasha chuckles, “and relax, I’m just finally getting around to doing my due diligence.” 

“Your ‘due diligence’ is being a cunt?”

“Ooh! I see you’re a feisty one–you did sit here after all, you know.” she muses.

“Just needed a break from the crowd,” you mummer, rising. 

“Stay then–relax, like I said.” she gestures towards your now-empty seat. When you sigh and retake your place, she smiles. “I like you, you know.”

“We’ve barely spoken.” you declare, a dry chuckle spewing alongside. 

“That doesn’t mean I don’t know a smart person when I see one.” 

“Smart?”

“Smart decisions, going out with Tony, not screwing that up, though I’ve been told you’ve come close a few times.”

“Who–”

“This isn’t an interrogation, like I said, I like you–I don’t really care what happens between you two.”

“Then what is this?” you flag the nerdy tuxedoed waiter for a glass of water. 

“You said it yourself, we’ve barely spoken. My job is to keep Tony’s business running smoothly, and that’s become a lot harder since he won’t make a single decision without considering the ‘y/n’ of it all.” 

You scoff, unimpressed. “We don’t talk about his business.”

“Oh, I know,” Natasha remarks, “A bartender has no idea how to run a billion dollar corporation, and even less of an idea how to advise one.” 

“This is the part where you tell me I have no business being with him, right?” The waiter drops off a tall pitcher of water for you both. Once your glass is full, he passes along a message that Tony’s speech starts soon. 

“Dear god no,” Natasha laughs, “I imagine you’ve heard that enough–and he’s much more pleasant since you came around. Besides, you’re living the dream.” 

“Is that so?” You have to give a laugh of your own (considering you had a bit of jealousy buried for her). 

“Oh yes, filthy rich, live in a penthouse, never work another day in your life, loving husband–maybe not my dream, but still a dream.” 

You don’t know if she’s trying to be funny but your next laugh is genuine, and she joins in.

“What is your dream, then?” you question.

Natasha’s grin stiffens, surprised. Contemplation passes for a second and you worry that you’ve underdone the last three minutes of camaraderie. 

“Ballet teacher–but that stays at this table.” She gives you a matching pointed look.

“My lips are sealed.” You do try not to giggle, but it’s odd to imagine her frigidity in a warm lit studio surrounded by tutus. 

“Did you mean it, what you said about Tony? That things are...okay?” Natasha asks, referring to Tony’s sobriety. It’s weird how everyone dances around it, especially someone so usually straightforward as her. 

It was weeks ago when you parroted that claim. And you only call it that because the question annoys the fuck out of you. It’s entirely subjective, and you give in to the optimistic look in their eye and tell them what they want to hear. He’s fine, better even.

Maybe it’s because she’s being nice, or because you already gave up this facade with Harley, but you can’t be bothered to pretend you know what’s going on with him all the time. Besides, clearly you weren’t doing a good enough job for her to ask you about it again

“I want to say yes, but I don’t know, I guess?” you admit, staring into the crowd. 

Natasha’s mouth parts to speak again, only to have the microphone’s feedback interrupt her. The host–some Nobel prize winning chemist Tony invited to pull donors–clears his throat before starting his introduction, and the noise draws to a lull. Natasha excuses herself, presumably to find Tony before his speech. You decide to stay at the back of the lobby, with a good enough view of the stage. 

Supposedly this entire sordidly festive affair had a true business purpose, some big announcement Tony was making on the ‘future of the company’. He didn’t explain much more than that, and you’re certain the technical logistics were beyond you anyway. 

After a long, boring welcome, the mic is passed off to Tony. It’s the first time today you’ve been able to see him fully–draped in a jet black tuxedo and bright red bowtie. 

It whines again in his grip, and Tony pauses once the cheers die down, glancing at the expectant faces below. Thick cards press into his palm, each written meticulously inked by Natasha last night He clears his throat, glancing out past the lights into the crowd. He hopes they can’t see how heavy the stillness starts to weigh on him like before. The sudden quiet, all that attention. Including yours, somewhere out there. His heart stalls at how must look to you up here. Larger than life probably, or maybe you weren’t looking at all (he hopes you aren’t). A hundred odd pairs of eyeballs, and he hides from yours. 

Tony knew what he had to do, and was quite confident in his choice. But he can’t risk looking you in the eye while he does it. Ironically, his decision had very little to do with you, and everything to do with Pepper. The edge of his mouth still twitches. 

“Tonight…” he starts, turning the twitch into a warm smile, “…I’ve asked you all to be here in celebration, to celebrate Stark Industries, and talk about the future of the company,” He clears his throat, rolling his shoulders as if trying to loosen some unseen knot.

There’s a small, brief ripple of confusion among the front of the room, murmurs. Something shifts in his expression—just a flash—before his eyes catch something and harden. A gesture is made to the guard at the end of the stage. His hand tightens around the mic.

“To keep things transparent,” he says, stuffing the cards into his pocket, “the real reason I threw this party, asked you all to be here, is because I want everyone to see how much this means to be.”

