#I debated which cap

[niobiumao3]

[fake-ascension]

people who scream 'dan heng is NOT dan feng whatsoever' yet always tag any dan feng content as 'dan heng'

[fictionadventurer]

*

[nerkmidcharm]

do u like my aliens

[goddesstrolls]

Ren, what were things like before the crash?

"DIFFERENT."

"NOT COMPLETELY, BUT THERE ARE A LOT OF THINGS I TOOK FOR GRANTED."

"EATING. SLEEPING. NOT HAVING PHANTOM SENSATIONS, PAIN, HUNGER. GENERALLY HAVING A NORMAL LIFE, RELATIVELY SPEAKING."

"GETTING THERE. SLOWLY. BUT THERE'S NOTHING I WOULDN'T GIVE TO GO BACK."

[apatheticsunday]

Manifesting Destiny

AKA "Danny knows about Bruce Wayne's little adoption habit, so he actively fights back by making digs at the older man's age. He doesn't realize he essentially adopted himself by calling Bruce 'grandpa'!" prompt idea!!

Okay, so 19-year-old Jazz moves to Gotham because Arkham has an psychiatrist internship that guarantees a job after graduation from Gotham-U. She takes a 12-13 year old Danny with because the "ghost attacks" (i.e., her parents are getting very obsessed with dissecting Phantom and it's genuinely worrying) are getting worse. Now Danny's in Gotham Prep... along with Damian Wayne.

They do not get along.

Damian stabs Danny with a pencil, Danny bites Damian so hard that he needs stitches, and the detentions only increase their bloodthirst because, "He started it!!" It comes to a head when Damian shoves Danny down the stairs (he wasn't really meaning to, he just pushed too hard), and Danny goes down hard. As in not-getting-back-up kind of hard. And Damian realizes he just killed a civilian. He's running through contingency plans, trying to figure out whether he can hide the body or if he should confess to Father, when the Fenton boy's broken neck... becomes un-broken?? And he sits up??

So, 13-year-old Damian makes a logical decision. Daniel Fenton is clearly his Arch Nemesis. He's undeniably a meta (perhaps with super-healing abilities?) so he can withstand Damian's too-enthusiastic violence. And Danny's like, this fucker just killed me. I'm going to beat his ass. Except Damian has a really high pain tolerance and is literally the heir to the League of Assassins. Long story short, Damian and Danny have "play dates" where they spend the entire time trying to kill/beat each other up. Jazz is just happy that Danny seems to have made a friend.

Bruce, on the other hand, takes one look at a scrawny, black-haired, blue-eyed kid who clearly has some childhood trauma, and mentally becomes Bat Dad. He tried to approach the subject once. Bruce carefully, tentatively asked, "Do you have a place to stay, son? We have plenty of rooms." To which Danny replied, "I'm not your son, I have a dad!! Why don't you go sit down before you break a hip, grandpa!!" (Tim choked on his tea, Damian nearly climbed across the table to strangle Danny, and Dick - who doesn't even live at the manor, he was just dropping off a case from Bludhaven PD - laughed so hard he cried.)

Except... Danny keeps coming over to the Wayne Manor (since Damian refuses to 'spar' at Jazz's one bedroom apartment, as it lacks a personal gymnasium). And Bruce is still kind, no matter how many times Danny makes fun of him for wearing bifocals or turtlenecks, or when he just straight up calls Bruce an old man. Plus, Damian's kind of mellowed out, too. He's teaching Danny actual sparring techniques, hand-to-hand combat, and explains different types of weapons/how to use them. Alfred brings the boys snacks. Occasionally Dick and Jason will visit for dinner, ruffling the boy's hair and joking about something or another. He's even introduced to Steph, Cass, and Barbara.

It dawns on Danny one evening, when Alfred is readying the car to take him back to his and Jazz's apartment. Bruce is scraping leftovers into a plastic container for Jazz to re-heat when he gets home and Danny's debating quietly with Damian about whether octopi are smarter than Superman. (Damian says yes, octopi are definitely smarter; he's seen Superman mutter to himself "lefty loosey, righty tighty" when trying to unscrew a water bottle cap.)

Then Bruce is handing Danny the leftovers, and Danny distractedly gives Bruce a side-hug, saying, "Thanks, grandpa."

Totally unironically. Danny's internal monologue is just what the fuck did I just say as Bruce slips him a $20 ("For a treat on the way home.") and escorts him to the front door. He thinks about it as Alfred drives him home. Thinks about it when he and Jazz curl up to watch a movie that night. Danny belatedly realizes that he's been unintentionally thinking of Bruce "Serial Adopter" Wayne as his grandfather??? For months now?? How could this happen??

Back at the Wayne Manor, Bruce is still in the kitchen, listening to Damian continue to debate Superman's intelligence while Tim scrolls on his work tablet. He'll probably take the kids, including the newest edition to the family, to the zoo this weekend.

[lets-steal-an-archive]

By Bernie Sanders | July 13, 2024

I will do all that I can to see that President Biden is re-elected. Why? Despite my disagreements with him on particular issues, he has been the most effective president in the modern history of our country and is the strongest candidate to defeat Donald Trump — a demagogue and pathological liar. It’s time to learn a lesson from the progressive and centrist forces in France who, despite profound political differences, came together this week to soundly defeat right-wing extremism.

I strongly disagree with Mr. Biden on the question of U.S. support for Israel’s horrific war against the Palestinian people. The United States should not provide Benjamin Netanyahu’s right-wing extremist government with another nickel as it continues to create one of the worst humanitarian disasters in modern history.

I strongly disagree with the president’s belief that the Affordable Care Act, as useful as it has been, will ever address America’s health care crisis. Our health care system is broken, dysfunctional and wildly expensive and needs to be replaced with a “Medicare for all” single-payer system. Health care is a human right.

And those are not my only disagreements with Mr. Biden.

But for over two weeks now, the corporate media has obsessively focused on the June presidential debate and the cognitive capabilities of a man who has, perhaps, the most difficult and stressful job in the world. The media has frantically searched for every living human being who no longer supports the president or any neurologist who wants to appear on TV. Unfortunately, too many Democrats have joined that circular firing squad.

Yes. I know: Mr. Biden is old, is prone to gaffes, walks stiffly and had a disastrous debate with Mr. Trump. But this I also know: A presidential election is not an entertainment contest. It does not begin or end with a 90-minute debate.

Enough! Mr. Biden may not be the ideal candidate, but he will be the candidate and should be the candidate. And with an effective campaign taht speaks to the needs of working families, he will not only defeat Mr. Trump but beat him badly. It’s time for Democrats to stop the bickering and nit-picking.

I understand that some Democrats get nervous about having to explain the president’s gaffes and misspeaking names. But unlike the Republicans, they do not have to explain away a candidate who now has 34 felony convictions and faces charges that could lead to dozens of additional convictions, who has been hit with a $5 million judgment after he was found liable in a sexual abuse case, who has been involved in more than 4,000 lawsuits, who has repeatedly gone bankrupt and who has told thousands of documented lies and falsehoods.

Supporters of Mr. Biden can speak proudly about a good and decent Democratic president with a record of real accomplishment. The Biden administration, as a result of the American Rescue Plan, helped rebuild the economy during the pandemic far faster than economists thought possible. At a time when people were terrified about the future, the president and those of us who supported him in Congress put Americans back to work, provided cash benefits to desperate parents and protected small businesses, hospitals, schools and child care centers.

After decades of talk about our crumbling roads, bridges and water systems, we put more money into rebuilding America’s infrastructure than ever before — which is projected to create millions of well-paying jobs. And we did not stop there. We made the largest-ever investment in climate action to save the planet. We canceled student debt for nearly five million financially strapped Americans. We cut prices for insulin and asthma inhalers, capped out-of-pocket costs for prescription drugs and got free vaccines to the American people. We battled to defend women’s rights in the face of moves by Trump-appointed jurists to roll back reproductive freedom and deny women the right to control their own bodies.