Your ears perk up. Natasha swears under her breath, glancing at you before sharply leaving the table, tapping away at her phone. Tony can’t hide from your gaze anymore, and he finds your confused face in the back corner. Before you think about a path to escape, the crowd follows his attention, taking their eyes from the billionaire to the nobody fiddling with tinsel alone.

“I want to celebrate the love I have for this woman, and take this opportunity to share it with everyone.” 

What the hell is he doing?, you think. He can't be doing this here, like this. 

“The truth is,” he pauses, feeling his phone buzz off the hook (most certainly Natasha telling him to stop), “I’m getting married, and Stark Industries will be welcoming a new partner in its operations.”

The room erupts in a chorus of oos and awes, all to the tune of your racing heart. It takes you a second to process. He means getting married to you. You never even talked about marriage, the future, anything like that. Yeah, maybe in passing the idea came up, but at no point did you accept a marriage proposal. 

Everything feels nauseatingly blurry after. Random individuals come over with their congratulations, while half the crowd stares and the other half still bothers to listen to the rest of Tony’s speech. It’s a bunch of nonsense about restructuring and profits, and you’re too confused, pissed, and too fed up with fake smiles to bother standing around to listen. 

You suffer through two more superficial conversations about the marriage you were only made privy a few minutes ago. Finally, you escape to the restroom. You find an empty stall to hide in, trying to process what was going through Tony’s mind.

He couldn’t be serious, could he? This wasn’t real–it was some ploy or tactic. He didn’t genuinely intend to marry you. You didn’t like to think of the long-term for the same reasons you didn’t think about the short-term. This was unpredictable, you learned that. You learned to be okay with that. You could soak in the pleasures indefinitely without ever worrying about how it might all end. This, this brought it into a sharp focus you weren’t ready for. 

You’re not even certain he’s fully divorced yet. 

Once your palms finally dry, and the threat of a panic attack fades, you step out of the restroom. You don’t even know what to think, and the sterile walls weren’t helping. Glancing back toward the gala, you spot Tony scanning the room—until his eyes find yours. You don't hold his gaze long; instead, you turn sharply toward the elevator. You hear your name faintly called from somewhere behind, but you keep moving down the hall, ignoring it.

He breaks into an awkward jog to catch you. You keep your eyes forward.

“[Y/N], look I know this wasn’t what you were expecting, and I can explain I just need–” he starts,

“You’ve lost your fucking mind, Stark,” Natasha heels stomp angrily down the hall, stepping in front you to point her finger in Tony’s face, “what the hell are you doing?”

“Alright, alright, not you right now–cut it out!” He smacks her hand away flippantly, “I’m not entirely sure you and Matt haven’t been drinking the kool-aid either.” 

Tony huffs and straightens his bowtie and you step back from Natasha’s heat. Behind the three of you, someone gets their hands on a karaoke machine and a terrible rendition of Santa Baby follows.

“The whole point of this bullshit was to go public and get out of this shit so explain to me how this gets us anywhere closer to that?” She grits.

Tony throws his hands in the air, “Maybe it doesn’t, but your dumbass plan wasn’t any better.”

“You think marrying her is going to help you? You know I was joking when I said that, right?” 

Suddenly, a spotlight seems to beam over you. Neither party stops their death glare to fully acknowledge you. That wasn’t a proposal–you were just some pawn in their game.

You don’t even know what the hell they’re playing for.

“This is a great time to remind you who signs your checks.” 

Only then do her eyes bother to glance at you. 

“This isn’t gonna end well, and you know it.” She concedes, still stern. After that, she stomps back off into the crowd. 

Tony turns towards you, but you're already back at the elevator, watching the buttons finally reach L.

“[Y/N], please–” 

The doors ding open and you don’t stop to hear anymore. Despite your feverous attempt to close the doors, Tony makes his way inside. The door just barely misses his coattail, to your annoyance.   

Even worse, and completely on par for the evening, the jingle bells elevator music plays the moment the doors shut. 

A hard, awkward beat passes. You’re pinching the bridge of your nose, sparsely emptied of any more energy for this night (mentally or otherwise). 

“You look fucking stellar, by the way, love that dress–”

“Tony.”

“Right, you’re right, sorry.”

Neither of you spare another word from the elevator to the bedroom. Tony follows behind, closing the door softly as you toss your earring onto the dresser. You’re waiting for him to speak again. Explain, deflect–hopefully just explain, but he doesn’t. He sits at the end of the bed, eyes trained to you in the mirror. 

“Why didn’t you ask me? Alone? Before today?” you sigh, “

“I wanted to, I was going to, the other night on the balcony I just–” he answers quickly, but trails off in a way that has you turning to face him instantly.

You don’t doubt that for a second. Truthfully, the level of effort and random heartfeltness of the night gave you some clue. But, when it never came you just chalked it up to Tony being Tony. Painfully romantic in most conditions. 

“You just what, didn’t want to?” There’s anger, though you know it's hypocritical. 

“No I just,” he exhales, dragging his fingers through slicked back hair, “I knew you’d say yes.”

“You knew I’d say yes? What the hell does that mean?” Your necklace joins the rest of your jewelry with a loud clink. 

“This is coming out all wrong–”

“You think?” The six inch heels are the next thing to go, throwing haphazardly in the closet. Tony rises to cut you off in front of the door, eyes pleading for understanding you’re not sure you have. 

“I saw the look in your eye, I’d done so much to make sure you’d say yes in that moment because I needed you to–not because I wanted it and that wasn’t the way it was supposed to go.”

“You don’t know that I’d say yes.”

“You would,” he says with that practiced charm, all sunny but hollow. A trademark Stark move—confidence teetering on arrogance. When you hesitate, he’s ready with another word, a gaze intense enough to hypnotize. “You know you would.”

You laugh, looking away as if it’s absurd. “Are you really so sure?”

His hand slips into yours, gentle but firm, thumb brushing across your knuckles in a way that makes it seem like he’s talking to you, only you, and not the thousand voices in his head screaming at him to get this done. 

“I know you’re scared, but” he says, leaning into your warmth. “Don’t leave me hanging here, please.”

“You sound so desperate, it’s kind of sad.” 

But there’s a softness to your voice now, a hint that he might be getting through. For a moment he was worried he wouldn’t be able to get away with this again, that you’d learned all his tricks since the boutique. 

It’s enough of a crack in your resolve for him to keep pushing. He slips closer, voice low. 

“Look, I know I keep asking a lot of you, but, There’s a pause, just long enough to let the ache in his voice sit, before he adds, “this could fix everything, everything can be okay.”

There’s a sliver of doubt in your eyes, and that’s what he clings to. 

“And when was the last time everything was okay, Tony?” You watch him in the bureau’s mirror. 

 “It could be. All I need for you to do is say yes, so I can fix this,” He squeezes your hand, the hint of desperation all but veiled now. 

And when you finally exhale, when that flicker of sympathy slips in, he knows he’s won.

It’s good enough. Better than he hoped, honestly. The relief slides into him like a tonic, loosening the tight lines in his jaw. He keeps his hand on yours, knowing the warmth of it will serve to distract from the creeping dread, from the hollow pit that’s been widening ever since the stakes got so high he couldn't see the top of them.

For Tony, this is all still just a means to an end. One step closer to true liberty and the life he was supposed to have. If he had to lie and disappoint–cheat and charm, then he’d do it. It would be worth it. In the end, the sum of his achievements would outweigh his sins.

He reminded himself of that a month ago, the night before he decided to have the gala. When the bedroom door closes, a sigh of relief escapes. He was lucky that you didn’t catch the conversation with Matt and Natasha in full. What he had in the works was sensitive, and he couldn’t have that ruined by anyone knowing the details in advance. He couldn’t lose you again, not when he needed you most. 

There is a shred of guilt as the elevator whirs down to the garage. You’re probably thinking the worst, understandably, but there wasn’t anything he could do about it. Only to pray his love was enough to placate you for now. 

Especially when he doesn’t even want to fucking do this. Each day seems to come at the loss of his autonomy, another suit on his payroll telling him what’s best for his life. It’s more deplorable when the people closest to him come up with the shittiest ideas to fix this. He can truly thank Pepper for his recent migraines (and a bunch of old ones). Filing for divorce was quite a move to try to get what she wanted, and throw him to the mercy of the Securities and Exchange Commission at the same time. If you listen to Matt, Tony’s mere minutes away from a cold cell. If you listen to Nat, Tony’s plummeting stock will be the sealer of his fate. And as of right now, two of the smartest people he knows can’t come up with anything that doesn’t come at the cost of you or his company. And he can’t live with either. 

Since, both their solutions arguably suck, he tells a lie or lack thereof to find a third opinion. Or a hail mary. However it’s called, it’s a long shot that he can’t be certain won't jeopardize him even more. 

The drive to Hudson Valley is peaceful, to the point he forgets his world is on fire. It’s late, or early, depending on who you ask. Few cars grace the road and he finds solace in the solitude. The radio is ignored for the repetitive rumble of the tires, until paved tar turns into rough gravel. 

When Pepper sent over the address, he wasn’t too surprised. She always rambled about moving out of the city, dreaming of cabins in the woods and sprawling hills. Tony could never wrap his head around living anywhere else. In retrospect, that was another early omen. They never even shared the same dream. 

He can’t say it doesn’t look impressive. A dark a-frame that strikes beautifully against the earthen spruce. Maybe that is why she had him drive all the way out here and not somewhere in the city. Part of masterplan to show him what she presumes he’s missing out on. 

The porch lights flicker on once he parks, and he makes his way up the stone path to find Pepper sitting just outside the door. She’s preoccupied with a thick novel, acknowledging Tony with the raise of a finger. 

It’s strange, being alone with her for the first time in years. She’s not dressed in Valentino but tattered college sweats he had forgotten about. Seeing her at the penthouse all those months ago was troubling, but this was different. Here, it’s too quiet. Even though he’s a few paces away from the table, he can hear the tension of her nails against the pages–the swirl of wind through her hair. Sure, she can’t control the environment but he knows this is a calculated move too. To make him wait, make him uncomfortable. Every other sense sharpens in the absence of constant noise. Norway spruce and duplicity. 