So, yes, Mr. Biden has a record to run on. A strong record. But he and his supporters should never suggest that what’s been accomplished is sufficient. To win the election, the president must do more than just defend his excellent record. He needs to propose and fight for a bold agenda that speaks to the needs of the vast majority of our people — the working families of this country, the people who have been left behind for far too long.

At a time when the billionaires have never had it so good and when the United States is experiencing virtually unprecedented income and wealth inequality, over 60 percent of Americans live paycheck to paycheck, real weekly wages for the average worker have not risen in over 50 years, 25 percent of seniors live each year on $15,000 or less, we have a higher rate of childhood poverty than almost any other major country, and housing is becoming more and more unaffordable — among other crises.

This is the wealthiest country in the history of the world. We can do better. We must do better. Joe Biden knows that. Donald Trump does not. Joe Biden wants to tax the rich so that we can fund the needs of working families, the elderly, the children, the sick and the poor. Donald Trump wants to cut taxes for the billionaire class. Joe Biden wants to expand Social Security benefits. Donald Trump and his friends want to weaken Social Security. Joe Biden wants to make it easier for workers to form unions and collectively bargain for better wages and benefits. Donald Trump wants to let multinational corporations get away with exploiting workers and ripping off consumers. Joe Biden respects democracy. Donald Trump attacks it.

This election offers a stark choice on issue after issue. If Mr. Biden and his supporters focus on these issues — and refuse to be divided and distracted — the president will rally working families to his side in the industrial Midwest swing states and elsewhere and win the November election. And let me say this as emphatically as I can: For the sake of our kids and future generations, he must win.

Bernie Sanders is the senior senator from Vermont.

[scudslut]

Sins and Honey Flavored Sweetness

daryl x fem!reader

wordcount: 4.7k

warnings: 18+, MDNI, smut under the cut, perv!daryl (not really, he just has a lil crush), male masturbation, unprotected p-in-v, oral f!receiving, mutual pining

a/n: i have never written something so descriptive ohmygod. do be warned lol, hugs and kisses byeee <33

Daryl knew there were unspoken boundaries when it came to you.

A thin line of loose salt, that whispered to him. Beckoned him huskily to dust his fingers through and have a taste, but daunting enough for him to keep his soles rooted in the dirt, salivating from a distance.

It wasn’t because you were already spoken for in any way; if anything, you kept your romantic interests simmering farther on the back burner than he did, which spoke volumes in itself. Or because you were younger than him, a couple of years wasn’t anything to turn a nose up over, especially nowadays.

It was, however, the place you held amongst your people. You were like bright, shiny gold within the group, dared not to be corrupted or led astray. The heart that kept everyone’s beating, even in the darkest of times, soothing hope into the atmosphere with your infectious smile.

Oh, and you were Rick's younger sister... which he hated to admit, only tempted him more. And he wasn’t quite sure as to why.

He’d mulled it over too many times to count, noting everything about you that allured him so intensely.

He liked the contrast between you two; like sun rays peeking through the clouds after a mid-summer storm. You were soft, fresh as clean linen and he was dark, brooding. He often fantasized about taking that sweet innocent nature of yours and painting it with his essence. He knew it was wrong and constantly shamed himself for having such perverted thoughts about his best friend's sister. But, god, how could he not?

Not when you pranced around him daily, teasing him with your velvety, feminine voice and kind touches. Touches that sent brisk shivers down his spine, sure to leave him breathless and bothered — another thing he secretly liked. You were addictive in that sense, he’d distance himself the minute he felt the familiar rush coursing through his veins and then crave it immediately once it was gone. A drug he couldn’t help but relapse from.

And it didn’t help that you were always so keen to assist him, doting on his every injury or problem with such gentle attentiveness and sincerity. That might be what he liked the most. It was fascinating how pure you remained in a world so plagued, always ready to nurture. It soothed a deep, restless, and scarred part of him, finding solace in it.

He'd come to learn you were like that with everyone though. So, he found himself grappling with things to deter your attention his way, playing dumb and clumsy just to have your sweet scent fill the nearby air. He felt like a horny teenager with a hopeless crush. It was absolutely ridiculous and yet, here he was once again, feet dangling off your kitchen counter as you searched the cabinets for some aspirin to aid in his 'headache'. 

It wasn't a complete lie per se - his sensitivity to light gave him troubles quite often but, whether it was enough to complain about or not, could be debated.

Nonetheless, he sat for you patiently, listening to your quiet humming as you searched about. He loved when you did that, singing your soft melodies under your breath mindlessly. It was such a girly thing to do, but it was comforting in a way, an airy blanket warming the silence.

"Ah, here it is!" drew him out of his thoughts, and he cast a glance at your bright smile of accomplishment. You popped the cap open swiftly, shaking out 2 little white pills, and handed them over with a glass of water.

“Let me know if you need any more. They should kick in soon, but I know how tough migraines can be,” you soothed, your sympathy never faltering. He bowed his head quickly, not wanting you to see the flash of guilt that surely crossed it. "Thanks," he mumbled as he tossed his head back, swallowing them both with a shivered grimace.

Wiping the water droplets from his chapped lips, his eyes found yours again and noticed a small smirk hidden in your features. “What?”  

You let out a chuckle, reaching for the glass he held to wash, “Oh nothin’... just don’t think I’ve seen you cringe like that before, is all.” 

His brows furrowed at your statement, “So?” he questioned further.

“Walkers, blood, rotting flesh… never. But an itty bitty pill?” Your laugh grew louder, finding the situation even more amusing as you explained it to him. “Whatever,” he scoffed, hopping off the counter with a smirk. He knew you would be expecting him to leave after that, you had helped him with his ‘issue of the day’ and there was no reason to linger any further. But he did.

Daryl scanned your frame as you washed the few dishes that were in the sink, chewing on his thumb habitually. You wore a white, long-sleeve shirt with a faded band logo printed on the front and some beaten-up blue jeans that seemed to cup your ass perfectly.

His mind wandered before he could stop it, imagining how soft and warm your skin must be underneath all those clothes. How soft and warm your hands would be wrapped around him, or better yet, your pretty lips taking him deep with a moan. He felt his own jeans tighten slightly and quickly diverted his gaze to the floor, clearing his throat as if it would erase those thoughts from his brain.

“Something else you need, Daryl?” You glanced over your shoulder, wrists deep in soapy water. 

“Nah, uh, thanks. I’ll see ya later,” he said and beelined for the door praying to god you didn’t see his flushed face and half-hard cock poking through his pants. He was so fucked. Couldn’t even look at you anymore without sprouting boners and picturing you on them, milking him greedily. 

He rushed down the porch and across the lawn, bursting into his shared house with Carol just next door. He didn’t even glance toward the kitchen to see if his friend was home, desperate for a cold shower to level him out. The house was dead quiet anyway, leading him to assume Carol was out for the day.

"Such a fuckin idiot," he cursed himself under his breath as he made his way down the stairs to his room. You probably knew honestly. Could tell how pathetically bothered you got him, and just put on a friendly face to keep from embarrassing him.

He left the bathroom door open in his distress and hastily shed his clothing, stepping into the tepid water. Immediate relief flooded his senses, feeling the cool stream wash away the sweat and grime the day had caked on. Pouring some homemade soap he was given into his hand, he scrubbed at his skin, determined to rid himself of your previous interaction along with the dirty thoughts that plagued his mind. He shouldn’t be thinking about you that way, it just wasn’t in the cards.

For starters, you would have to want him too, (which he knew would never happen), and even if you did, how the ever living fuck would he explain that to Rick?

‘Oh hey Rick, I have a massive hard-on for yer sister, you okay with that?’ Fuck no. Just thinking about that conversation had him cringing in awkwardness and he shut the idea down instantly. 

But there you were still, invading his thoughts with your dreamy laugh and perky attitude. Why did you have to be such a goddamn tease?