He’s losing his nerve and he needs this over. 

“Why the hell’d you make me drive this far out anyway?” He tries to keep a level voice, knowing she wouldn’t hesitate to use his irritation against him. 

“It’s the one place I’m certain your little spy hasn’t found yet.” she murmurs.

Okay, fine, so he’d used his son to spy on his ex-wife. Big deal, he couldn’t be certain she wasn’t doing the same. Plus, Harley had offered to keep an eye on her. It was a matter of security, not personal (mostly). 

“Can we get on with this?”

“I suppose,” she sighs, tossing the book onto the table. The thud reverberates, stark against the stillness of the valley. “But I’m not sure what it is you want from me–you did call me after all.”

“I did.” And he’s regretting it every second.

“So, what can I do for you?”

“You can start by accepting the deal Murdock sent, and let this be over.” 

Pepper chuckled, crossing her legs. “What are you playing at, Tony?”

“I’m not playing at anything–this needs to be over, you need to move on.”

“Oh please, don’t flatter yourself,” she scoffs, “this is all very rich considering you’ve held me in litigation for months, you rejected my offers over and over, so why the sudden change of heart?”

A cold chill and burning annoyance pull him closer to the table. 

“Yes, because I should just give you forty-five percent of my company–I can get it gift-wrapped too if that makes it all the better.”  

“That’s right, your ego won’t let you admit I’m the only reason you have a company to speak of.”

“Can’t you find an ounce of compassion in that gaping pit you call a soul, for me?”

“Such harsh words from someone who needs something from me.” Pepper smirks and stands once the heat recedes from Tony’s face. 

“Take the twenty percent, finalize the papers, and end this, or else there won’t be anything for either of us.”

She circles the table to stop in his view. Tony wishes he had a time machine.

“Let me guess, someone’s under a little heat.” she muses, voice high and dripping in sugary venom.

“Little is an understatement.” He steps back, hands tight in her pockets.

“And why would I give up my shares to help you?”

“This entire thing started with you, and the second it wasn’t convenient you ran. The least you could fucking do is help me out of it.” Tony snapped. 

“Right, and if I don’t?” 

She still laughs, because it’s all a good game to her. Entertaining to see him against the ropes–desperate enough to reach out to her. For once though, it’s calming. It soothes his anger and reminds him why he agreed to this at all. This time, he had an ace up his sleeve.

“Then I’ll tell just that to whoever needs to know–you know I have the evidence. You’ll go down right alongside me.”

In the quiet solace, for a moment, she’s outplayed. Her smile falters and brows crinkle. Truthfully, as much as he’d love to, he could never sell her out. But she had a terrible tendency of assuming the worst of him, and he was banking on that. 

“Please do, I’m sure they’d love to hear what I know about Obadiah.” 

Oh, so that was her ace.

A soft buzz vibrates his back pocket. He doesn’t need omniscience to know it’s you. He can picture it clearly–you, traipsing around the penthouse looking for signs of life. He knows you hate that feeling, and he hates to cause it. 

There’s a more pressing issue; not giving Pepper the emotional reaction she wants.

“You wouldn’t do that.” Spare words from some forgotten bin. 

“Not if you don’t force my hand.” 

A painful pause ensues. The valley’s fauna recognize the tension, silencing out of respect for the sound of Tony’s plan shattering. A true stalemate. Not what he came for, but his throat swells thinking about the aftermath from a war of attrition. 

He can’t let that get out, above all else. That’d be his dissolution. Stark Industries, everything he worked for would vanish. You, without question. You never see him the same again. The crafted image he sought, the life he was creating with you for you, it’d be wasted effort. 

“What’s it gonna take for you to help me?”

After another migraine-causing conversation, Tony slumps into the driver seat, shoulders heavy and eyelids even heavier. Fifteen minutes have passed since your text, and he wonders if it's better not to answer at all. 

[ everything okay?  ]

[ be home soon ]

Ignore. Deflect. Move on.  

The drive back to the city is less pleasant. Actually, it’s a nightmare that he disassociated through the moment he entered the garage. He was, tragically, fucked. There was no telling if he had the capital to replace whatever Pepper took, and he certainly couldn’t risk everything by going public. And if he didn't give Pepper what she wanted, he might be looking at a depressing future behind bars. And that was not an option. 

So he’s at the mercy of the ginger Judas who put him on the path in the first place. Go figure. There’s self-blame for entertaining this option at all. For not guessing she’d snake her way into the upperhand like always. This wasn’t a beast he could defeat with regular tactician and planning. No, he needed to surprise her–usurp her. Piss her off the way she pissed him off. Go against the grain and act in a way that she couldn't predict. Something she couldn’t maneuver around. 

So, when the mic graced his hands, and the coached words on his marriage, the marriage  he never asked you about. The marriage he couldn’t ask you about because he wasn’t ready either. 

He said fuck it, and did it anyway. 

He knew you would’ve said yes then, so you obviously would answer the same afterwards. Even if you were predictably, and understandably pissed, you loved him, and he intended to use that. Grand gestures were his thing after all. A huge public soiree was more on brand than some private dinner. And, he was Tony Stark. The man who got everything he wanted. Why would your hand be any different? Certainly it fell under the same bracket (and really, an argument could be made that he had your loyalty regardless–this was just a title). 

It was justified in his mind the moment the words hit the mic. It just sounds right– Y/N Stark. Like he should have made it that way a long time ago. For a second, the ceaseless pit of vengeance is taken over by something more. 

It;s even easier to justify when he gets a wave of childlike excitement over it. Imagining the ring on your finger, the life he could have with you. Palm trees and salt waves on a remote coast. No more Stark Industries, no more nightmares about cold federal prisons, just you and him. 

Then, in the crowd, he spots what must be Pepper’s lookout. A short, brayish man stays still while dozen roar in congratulatory apologize. Pepper should’ve coached him better, a clear sore loser in a room full of winners. 

The real reason he’s doing this comes back. Tony makes a quick signal to the guard behind him, and moments later the man is escorted upstairs. He used to hate doing this. But he soon learned that humanity gets you nowhere in this business. Still, he almost tells his team to go easy. Then he remembers the cold look on Pepper’s face at the valley while he plead for mercy like a sad dog. 

Fuck that. The man knew the risks. It’s not Tony’s fault they didn’t play in his favor. 

Out of whatever kindness was left, he makes a note to have his body dumped somewhere nice. 

PART SIX SOON

[talenlee]

3e: Winners and Losers In Lawful Space

Planescape is a silly place.

Dungeons & Dragons is a wholeheartedly silly game, and it’s important to remember that what makes it silly is an expansive growth out of a particular root. It is a tree of many branches but thanks to the way that it encourages people to build their own things on top of it, it has become a sprawling kind of folk narrative and generally accepted consensus material that then a company comes along and tries to augment and supplement. Still, as much as a corporate mind is at the head of what gets published, what gets handed to that corporation is going to derive from the mind of a dork who likes D&D. To that end, D&D’s lore is a constant push-pull between the kinds of nerds who like organising lists and the kind of nerds who like to invent new types of dragons they want to have sex with and they’re all trying to integrate one another’s material because that’s how nerds demonstrate mastery over a topic.

The result is that D&D lore is composed of parts that neatly and smoothly fit together and parts that should be airbrushed on the side of a van, and all subjects exist in a space between those two points, on a spectrum. And nowhere is this more evident than in the way that 2e’s setting Planescape introduced elements that 3rd edition tried to hide.

Planescape, as a setting, exists very close to the ‘airbrushed on a Van’ side of things, and it’s extremely obvious when you look at its roots in 2nd Edition. In this space, much of what makes Planescape Planescape was codified. For those of you unfamiliar, Planescape is a setting made up of the idea of ‘planes’ as distinct, discrete universes with their own rules separated not by time and space, but just by barriers or magical boundaries. You know how Narnia is supposed to work, with the wardrobe? It’s like that, but there are a lot more wardrobes and they all go to different places. Think a sort of multi-level Isekai scheme.

Anyway, it’s a setting with like, multiple whole universe-sized worlds, that may or may not have planets inside them, some of which follow a very narrow set of identifying rules, like the elemental plane of Fire, which is full of Fire, or are just like ‘here, but a bit weird,’ like Bitopia, which is a whole plane that is mirrored vertically at a certain height. If you look up in Bitopia, you see another whole country up there – that’s why it’s called that. Also everyone there is bisexual.

Planescape sought to build out more of that structured universe and then in each structured space, fill it with interesting notions. But the structure is a little odd, in that it’s hard to make an infinite number of chairs organise neatly, someone is always putting out one more where they shouldn’t. That means there are tidy diagrams of the Planar cosmology, and then you look inside any of the bubbles in that diagram and find it’s full of gibberish.

It was in 2e that, as far as I know, we were introduced world-wise, to the characters of the Modrons.

There’s a whole writing form that involves referring to Modrons in deliberately obtuse ways, with Modrons being the individual, plural, categorical, and utility terms for this people, but what you need to know about them is that Modrons are weird lil guys that are made out of a basic geometric shape – pyramid, cube, dodecahedron, all the way up to sphere (or down to sphere, depending on who you ask). They are truly perfect Lil Guys, a byproduct of a plane of true law and order which doesn’t in any way cohere to what humans (the people playing the game) necessarily assume about law.

They make a lot of sense in a storybook kind of way where you don’t need to have big answers for what they are or how they work or even how their philosophical bias towards pure lawfulness works. In the world of 2ed, where sometimes things that sound like they should be well explained, clear rules are kinda yada-yada-yada’d in a space that you might imagine is flavour text, the Modrons left a bunch of questions unanswered and seemingly, that was good. It was good that they were heavily ambiguous because what was the life cycle of ‘an orb?’ Any answer made them less mysterious and pushed them away from the oddness that they represented.

Anyway, 3e was an attempt by a serious company to do serious things and that’s why when they went back to talk about the Creatures That Lived In The Lawful Planes, they came up with the Inevitables.