He leaned forward, resting his hands on the wall trying to regain some composure. He gulped down deep breaths of moist air, willing his body to calm itself down, but it was fruitless. The image of your body, pushed up against the wall under his hands, wet and flushed, bubbled to the surface. He groaned. Daryl knew what he had to do. It wasn’t the first time he had gotten off thinking about you, and he damn well knew it wasn’t gonna be the last, but it still felt wrong each time, pumping his cock when you were just next door. His body craved the relief though, relief only indulgence could satisfy. 

He hissed as he dragged his fingers along his shaft, gripping at the base and beginning to pump slowly. He was painfully hard at this point, each squeeze raking shivers over his damp skin while he choked out quiet moans. With his opposite hand, he flicked the water to a warmer setting, pitifully hoping the heat and steam would resemble something close to your body against his. God, if only you were here.

He sped up, swiping his thumb over his sensitive tip with each pass, sending jolts throughout his body. “Oh, fuck,” he groaned deep and husky, not a care for the noise filling the empty house.

You were there, clear as day in his mind, moaning along with him as he pounded into you, cunt gripping him like a vice. Your breath was hot and pitchy against his ear as you begged him to fuck you harder, to go faster, to cum deep inside you. His cock twitched at that, he was already so close.

“Fuck, y/n, baby,” he whined, humping erratically into his long-forgotten hand. The muscles in his stomach quivered in bliss as he stroked himself, lost in his detailed imagination. You were cumming, trembling around him in languid spasms with his seed spilling out of you, and Daryl was over the edge, tossing his head back moaning your name as he unloaded, letting the steamy water wash it away. 

It took him a few minutes to recover, catching his breath slowly and trying to avoid the guilt that would soon be settling in. What would you think of him if you knew what he did behind muffled walls? How he thought of you in such dirty ways, when you’d only ever see him as a dear friend. He wondered what you might be doing now. Traipsing around your cozy home, oblivious to his rapid, lustful heart meters away.

The water was beginning to run frigid and he let out a defeated sigh. Absentmindedly, he reached past the curtain for a towel and stepped out, drying his hair off roughly and then wrapping the towel around his waist, turning to the bedroom for fresh clothes and much-needed sleep. His mind ached to be thoughtless, consumed by the abyss of unconsciousness.

He should have known the world stopped playing fair long ago.

In a single moment, his heart stopped and his stomach dropped to the fucking depths of hell.

There you stood, feet frozen to the floor with his crossbow in hand, like he willed you into existence. He stuttered, his mouth opening and closing like a blubbering fish. He was sure his eyes were the size of saucers, he could feel them ready to pop out of his skull and run away. There was no fucking way this was happening.

Several beats passed. The silence deafening between you both and for a moment, he honestly debated stepping back into the shower. Pretend you were a figment of his tortured imagination and just hope you’d go away. It wouldn’t be the first time he’d seen ghosts.

“You uh- you forgot your crossbow when you rushed out today,” you finally broke the silence, solidifying your genuine presence. He glanced down to the bow and then back at you, lost for words. Did you hear him? He moaned your goddamn name, quite a few minutes ago though… had you been standing there long? Were you angry?

His racing thoughts were interrupted when you stepped towards him, leaning the bow against the doorframe and moving closer. Instinctively, he took a step back, “Thanks,” he replied shakily, but you kept moving closer. He noticed your gaze then. It wasn’t on his face, but on his abdomen, at the hem of the damp towel hanging off of him. Your eyes had a gleam to them. Something dark and lustful.

No. Surely, he was reading you wrong. 

“Daryl,” you spoke, and he audibly gulped, nervousness and absolute embarrassment flooding his system, “is there something you need to tell me?” 

He didn’t answer you, instead deciding to burn a hole into the floor with his shame. He couldn’t look at you. You knew. You had heard him and were teasing him about it and here he was, a coward who couldn’t even admit to it. And you had every single right. He crossed that salty line years ago, with his first sinful thought about you. Feasted on it, deluding himself into thinking all was okay as long as his actions didn’t physically involve you.

He barely registered your advances when he finally raised his head. You were so close he could feel the heat of your breath against his burning skin, the luscious scent of vanilla and pine filling the air.

“Can I see?” you asked quietly.

He nearly choked on his own spit. Your hand was skimming along his stomach lightly, suggestively toying with the towel that covered him up. “Huh?” His mind was blank. 

“Can I see you?” you repeated, and all he could do was give you a curt little nod, not entirely sure what he was agreeing to just yet, but rendered acquiesced. Your hand pulled at the fabric softly, letting it drop to the floor revealing his manhood to your hungry eyes. Nothing was making any sense. Surely, you did not feel this way too. Surely.

There were those whispers again. He shouldn't have let you do that. He should be recoiling, shielding himself from your gaze but he was statuesque, like you had drank the life out of him with one simple look.

"Were you thinking about me touching you?" Like you had to even ask. The answer was written in plain sight, right there on his forehead and in his bashful eyes.

"M'sorry, I-" he had no clue how to even begin this kind of apology, remorse coursing through his veins rapidly. The dots weren’t connecting, not yet. "I know it's wrong, I shouldn't have-,”

And then he felt you, pressing your lips against his softly — timidly as gentle hands feathered across his waist, coaxing him into you. Your kiss was buttery, lips so smooth and sweet he wanted to drown in them. You tasted like fresh honey and vanilla ice cream, hints of minty toothpaste caught on your tongue. It was intoxicating to say the least, swarming his brain with a muted buzz and he whimpered, much to his surprise, melting into your touch quicker than he would like to admit.

“Y/n, y/n, nah we can’t,” he heard himself say as he came to his senses slowly, but he wasn’t pushing you away. Why wasn’t he pushing you away? You couldn’t, right?

“Please,” you whispered against him, low and sultry. Who was he to deny you? God Daryl, get a grip.

“Y/n, no,” he repeated, allowing his tone to take some authority even if that was the last thing he truly wanted. You stepped back from him then, a hurt expression painting your features and he felt his heart squeeze. “Why?”

His brain was scattered. This felt like a nightmare; another cruel joke sent his way to haunt him for the rest of his life. There just always had to be a price, didn't there?

"He doesn't mind, you know?" you whispered and his eyes were on yours instantly. You traced soft shapes across his stomach, sending those shivers down his spine and effectively turning him into putty.

"What’re ya talkin' about?" He needed to regain his composure, he could barely breathe with you this close, eyes raking his naked frame with desire.

"Rick... you and me. He doesn't care," you stated, "thinks it's cute actually... my crush on you."

Your crush on him?

"He trusts you, Daryl, with everything. You're pretty much the only person he would want me to be with." He hadn't thought of it that way, only ever assumed voicing his attraction to you would result in his head on a platter, or his dick… or both.

You began peppering his neck with small kisses, trailing them down his chest and over his puffy nipples. He hissed when you nipped at one, licking over it after, soothing the burn. "Ya sure?"

You nodded.

"Ya sure ya want me?" he asked dubiously. His question was answered when you grabbed his hand gently, guiding it inside your cotton underwear, letting his calloused fingers trace your soaked folds. He could have cum then and there, spreading your slick up and down between his fingers like it was liquid gold. Fuck me.

"This all fer me?" he panted, succumbed to a state of disbelief at your evident arousal. You were so wet around his fingers, pulsing and bucking slightly with each feathered stroke. "Were ya listenin' ta me?"

Hair fell over your face as you nodded sheepishly, gazing down to watch his fingers massaging you. You bit your swollen, cherry-red lip, “Couldn’t help it, you sounded so- so good.”

Now that... that got him going. Imagining your pretty cunt dripping in your panties, listening to his gasps while he fucked himself to the thought of you. Who knew the golden girl would be so naughty?

Daryl felt his confidence build, watching you fall apart for him from such simple touches. The last wire holding him back snapped and he needed more. He had waited for this moment for so fucking long.

You whine as he retracts his hand, only to be completely shut up when he places the thick digit on his tongue, sucking greedily and sloppily. It was better than he ever could have imagined, similar to the honey of your lips but so much more sweet. He went back for seconds. And thirds. Until he was dropping to his knees, deciding to lick the goddamn plate clean.