Inevitables are the demons of small minds, writ large. Literally, the point of an Inevitable is to be a Lawful Neutral version of a Demon, an entity that exists purely based on rules, coalesced out of a world made of rules, and with nothing holding them back from expressing that. Each of the Inevitables is meant to respond to a rule in the universe and then enforce it. They are self-appointed near-immortal construct cops, and they’re meant to oppose things and people that break the rules that they, specifically, are meant to care about.

These rules are completely out of whack, though, because one of them is meant to enforce say, justice, another the inevitability of death and another, the way the desert is a fixed ecosystem that nobody should try and change or interact with. And in that case, there are a bunch of plants that the Inevitables are going to have issues with, that don’t seem to be capable of forming complex political allegiances.

There’s a really interesting distinction between Inevitables and Modrons, to me. Modrons are weird and interesting but also, there’s nothing they can do that answers a question. Inevitables are a fun challenge that’s supposed to be present to oppose players or potentially be recruited into an adventure, but not for too long. But Inevitables, the 3e attempt to populate Lawful Planes with A Kind of Guy, sort of fell apart and are now more of a trivia question while Modrons have endured into 4th and 5th edition.

I don’t think there’s some greater, better reason for it or anything. I don’t think that Inevitables failed because they were Bad Design or something. But I do think that for me, the way that Modrons represented Weirdness was much more interesting than the ways the Inevitables sucked weirdness away with their simple, clear consideration of certain things as being part of natural reality.

After all: Inevitables would hunt down people who extended their lifespans because ‘everyone must die.’ But Inevitables were immortal. That’s a pretty interesting thing to juxtapose and maybe a character could struggle with that.

Or maybe they could make a big speaking trumpet and demand that everyone else refer to them as a Spokesmodron which is, in my opinion, much funnier.

Check it out on PRESS.exe to see it with images and links!

[bomber-grl]

Nico Di Angelo x Son of the fates ♾️

Pairing(s): Nico Di Angelo x Male! Reader

The request was one of the specific fates but I feel like my hcs could be applicable to any

Definitely an interesting dynamic

When you’re first introduced to each other there isn’t much interest but then he hears your godly parent

I’d imagine that there would be a ton of thoughts going through his head but one especially comes to mind

That would be Bianca

Sure, he’s learned to accept what happened but the pain and need for her still exists- even if it’s a bit different

You two were introduced in a group, probably while things were being discussed in the big house between cabins

Either way you peak his interest and his eyes follow you wherever you go

Unbeknownst to him, you’re aware of this-

Not many people know but you’re able to see glimpses of the future and especially in visions

And lesser known? You’re even able to manipulate the fates of people

With some limits of course but it’s still all the same

So when Nico approaches you it’s probably in the middle of the night and asks you a single question

“Could Bianca have met a different fate”?

It’s shocking to say the least

The person whose so closed off and secretive comes to a complete stranger and asks a question that no one would’ve expected

You can’t say u don’t know what he’s talking about, you know of Bianca

I mean who doesn’t remember her? Maybe some newer campers but you’re especially familiar

So, with the options of letting Nico be torn apart by harpy’s from finding him out after curfew or letting him in, you chose the latter

You let him in and let him know it’s a bit difficult to see the possible alternate futures without the person directly there- but someone close to her would do

So you do what you need and see into her possible futures- albeit a bit difficult as her thread was cut many years ago

Well in the end you have to break the terrible news of the fact there was no way around it- unless someone else died in her place but even that was close to impossible of happening

He left with a small thanks and you knew he was gone once the crickets started chirping again

The next morning you see him around again- maybe even more

It was hard to say how it happened but before no time you two were like this 🤞

That’s to say- close)

It was before sunrise and the two of you were just chilling in the morning freshness near the lake

Usually Nico despised the morning- but he’d be up before 12 p.m today, just for you

You two sat there going about your usual teasing and sarcastically dark humored comments when he turns to you and blurts out

“I like you”

Your head obviously whipped from the rising sun to him just to see him facing the other way

Knowing him, he was probably flushed and even more? Scared of ruining your friendship

Maybe he was braver than you thought because he turns back to you and asks “did you see that?”

Obviously referencing your ability to see the future

The whole situation was just funny, maybe there was something wrong with you but maybe not since Nico was laughing too

Of course you two actually discuss things and soon after you were proud to announce your new relationship

Things weren’t all that different- Nico was still your best friend but even better, your boyfriend

You two would usually go on quests and stuff together

I mean it’d mean the possible end for anyone who dared to separate you two

Your future sight could confirm that

Well anyway,

Things remained the same, demigods you cared for died and life happened

Normal things for any demigod to go through but there’s a memory that especially stuck out

That one being when Nico had discovered your ability to change fate

It was not something to be expected of a demigod- especially a power as strong as this

Of course there’s some limits- you’re not exactly a god but it’s whatever

Yknow, because of the limits (rarely being able to use it unless in dire need)

when Nico ran out of juice and tired out, a monster or whatever it was that you guys were battling got him trapped and fear overtook you all at once

You don’t exactly remember how it happened but all you know is that it just did

And while the monster was originally fated to die and Nico was to be direly hurt- you changed it so it’d die from complications and Nico would be alright

What happened wasn’t really discussed until after the quest and until after you reached Nicos cabin

No one else (Hazel) was staying over so might as well join him in a nice cuddle sesh

The silence stretched for ages and everything must come to an end, so obviously that silence did

Nico spoke up in a way you could tell he was hyper aware of his wording and tone

“What…what was that power? I was clearly going to get hurt in the end”

He continued “and you blacked out, you don’t have to explain but if anything I’m just worried”

He tried being non chalant about it but his worry was prominent

“I’m able to change the fate of people- but only when in dire need and when I’m especially scared!” You arose and faced Nico panicked, trying to make sure he didn’t get the wrong idea.