You enveloped him in the best way possible, lifting one of your thighs over his shoulder as he tugged on your tight jeans, pulling them down enough to fit his head. His tongue pressed flat against your clothed pussy, and he sucked, tasting a mixture of your sweetness and residual laundry detergent on his tongue. His moans burned the back of his throat, desperately trying to hide them but you weren’t having it, tugging on his chocolate locks for more. “Don’t do that. I wanna hear you, honey.” Good lord. He silently thanked each lucky star of his that the house was empty before emitting a guttural groan between your thighs. If this was all he got from you, a little taste of the sugar you were made of, he would die a very happy man.

He took your clit between his lips, rolling it with his tongue. Your underwear was so wet with your arousal and his spit that it was practically see-through, just calling for him to pull aside. “Please,” you gasped.

“Hm? Wha’s that?”

He’d heard you just fine. He wanted to hear you again, and again. He was greedy and you were so damn sinful, “Please, need them off, need you.”

So, he complied, as any sane man would, shimmying them down your hips as he sucked and nibbled each inch of newly exposed skin. You watched him intently with half-lidded eyes, rocking slowly to let plush skin engulf his senses like a cloud. He felt you playing with his messy hair, taking small strands between your fingertips and moving them behind his ears to see him better. The gesture struck something deep within him. You were so kind, so focused on this moment and him, he’d be damned if he let it continue on the hard damp floor of his bathroom. No fucking way.

He stood abruptly, catching you off guard. “Bed,” he muttered, capturing your lips again in a haste. He couldn’t get enough. He didn’t want a minute to pass where he wasn’t tasting some part of you. Any part of you. Sweet, sweet honey.

You led your bodies backward till your knees hit the mattress, wasting no time as you crawled up to his pillows, taking him with you.

This moment right here, this feeling… he wanted to bottle it up. Freeze time and just stare, immerse himself into every tiny detail. It felt almost criminal to continue. You were a vision, panting and squirming beneath him; so much electricity and anticipation bouncing between your yearning bodies. Could you really want this just as much as he did? Was he truly that oblivious, all these years? Whatever that answer may be, he wasn’t gonna fuck this up. Not with you.

Your hands on his face coaxed him back to reality, molding into your touch like clay. Eager lips chased his as he pulled your shirt off and as much as he wanted to freeze time and memorize each freckle of you, the more skin each other touched the more obscene the kiss became. An unartistic jumble of spit and hands and moans and thrusts.

In all the time spent pining silently for the other, you both could care less about grace.

No, he needed to hear you. Listen to every octave of moan you had in you, all at once. He needed to know each and every spot that had you whimpering and begging, this second. If time did decide to stop at any given moment he needed to have you, be you, feel everything you had to offer, and soak in it till his skin pruned.

His lips sucked and bruised their way down to your navel, and then past, kissing up your folds with lustful intent. The sounds you made above him had him seeing stars and he wanted more. His tongue slipped past your lips, finally diving into the hive of your sweetness, rolling his tongue languidly over your clit. Your hands were everywhere around him, fisting at the sheets, the pillows, and then his hair as you desperately tried to push him closer. He didn’t mind. He’d gladly suffocate between your thighs, a death he’d welcome compared to the ones he fought from outside every day.

He dove lower, smoothing his tongue over your entrance but not delving past quite yet.

“Daryl,” you gasped above him.

Looking up between your legs, he caught a glimpse of your face tossed back in pleasure and he groaned, having to ground his hips into the mattress below to relieve some pressure. “What d’ya need, sweetheart?”

He’d give you anything. The moon if you asked for it — anything to keep those pretty sounds coming from your lips. “You, you, please you.”

“How so?”

He knew he was teasing you. He’d drawn back from your glistening slit, pressing little pecks everywhere that he could reach. Your hips, your pelvis, the little crease between your thighs and your cunt. That spot drew a deep moan from you, so he focused on it, sucking and licking till it was bright red and your hips were rolling so violently he wasn’t sure how he kept his lips on you.

“In, please,” you choked out, tugging him by his shoulders to move back up. He wasn’t done yet.

“What? Ma fingers?” he toyed further, continuing his kisses everywhere but where you wanted him. “Hm?”

He brought his thumb up to your clit, pressing lightly at first, rubbing lazy, torturous circles. His lips were on the inside of your thigh, so close to your entrance but seemingly so far. He knew you wouldn’t take much more of this, you were practically sobbing above him blubbering nonsensical curses about how much you ached.

“This pretty cunt wanna be filled, that it?”

His thumb pressed firmer.

“Uh huh,” you nodded, begging him. Oh, that sound would surely be the death of him.

He finally brought his lips to your supposedly aching entrance, delving deep with his tongue. The noises he made as he lapped on your honey were flat-out pornographic, and you writhed below him, drinking everything he was giving to you. Honestly, he didn’t know how much more he could take. He wanted to draw this out for hours, make up for every bit of lost time but seeing you like this, so needy for him had his resolve shattering by the second.

With a final peck to your weeping folds, he crawled his way up back to your face. You latched on to him instantly, sensing his give and taking absolute advantage of your moment. His hips rolled into yours slowly as your tongues danced and he hardly had to guide himself with how wet you were, his tip finding your entrance easily and slipping past. You moaned rolling your hips again and he nearly bottomed out, a long deep groan ripping out of him. If he thought your lips were buttery, lord save him.

Perching himself on his forearms, he held still, watching for any signs of discomfort. He assumed you hadn’t been with anyone in a while and he certainly knew he wasn’t small, if he’d grace himself with any sort of compliment.

Sensing nothing but pleasure as your walls pulsed around him, sucking him in further, he gave, snapping his hips harshly into you. Your moans were lewd on his lips, traveling down his throat and feeding the fire that burned in the pit of his stomach.

“Fuck, y/n, baby,” he groaned again, spiraling from the fact he was actually inside you this time. Not in his hand, pretending you were fucking shower water.

No, you were beneath him, latching onto his muscles like your life depended on it. He drove deeper, hitting a spot that had you gasping for air. He hit it again, and again, needing to feel you explode around him. He watched as your face contorted in pleasure as he pounded into you. God, you looked so pretty like this. All cock-drunk and needy.

He brought his thumb back to that spot on your clit. He needed you to cum soon, he wasn’t gonna last much longer seeing you like this and there was no way in hell he was going to finish before you. Your hips stuttered beneath him, walls squeezing around him and he knew you were close.

“Come on, pretty girl, you got it,” he whispered in your ear, sucking the lobe gently between his teeth. That must’ve broken you, because then you were cursing, spasming for him which triggered his own orgasm. Your cunt milked him, his seed spilling down your thighs exactly how he had pictured earlier and it was a fucking sight. He honestly wouldn’t be surprised if he had imagined this whole thing.

He fucked out both through the waves of release, and a bit past, dropping his head into your neck to muffle the obscene groans coming from his lips. He didn’t want it to stop, but your overstimulated senses ached for reprieve.

“Dar?” you whispered once you'd both caught your breath, guiding his stubbled cheek from its hiding spot. When his eyes met yours, they were filled with so much adoration and happiness he had to hold himself back from whimpering. Never in a million years would he thought he’d get you, and here you were, looking at him like the sun shone out of his ass. The same way he looked at you for years, it was jarring to see it reciprocated. How had he missed it?

You leaned forward, tenderly capturing his lips with your own, soothing him as you always did. He knew there was so much you wanted to say, that he wanted to say, but you didn’t need to talk about it tonight. Tonight you would simply soak in each other, a gift you both thought you’d never get and one you would never let go.

He felt you giggle against his lips, and he pulled back with a lazy, fucked-out smile, "What?" he mumbled curiously.

"How's the headache now, big guy?" you teased playfully and he realized then, you'd known he was fibbing today. Saw right through his measly excuse to spend time with you.

He blushed to the tips of his ears, bowing his head to hide it, "Oh, shuddup," he mumbled, attacking your neck in kisses and nips.

Your cheeky ass was gonna pay for that tonight.

[lightseoul]

CHAPTER 2 | ALL OUT OF LUCK

w.c. 3.8k

tags. fem!reader, pro-hero!katsuki, aged-up (26), some cussing, adult themes (not smut lol) (yet) (jk) (unless...), the mission finally starts, so much plot from here on out y'all so buckle up

a/n. i didn't get to include the most important bits that were supposed to be presented in this chapter because i got carried away with the buildup lol. exciting times ahead y'all. i have so much in store for you with this series. don't be a stranger and let's talk!

links. masterlist, ao3

You can only stare back at the woman peering at you, her face painted with a thick layer of makeup, her hair styled to staged ‘effortless’ perfection, and her body wrapped in an outfit that’s equal parts provocative and refined.

Her image is so flawlessly curated—so much so that you barely notice the apprehension that’s hidden amidst her features, if it weren’t for the fact that that woman is you.

You can barely recognize yourself—and perhaps that’s the point of all this.

Asahi and Moriyama didn’t have to explicitly state it yesterday—they need you to put in every ounce of effort to make sure that you succeed, and that includes doing everything you can to supplement your quirk all the while keeping your real identity lowkey.

Even if it means looking like this.

You’re about to give in to your second thoughts and change out of the black, low-cut tank and beige cardigan you have on when an array of knocks echo from what you think is your front door, and you freeze.

With a cautious glance at your bedroom’s wall clock, you think you’re supposed to feel a wave of relief wash over you when you see that it’s 9:00 PM on the dot, the exact time Bakugou said he’d pick you up, which means no villain or mal intentioned person is at your front porch, but that doesn’t come.

Instead, the sense of dread that’s been stirring in your gut ever since you got swept by Asahi’s men yesterday only magnifies, leaving you a bit cold and…are you shaking?

You don’t get to dwell on that, though, because another round of rapping resonates from your foyer again, which somehow pulls you out of your nervous stupor. You hurriedly run to the door, not even bothering to check through the peephole, opening it with a turn of the knob to see Bakugou.

Wearing a white face mask and decked in a fitting black hoodie, with his ash-blonde hair peeking through the sides of a dark baseball cap.

His fist is frozen mid-air as he stares at you, eyes slightly widened in shock, as if he didn’t believe you’re capable of this thing called punctuality. He promptly brings it down, though, schooling his expression into a neutral one, but not before giving you a quick once-over.

“Hey,” he offers, voice gruff and way lower than you remembered it back in high school.

“Hello,” you counter, looking back at your messy apartment out of habit. “I’m almost done. I just need to grab my purse.”

And, because you genuinely need to know for the sake of what you’re about to do, you ask: “Do I look okay?”

He must’ve not been anticipating that question, because his eyebrows furrow ever so minutely like you just caught him off guard. “Yeah,” he eventually replies after studying the entire length of your body once again.

And, you may have just imagined it, but you swear to god his eyes linger on your chest for a beat longer than necessary before he meets your gaze.

“You clean up…” he pauses, like he’s grasping for the right adjective, before settling with: “…decent.”

At that, you feel yourself deflate a bit. Maybe you wanted a more affirming answer, definitely not because you want that from him, but because you need to look good. However, if there’s anything the rumor mill told you back when you were still teenage students, it’s that Bakugou Katsuki was a man of few words when he was serious, let alone appreciative, so you take his comment in stride.

Besides, in comparison to how you looked yesterday, anything is an improvement, really.

“Thanks,” you respond, and you debate for a second whether or not to say the next thing but ultimately decide on it. “…And you look mildly disguised.”

That seems to ruffle Bakugou’s feathers. “Mildly?”

You shrug, suddenly feeling unsure about your honesty. “I get the hoodie and the cap and the face mask, but there’s no hiding your hulking frame, man.”

And really, there isn’t. How are you supposed to conceal a torso as large as that?

You gesture to his chest and shoulder area for further emphasis. “I don’t think you can pass up as a regular citizen but like as a non-descript athlete, maybe?”

To your dismay, Bakugou merely grunts before shaking his head. “This’ll work.”

Apparently already over your suggestion, he glances past your shoulder as he shifts his weight on his other foot. “Can you grab your purse now? We’ve to get going.”

Now, you’ve got half a mind to argue and try to convince him that maybe going for a better disguise is better in the long run but you’re silenced by his domineering gaze. So instead, you nod before rushing back to your bedroom and grabbing the bag you already prepared beforehand, as well as your phone that’s charging on top of your bedside table.

Although it won’t be of much use later, or in the coming few weeks, if everything goes according to plan.

“Ready?” he asks when you return to the doorway with your things in tow.

“Yup,” you retort as you lock the door behind you, and just like that, you’re well on your way to a potential death sentence.

You’re in the elevator going down to the ground floor by the time he speaks up again. “We’re commuting,” he starts, not looking at you but instead scrutinizing the barely hanging on floor buttons. “Can’t risk raising suspicion by driving there.”

“Where are we going, exactly?” you ask just as the elevator dings, signifying your arrival.

The doors burst open, and he steps out. “You’ll see.”

The commute to wherever the hell it is you two are going is quiet.

Bakugou didn’t divulge any further details as you stepped out of your building, wordlessly ordering you with a stern look to just follow. Frankly, you don’t like how you’re being kept in the dark, but you don’t contend. You’re acutely aware that you have a limited number of cards to play with Bakugou, and you have to play them right, if you want to even survive this mission without your partnership falling apart and jeopardizing the entire thing. Wasting a card on stupid information would be downright foolish on your end.

Even the walk to the bus stop is silent, and so is the entire ride. Despite it being quite late into the evening, the vehicle is still somewhat crowded, which you chalk up to it being a Friday night. You find yourself relaxing in your seat as the realization dawns on you—perhaps there was no point in getting too riled up about getting noticed.

And besides, you’re taking extra precautions, too. You’re not sitting next to each other, because he’s trying to stave off attention while you’re straining to catch it. Maybe not of these strangers, but of the people you’re going to meet later on.

Roughly 10 minutes and a short subway ride later, you climb up the underground stairs to a stop you vaguely remember hearing from your coworkers about. You recall how she described an old party district right in the middle of Musutafu, and sure enough, the text on the street signs match the name she recounted during one of your lunch breaks.

“Over here,” Bakugou calls out from a few feet ahead of you. You quickly quit your observing and follow suit, mindful of keeping an appropriate, not at all questionable distance between the two of you.

After what felt like walking five blocks from the subway, you see Bakugou halt and make a left into a poorly lit alleyway. You hesitate for a second, having been on autopilot and going straight for the last how many minutes. You’re able to swiftly gather yourself, though, steering in the same direction.

The moment that you do, it instantly registers to you that you’re not just in the party district anymore. If the dingy signages and the palpable seediness of the alley are any indication, you’re most likely in the red-light district now.

Suddenly, everything feels a bit too real, and you barely catch yourself stumbling back on your feet. This doesn’t go unnoticed by Bakugou, who instinctively moves to reach out for you from where he’s standing. He pauses, though, when you’re able to regain your bearings with a slightly embarrassed smile.

“Sorry,” you offer meekly.

He eyes you with the very same inexplicable expression from before. “You good?”

You’re not about to tell him you’re scared shitless, so you give him a half-hearted nod. Turning to study the exterior of the small building, you take in the lightly peeling paint and the booming music emanating from it. “This the place?”

“Yes,” he answers without missing a beat. “Are you sure you’re good?”

You whip to look back at Bakugou, who, if you didn’t know any better, is now looking apprehensive.

You decide then and there that you have to get your shit together.

Bravery is contagious, but so is fear.

For a second, you contemplate using your quirk on yourself to calm your nerves down, but eventually decide against it. There are much bigger fish to fry tonight, and what’s the point of learning all those damned breathing and grounding techniques if you’re not going to use them?

“I’m ready,” you finally tell him after a moment of both of you standing there. “Let’s go in before we start looking unusual out here.”

If Bakugou notices the unease you’re sure you’re radiating, he doesn’t comment on it. Instead, he gives you a curt nod, before turning to open the door.