Especially since you know how he resented Percy for not doing anything about she that shall not be named)

Nico sighed, sensing how you feel “I hope you didn’t hold that information thinking I’d be upset you didn’t change her fate- it hurts,it does and we both know it’s a sore topic but I’ve matured past blaming people”

You were surprised he directly brought up the elephant in the room but it didn’t end there

“I’m also sorry that I made you feel like you couldn’t talk about something about yourself.” He looked at you with a calm smile and his eyes softened “I love everything about you, so I wouldn’t blame you for anything that has nothing to do with you, even if something could’ve been changed.”

His whole speech was so heartfelt and the night ended with the tension eased and the two of you guys snuggled tightly with each other.

There’s of course some sweet moments between the two of you

It definitely makes for an interesting dynamic when you confess that you knew you’d end up with Nico and when he asks how or why or whatever

You simply reply that your strings are intertwined with one another

This definitely makes Nico more flustered than he’d like to admit

Even if you two never discuss this again he’s always thinking about

And thinking about how you and him are basically soulmates always reassures him when and if he ever feels insecure of your relationship

Not to mention how it’s got him giggling in secret but let’s not discuss that

Of course he doesn’t know if you’re being honest but it makes him feel warm and fuzzy all the same (it is true, I confirm)

Eventually you explore your abilities more but you end up wherever fate leads you(get it?😉) cringe ik 😔

[in1-nutshell]

HELLO‼️ I hope you are safe and well with the hurricane and I'm so glad that I'm able to finally send a request so here it is‼️

There's not many rescue bots oneshots and I want to change that, so in Rescue bots theres human skater buddy with their head in the clouds leading them to getting into trouble frequently (like nearly getting hit by a car or just getting into the crossfire of the rescue bots shenanigans) and it's like to a point where the whole when they are out on a mission have to keep a spare eye/optic out for the little human‼️

I hope you'll be able to get to this before it's deleted or whatever, but still, I can't wait to see what you come up with for this concept. Thanks, and have a good day/night‼️

Introducing Danger magnet Buddy! love this concept!

Hope you enjoy!

Human Buddy the skater and a danger magnet

SFW, Platonic, Human Reader

RB

The Burns family had known about Buddy’s little quirks for years.

They were after all good friends with Cody throughout their childhood.

The kid had their head up in the clouds or down with their skates.

Luckily, Cody always seemed to find ways to get them back down to Earth.

Too bad there wasn’t much he could do about their terrible luck with dangerous situations.

They never mean to be in these situations, they just happen when they’re around.

It took a while for the Burns to finally understand it wasn’t their fault.

It was a small island, one was bound to get stuck in the crossfire at some point.

When the Bots arrived, Cody made sure to debrief them a bit about his friend’s tendencies.

Heatwave is convinced that Buddy is doing it for attention.

There is now way someone can be THAT unlucky.

Not even on this island.

Kade and him have little talks about Buddy being a ‘danger magnet.’

Kade: “You think they are doing it for attention?” Heatwave: “Isn’t it obvious? There’s no way they aren’t doing it for any other reason.” Kade chuckles. Kade: “We used to think that too… but after a few years of seeing their little dumb face around, you kinda start believing it.” Heatwave: “What do you mean?” Kade: “There a bit of a danger magnet.” Heatwave: “Why is that a magnet you have!?”

He does start believing the existence of ‘the danger magnet’ after a few missions where Buddy just showed up randomly.

Heatwave hates to see Buddy in the line of fire, especially when they have no control over it.

Always reminds his team to keep an extra optic out for the little skater.

Speaking of skates, Heatwave actually likes seeing Buddy skate around the bunker.

Especially when they show off some of their tricks.

Buddy is a bit oblivious to why Heatwave is so insistent to them staying with Cody on com job.

Chase and Boulder are confused.

Why does Buddy go to these dangerous places?

They aren’t durable enough to be so close to the danger.

Chase has a separate file on all of Buddy’s incidents.

Chief Burns: “Chase? You, okay?” Chase is typing on a data pad. Chase: “I am simply reporting Buddy’s latest incident on today’s rescue. Today they were stuck in the same tree as Mister Pettypaws… I still wonder how they got up there with their skates…” Chief Burns: “Oh, don’t think too hard about that Chase. That’s just how Buddy is.” Chase: “Do they like danger?” Chief Burns: “No, they just have a bad record of being in places at the wrong time.” Chase: “… I can try to clean their record if you allow me access to them.”