And when he does, you’re almost instantaneously flooded by the music that was just escaping through the cracks and crevices of the run-down building. You fight the instinct to cover your ears as you step into the large room behind Bakugou, eyes quickly darting all over the place to drink in the scene before you.

Right in the back of the space is a stage that extends in the center as a runway to the middle of the room. The orange and pink mood lights illuminating the area are relatively dim minus the bulbs lining the set and walkway. And, beneath the elevated platform are what have to be pleather seats littered all over the floor—all of which are occupied by decidedly rambunctious men.

You resist the urge to wrinkle your nose as their boisterous laughter fills your ears, opting to face Bakugou instead.

“Hey,” you call out to him, who stops in his tracks to look at you. You sneak a glance at the people at the bar nearest the two of you, just to make sure they’re not listening in, before you continue. “Are you sure this is the place?”

You don’t have to peek beneath his mask to know he’s now scowling at you.

“What am I, a dumbass? I told you, this is it.” He then shifts away from you, far enough that you barely hear his next words. “…It has to be.”

Well.

That’s not exactly comforting.

Your discomfort only heightens when the already faint lights dim further, and the music switches from a pop song to which you know a bit of the lyrics to a rap that, if you were to base it on the first phrase, is all about having explicit, unprotected sex. The crowd of men cheers in anticipation, and as if on cue, a woman dressed in nothing but a two-piece lingerie emerges from the back of the stage, confirming your speculation of what the place is.

A strip club.

You watch as the woman confidently struts towards the center, and apparently, you’re no better than any of the men here because your gaze slowly roves over her slim and toned body, eyes catching at her cleavage that’s leaving nothing to the imagination. You can’t help it—you look down at your own chest, sinking in disappointment at the contrast before promptly looking up in embarrassment, only to find Bakugou studying you closely.

“It’s a strip club,” you blurt out, flustered at getting caught in the act. His eyes only narrow in a way that tells you what you’re already telling yourself: Thank you, Captain Obvious.

Bakugou doesn’t say anything, much to your relief, only moving to the far corner of the room where there are miraculously two seats unoccupied. You follow him with no further questions asked, plopping in the chair to his right, thankful you’re wearing black trousers so that your skin doesn’t have to go into contact with the sticky furniture.

You take the opportunity to clock the rest of the room, cataloguing the bar at the other end of the area near the entrance where a barista is swiftly taking and making orders all at the same time, while the men seated on the stools struggle to decide whether to look at the man or at the stripper now performing an elaborate dance around the pole. Amidst the decorated wall adjacent to the bar is a door with a restroom sign on it, and you squint just enough to see it’s only one stall for everyone. You make a mental note to hold in your pee, at least until you get out of here.

And, because you’re feeling nice, you shift to regard Bakugou with a good-natured smile on your face. “I hope you peed right before leaving your house.”

“What?” he says loud enough for you to hear him over the noise they’re calling music. “I can’t hear you.”

“Shit, right.” You lean in ever so minutely, and Bakugou mirrors you. You try to ignore the new-found proximity. “I said,” you repeat, with a little more volume this time, “I hope you peed right before fetching me. I bet the toilet’s filthy as shit.”

To your delight, not that you’d admit that to him in this lifetime, Bakugou smirks at your little quip after confirming the lone comfort room with his own eyes.

“Don’t worry about me, princess,” he starts, and you stiffen at the nickname, “I’m not the one who has to sit on one.”

You’re about to retort with something along the lines of what if he has to poop out of the blue, or at least try to, because the pet name has you gagged against your better judgment, when a ridiculously tall man clad in all black appears out of nowhere, startling you.

“The f—”

“Dynamight,” the behemoth of a guy cuts you off, eyes trained on the pro-hero beside you and completely ignoring your presence. “We’ve been expecting you.”

“Took you long enough to approach me,” Bakugou sneers, oozing with the confidence you can’t find within yourself right now. “I hate sleazy places like this.”

To that, the man only bows his head slightly, face solemn but devoid of remorse. You watch him as his eyes finally drift to you, albeit for only a split second, before looking back at Bakugou. “Follow me, sir.”

The ash blonde does so, perhaps a tiny bit begrudgingly, and you speedily get up along with him. The two men turn to move, and you’re about to take a step closer towards their direction when a long arm shoots up in front of you, keeping you in place.

Any protests die in your throat when you look up and see the guy’s menacing glare.

“If you don’t mind,” he grits through his teeth, “Only Dynamight is needed.”

“She’s with me,” comes Bakugou’s commanding tone. You chance a glance at the pro-hero, whose countenance is so serious you’d be afraid if you were the one he’s talking to.

“But, sir—”

“It’s the two of us or we’re leaving,” Bakugou demands.

The two engage in a stare down which you witness for what feels like a few minutes before the man finally looks away, frustration etched across his intimidating features. He glares at you once more, as if you’re the one who’s insisting on being Bakugou’s plus one, and you’re about to be convinced that he’s mentally chanting a spell to make you disappear when he gestures for you to follow him with a flick of a head.

You gradually release the breath you didn’t know you were holding as you shadow them as they enter one of the doors on the wall perpendicular to where you were just stationed. It leads to a staircase that swerves in the middle, and you lock eyes with Bakugou as he makes the turn ahead of you. Neither of you says a word, opting to keep on trailing the man, even as you land on the second floor, which looks more and more like a prostitution den.

Once again, your conjecture is confirmed as you walk down the hallway and past several sets of doors on both sides, from which emanate a cacophony of sensual moans and groans. You wonder what Bakugou’s thinking right now, although you can’t get a read on him as you can only observe his backside.

Finally, after what seems like a tortuous eternity, the man stops right in front of the door at the end of the hallway, and you pause right behind him.

He looks back at Bakugou and you with what you’re pretty sure is caution, before knocking on the door twice, and then another two times but in rapid succession.

“Come in,” is what the muffled voice on the other side says.

And so you do.

You’re not entirely sure what you were expecting, because you’ve never actually been in a service room before, but you at least anticipated a bed on which certain…activities can be done.

But what you’re met with instead seems to be a refurbished lounge room with floor-to-ceiling brick walls, black and red quilted couches, and a bar at the far side all lit up with moody orange lighting.

And smack dab in the middle of it—sprawled so languidly all over the furniture—are three individuals.

Three individuals who immediately look at Bakugou.

It’s them, alright. You don’t need your extensive training in reading people to know that these are the ones you came all the way here for.

You quickly take note of their appearances. The seemingly old man who has to be in his late 50s is seated—quite relaxed—in one of the scarlet solo chairs. He’s slim, bordering on frail, but the glint in his eye as he peers at Bakugou tells you that it’d be unwise to rule him out as one of your main threats.

Juxtaposing his age which is further revealed by his shoulder-length salt and pepper hair is the young woman plastered on the couch adjacent to his.

Or maybe ‘woman’ is a bit too generous…

It’s not obvious at first glance, but you immediately notice how some of her body parts appear to be outright robotic in the literal sense. Perhaps it’s her long, pin-straight, jet-black hair that softens her entire look, but there’s no mistaking what seems to be an artificial left eye, a metallic right arm, and angled, silver lips. She’s wearing long pants so there’s no telling which other parts of her are made up of what you think is steel, but the ones visible to you already tell you enough.

And then there’s the third and last man, who, in comparison to the other two, is remarkably…plain.

There isn’t an air of age-induced wisdom around him, nor is there anything peculiar about his body. He looks like just about any other 40-year-old-ish Japanese man you know, with short black hair, an unassuming face, and semi-formal clothes that are quite loose on his not-buff but not exactly thin body either.

But to your surprise, it’s him that the hilariously huge guy from earlier directly reports to.

“Pro-hero Dynamight, sir, as you requested. And…” the ‘escort’ trails off, and for a split second, you feel kind of sorry you’re here and making things complicated for him. “…he brought company.”

“Finally,” the plain-looking man pipes up from his seat, and even his voice is generic. “And here we thought you were never going to come meet us.”

Placing what suspiciously looks like a glass of whiskey on the table in front of him, the man shifts to fully regard Bakugou. “I see that you’ve deciphered the messages we’ve been sending you?”

“No shit,” comes Bakugou’s blunt response, and for a beat, you seriously consider using your quirk on him to make him calm the fuck down.

You decide against it.

To your chagrin, he drones on. “Y’all gotta do better. That was barely even a code.”

At that, the old male barks out a laugh while the plain-looking man only chuckles. “Of course, we expect nothing less from the #2 pro-hero. But…” the latter trails off, eyes finally landing on you. You quickly put on the most endearing smile you can muster, suddenly regretting not touching up your makeup upon sitting earlier. Thankfully, though, he smiles back, before redirecting his focus back on Bakugou.

“I see you brought precious cargo. Is there any reason why she’s here with us?”

“We want in your organization,” Bakugou replies without hesitation. “The both of us.”

And when none of them say anything in response, Bakugou presses.

“You need me, right? I heard you’re planning an attack. I want to join.”

“Yes,” the old man finally speaks up, not even denying it yet his voice is riddled with misplaced humor. “We do, in fact, need you. But what use do we have of this girl?”

“She’s got a useful quirk,” Bakugou supplies, before turning to look at you and then back at them. “Luck. She boosts the success rate of anyone she works with.”

“Luck?” the old geezer says back so incredulously, you feel your eye twitch in annoyance. If he only knew what you were fully capable of. He can’t, though, if you want to get out of this entire situation alive. “I don’t think we’ll need that as long as we have you, boy.”

“Well, tough luck,” spews Bakugou, a little bit too sarcastically for your comfort. “Because, as I’ve told your little lackey here,” he gestures to the definitely not little guy from earlier, “It’s both of us or I’m out.”

“The both of you, huh?” muses the plain-looking man who’s seeming to be more and more like the leader of the group by the second.

Once again, silence envelopes the room when none of them utter a single word, with you and Bakugou watching in anxious (you) and impatient (him) anticipation. You observe their facial expressions as they have a wordless exchange, and judging by how the ancient and the robotic girl are looking at the ordinary man, you guess your hunch about him is right.

Eventually, they appear to reach an agreement, and the leader adjusts just enough to look at the both of you directly.

You brace yourself with bated breath.

He flashes you a modest smile.

“It’s a deal, then.”

˖⁺‧₊ as always, reblogs, replies, and tags are appreciated <3 feel free to drop an ask, too—i'd love to chat with you. have a nice day!

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[kissingchamber]

illicit affairs

𝜗𝜚 synopsis: Tony finds out his son is dating his intern. His intern!

𝜗𝜚 pairing(s): MCU!Peter Parker x Stark!male reader; Tony Stark x son!reader

𝜗𝜚 warning(s): nothing really this is just silly fluff and Tony being clueless

𝜗𝜚 note(s): English is not my first language!!! Based on this request, hope u enjoy anon :3 title from taylor swifts "illicit affairs" !!

Everyone in the Avengers tower knows you and Peter are dating! Well, almost everyone in the Avengers tower knows you and Peter are dating. The only one who hasn't yet figured it out is the one and only, Tony Stark, your dad.

Honestly, it's a surprise he hasn't found out yet with the way you and Peter have been looking at each other with longing heart eyes and cuddling during movie nights. And he calls himself a genius...

It's sort of become a game for you and Peter, seeing how long it'll take for Tony to realize what's really going on.

What makes it even more unbelievable is that Pepper was the first one to know!

─────────────── ⋆ ───────────────

You make your way down to the lab where you knew Peter would be— he'd texted, telling you he would be down in the labs today— working on something for his suit with Tony.

You slide into the lab, finding Peter sat in a chair, eagerly chatting with your dad and typing something on a tablet at the same time.

You come up behind him, wrapping your arms around him, hugging him to your chest and burying your face into his hair. "Hi, Pete." You murmur.

"H— hey!" Peter's face flushes a pretty pink color and you can't help but smirk. He's so easily flustered.

You almost forget Tony is there until he starts talking. "Oh, hey kid! Care to help us a little? We could really use an extra set of hands." He says, acting like the way you're holding Peter is totally platonic.

You nod, mumbling a sure, but not before sending Peter a look. He cannot be serious... He shoots back an agreeing gaze.

─────────────── ⋆ ───────────────

It's movie night, most of the Avengers are scattered across the room, sitting in all kinds of weird positions that make you want to laugh. You and Peter are laying on one of the couches, practically entangled together.

Everyone is arguing about which movie to watch when Tony walks in with Steve trailing behind him, their arms filled with snacks.

Steve looks at you and Peter, mumbling something about lovebirds and takes a seat on one of the recliners.

Tony settles on a loveseat next to Pepper and joins in on the movie debate.

You and Peter share a look, Tony definitely heard what Cap said, right?

─────────────── ⋆ ───────────────

You walk into the kitchen where Peter is sitting on a barstool, leaning onto the island and nodding along to whatever Tony— who is currently refilling his coffee cup— is saying.

You press a kiss to Peter's cheek in greeting, sitting down on another barstool. He gives you a soft smile in response and grabs ahold of your hand.

Tony finishes getting his coffee, ruffles your hair and leaves the room wordlessly, like you hadn't just kissed your boyfriend— that he doesn't know is your boyfriend— right in front of him!

You and Peter stare at each other for a silent second before bursting into laughter. Tony is so clueless it's hilarious.

─────────────── ⋆ ───────────────

When Tony finally does find out it's possibly in the most embarrassing way ever.

You and Peter were in your room, making out on your bed, when Tony walked in.

"Dad—!" You yell and scramble to get off of Peter, whose face is currently the shade of bright red reminiscent of a tomato.

"Sorry, sorry!" Tony says quickly, at least he sounds apologetic.

You glare at him with no real heat in your expression. "You could've, you know, knocked before you came in. Like you're supposed to." You grumble.

"I know, I know. But uhm... since when were you two a thing?" He asks, almost sounding hesitant.

Peter looks like he's trying his hardest not to laugh, barely succeeding. "Everyone else figured it out months ago, if that gives you any idea."

"What—" Tony begins but you interrupt him; "And Pepper was the first one to find out"

"And she didn't tell me!?" He sounds so betrayed, it's so funny you can barely respond. "Apparently not!" You get out before bursting into giggles, Peter laughing beside you.

Tony turns on his heel and rushes into the hallway "Pepper!" He cries out.

At this, you and Peter can't hold it in anymore, erupting into the kind of laughter that makes your tummy hurt and leaves your sides sore afterwards.

And he calls himself a genius.

𝜗𝜚 note: this is longer that anything ive posted previously so thats why this took me so long to post 𖦹 ´ ᯅ ` 𖦹 thanks 4 reading!!! reblogs r super appreciated!! :3

[sylusonychinus]

Chibi Sylus

So we all cant get over the last event we had and frankly I cant move on from it either so lets all dive deep into some chibi sylus :33

Chibi Sylus, a victim of Luke and Kieran's latest "experiment" (aka, prank), was not amused. He was currently pacing the giant's-sized table, his tiny fists clenched, and letting loose a string of furious words... well, it sounded angry. To Luke and Kieran, however, it was more like a tiny, indignant squeak followed by a series of adorable gurgles. They were trying so hard not to burst out laughing. Luke bit the inside of his cheek, while Kieran stared intently at a particularly interesting speck of dust on the ceiling.

Chibi Sylus, oblivious to their barely contained amusement, continued his tirade. "Eep! Poo-poo! Gah! Nyehhh!" he shrieked, punctuating each syllable with a dramatic stomp of his ridiculously tiny foot (seriously, those chibi proportions were wild). He looked like an angry, fluffy chick trying to scold a pair of enormous, very amused eagles.

Finally, his tiny rage sputtered out. He plopped down on the table, his miniature legs dangling precariously over the edge. He pulled out his phone – which, at this scale, looked like a hefty brick – and began tapping furiously. His brow furrowed in concentration as he tried to compose a message. It took a while, given that his thumbs were barely bigger than grains of rice.