Boulder takes a more direct approach and asks Buddy why they keep going towards danger.

Buddy just shrugs and goes back to their skates.

The green mech decides to ask the others about Buddy’s behavior instead.

Boulder: “Is something wrong with them?” Graham: “Nothing’s wrong with them Boulder.” Boulder: “Then how come they always seem to be near our dangerous missions? Even Cody doesn’t do that too often.” Graham: “When you’ve known them as long as we have, you start believing the phrase ‘wrong place and the wrong time.’ We can’t exactly explain it, but the best we can do is look out for them. No one can control what happens outside Boulder.” Boulder: “Hmm… I guess you’re right.” Later… Chase and Boulder look at their creation with pride. Buddy is wrapped head to toe with bubble wrap. Buddy: “How am I gonna skate like this?” Chase: “Sacrifices must be made Buddy.”

The pair find Buddy’s skating to be interesting and a bit relaxing… as long as Buddy has the proper safety equipment on them.

 Buddy doesn’t like the ‘creative’ ways the bots are trying to keep them ‘safe’, but the thought is what counts.

Blades, unlike the others, fully understands the phrase ‘wrong place, wrong time.’

But he also believes an outside force is making Buddy go to these dangerous places.

Already has a bulletin board with the red string trying to figure out what could be making the little skater go to these places.

Blades shows the board to the rest of the bots. Blades: “I’m telling you guys! There’s a connection somewhere!” Heatwave: “… How long have you been working on this?” Blades: “Not important.” Chase: “Blades, is it highly unlikely that something is making Buddy do these things.” Blades: “But if you see what happened last month and 5 months ago—” Boulder: “Blades, when was the last time you recharged?” Blades: “Not important.” Heatwave: “I’m calling Dani.” Blades: "Wait don’t!”

He just doesn’t want Buddy to get hurt by being in places they aren’t supposed to be.

Blades has a separate med kit in his subspace labeled ‘Buddy’s’.

The bot loves Buddy’s skates and has already asked Doc Greene if he could make a pair for him.

Heatwave has tried to stop him from getting these skates too many times to count.

He isn’t known for being the best with balance.

Buddy enjoys Blades making little videos and changing music while they skate around.

[weepingtalecowboy]

Four meets the colors

I decided to be absolutely evil so here you go fanfic prompt :

What if four was never capable to combine into link but they didn’t even get the opportunity to take turns because everyone controls different body parts and they have to coordinate absolutely everything together and pulling the four sword back just to be four people again isn’t something they can just do

They learned to live with it but no matter how hard they try to make it look naturally

they still move in a way that feels wrong even when they are trying hard to cooperate

Their feet have slight delay

their hands have trouble gripping stuff in a way that looks naturally and one hand might grip the wrong side of a box ending with nearly dropping it

Their face can show different and several emotions at once and they can sometimes be heard mumbling to themself

And because of that they are perceived as unsettling or unstable by their own village

Their father couldn’t truly understand or accept them because link his child essentially died and they know it no matter how hard he tries to hide it

Their grandpa is getting older and even though he grieved his grandson he still wanted to accept them and when he is gone they would only have Zelda left

And she spends most her time in the castle ruling Hyrule

Shadow is not coming back ever again

And because of that spend as much time as they can on blacksmithing to not have to worry about things

But when linked universe happens they meet a version of them that has everything they could possibly want

Like their own bodies and lives

Shadow is still alive

The village doesn’t fear them

Vio,Blue , Red and Green all get to go by their own names

And four has to go by link

It’s genuinely paining them because it just doesn’t seem fair

Main while the colors hate how four is looking at him

Because they used to think that link would understand and support their decision to stay apart

But obviously link feels to good about himself as the perfect and superior hero of the four sword

And they all start hating him for it because it means that their decision wasn’t approved by the one person it mattered from the most

The chain feels the tension but doesn’t really know how to fix it so they separate both

And when they all get to four’s Hyrule they feel ashamed of how bad they are viewed by their own village

Because the colors are loved but they are not

So they tell them that when they put the sword back they never became one

The colors feel absolutely horrified when they realize the implications

Because four's existence sounds like their worst nightmare

And it makes them feel sick

That a version of them could be so screwed over by their own existence

And shadow isn’t even with them

And their dad doesn’t even want them to exist

Man and they thought they had it rough

Four gets to meet shadow and has a mental breakdown over it

Shadow is also very disturbed by the situation

Also they keep four there is no way hylia can stop them (it still is extremely weird when they interact with their counterparts because they like don’t always have the same expressions )

but also four is all fucked up like red is delusional (he was doing his own thing the entire adventure in the manga), blue has an obsession with keeping things under control(getting frozen and swallowed by a ghost is not fun) (which is why he is so obsessed with cleaning because it gives him a way to control the environment ) , Vio is depressed about shadow,green has a hero complex (he is link if you delete all personality traits except hero)

That combines into a mess of having their own personality but not enough to be their own people (just how they can’t even live without coordinating link's every step)

Yeah that won’t be fun

The colors have it easy in comparison