Chibi Sylus finally gave up on his phone. He looked up at Luke and Kieran, his expression a mix of frustration and… something else. "H...help?" he squeaked, holding up the phone, which promptly slipped from his grasp and landed with a thump the size of a small car to Chibi Sylus. He looked up at the two giants with big, pleading eyes. "Message...y/n..." he mumbled, pointing at the phone with a tiny finger. Luke and Kieran exchanged a look. This was going to be interesting.

Luke and Kieran, still chuckling softly, helped Chibi Sylus navigate the massive phone. After a few minutes of pointing and gesturing, they managed to decipher his message: a string of gibberish punctuated with angry emojis. Apparently, he was very upset about the whole "chibi-fication" incident. They promised to look into reversing the spell (though they secretly hoped it would last a little longer – he was just so darn cute!).

Chibi Sylus was just too cute to resist! You'd already knitted him a tiny sweater vest with a little crow on it (he looked so dashing), and were currently debating whether to dress him in the miniature pirate outfit or the adorable little chef's hat and apron. the doll House was also coming along nicely – you’d even crafted miniature furniture using spare bottle caps and bits of fabric. He made the cutest little squeaks when you “rearranged” the furniture. Honestly, it was like having a living doll! (One that occasionally tried to bite your finger, but details, details.)

Later, after a "delicious" dinner of miniature crackers and a thimbleful of juice (which Chibi Sylus somehow managed to spill all over himself), it was bedtime. You carefully tucked him into his miniature bed – a repurposed jewelry box lined with soft cotton – which you placed on the pillow next to your side of the bed. He looked so tiny and adorable nestled amongst the fluffy fabric. As you leaned in to wish him goodnight, he surprised you by reaching up with a tiny hand and giving you a gentle kiss on the forehead. A small, almost imperceptible smirk played on his lips as he snuggled into his makeshift bed and promptly fell asleep. "Awwww," you cooed, turning off the light and drifting off to sleep yourself.

Unbeknownst to you, however, the magic that had shrunk Sylus was wearing off. In the dead of night, as you slept peacefully, a faint shimmer surrounded the tiny figure on your pillow. Slowly, his chibi form began to revert, his miniature body growing back to its original size. The blanket you’d draped over him now covered…well, nothing (thankfully).

Sylus, now back in his original, albeit completely bare, form, lay beside you. He carefully reached out and gently caressed your hair, a soft smile gracing his lips. He watched you sleep for a moment, his expression tender. Finally, he leaned down and whispered, his voice low and warm, "Goodnight, kitten." Then, he closed his eyes and settled back down, pulling the blanket up to share. He had a feeling things were going to get very interesting in the morning.

Author: yes he is still very much naked when you both wake up.....you know what happens then :3

[the-oblivious-writer]

A Loving Distraction

Wednesday Addams x Reader

One-shot

Summary: Wednesday attempts what’s meant to be a study session, but being the distraction you are, you had other plans in mind.

Warning(s): kissing, established relationship, and no pronouns

Notes: dedicated to @101rizzlrr - ask and I shall deliver

You stare at your phone, thumb hovering over the text you're about to send to Wednesday. The message reads: "Meet me in the library? Promise to actually study this time."

The memory of your last "study session" brings a smile to your face. You'd spent more time debating the merits of different torture methods throughout history than actually reviewing for finals. Not that you minded - Wednesday's passionate defense of the rack over the iron maiden had been oddly endearing.

Your phone buzzes with her reply: "Bold of you to imply I was the distraction last time. But fine. West wing, third floor. Don't be late."

Twenty minutes later, you're climbing the worn stone steps of Nevermore Academy's library. The afternoon light filters through the Gothic windows, casting long shadows across the floor. You spot Wednesday at her usual table, surrounded by a fortress of leather-bound books. She's wearing her signature black dress, white collar crisp and perfect despite the late hour.

"You're four minutes late," she says without looking up from her notes.

"I brought a peace offering." You place a steaming cup of black coffee - no sugar, no cream - next to her elbow. "And I was delayed by Principal Weems giving her weekly lecture about proper uniform length to some poor first year."

"Excuses." But she takes the coffee, and you catch the slight softening around her eyes that passes for a smile in Wednesday's world. "I assume you're here because you're still struggling with Advanced Poisons?"

You slide into the chair across from her, pulling out your own textbook. "Some of us didn't grow up taste-testing deadly nightshade."

"Your loss. Mother always said it builds character." She reaches for your notebook, scanning your latest attempts at categorizing toxic fungi. "Your classification system is almost painfully wrong. Look at this - you've put death caps under 'slow-acting.' They can kill within 48 hours."

"Not everyone shares your enthusiasm for mortality rates," you tease, leaning closer to see where she's marking corrections in precise red ink. Her hair smells faintly of rain and graveyard dirt - a scent you've come to associate with comfort, oddly enough.

"Clearly. Which is why you need my help." She pauses, dark eyes flickering to yours. "Though I suppose there are worse ways to spend an afternoon than ensuring you don't accidentally poison yourself with basic mushroom identification."

"Aw, you do care."

"Don't be ridiculous." But her knee bumps yours under the table, and stays there.

The next hour passes in a comfortable rhythm of studying and bickering. Wednesday corrects your work with cutting efficiency, while you try to distract her by suggesting increasingly outlandish uses for non-lethal poisons. ("Think about it - just enough to make the entire school board mildly nauseated during budget meetings.")

"Focus," she chides, but there's amusement lurking in her voice. "Unless you want to explain to your parents why you failed this semester."

"They'd understand. I'd just tell them I was distracted by my brilliant, beautiful girlfriend who happens to be a walking encyclopedia of death."

"Flattery will get you nowhere." She turns a page with deliberate precision. "And that's not even close to my most impressive quality."

You lean forward, resting your chin on your hand. "Oh? Do tell."

"I can name at least fifteen ways to incapacitate someone with items found in this library alone." Her eyes meet yours, challenging. "Would you like a demonstration?"

"Tempting, but I think the librarian is still mad about last time." You reach across the table, fingers brushing her wrist. "Besides, I can think of better uses for our time."

Wednesday arches an eyebrow. "Can you now?"

The tension shifts, electric and familiar. You stand slowly, walking around the table until you're beside her chair. She turns to face you, expression unreadable but for the slight catch in her breath when you lean down.

"Much better uses," you murmur, and then you're kissing her. Her lips are cool against yours, tasting of coffee and secrets. One of her hands finds its way to your collar, pulling you closer with that controlled intensity that is so uniquely Wednesday.

You break apart at the sound of footsteps approaching, though you don't go far. Wednesday's normally pale cheeks have the faintest hint of color, and you can't help feeling a bit smug about that.

"That was…" she starts.

"Distracting?" you offer with a grin.

"Entirely inappropriate for a study session." But she's fighting a smile now, the real kind that makes her look almost human. "We have an exam tomorrow."

"True." You brush a strand of dark hair from her face. "But I'd argue that was an excellent practical demonstration of biological responses to stimuli."

Wednesday rolls her eyes, but she's definitely smiling now. "Your scientific method needs work."

"Then I suppose we'll need more practice." You gesture to the towering shelves around you. "We have the whole library."

"You're impossible." She stands, gathering her books with precise movements. "Come on."

"Where are we going?"

"To find somewhere more private for your… research." She gives you a look that makes your heart skip. "Unless you'd rather stay here and actually study?"

You grab your bag, already following her toward the stacks. "Lead the way."

-----------

A/N: nice little one-shot before I post more angst

[moonlightcycle571]

Wouldn’t it be funny if Billy could only give powers to one person at a time, so the Vasquez kids take turns being Captain Marvel Junior (as they still look like kids) and they make everyone thinks it’s one shape shifting child.

Reporter: Captain Marvel, who is this new protoge worth you?

Marvel: you’ve met Junior though?

Mary, who wanted to take over: yeah we talked last week.

Reporter: ah what

At first it’s just Mary and Freddy (mostly Freddy cause he’s really into being a superhero) so everyone thinks Captain Marvel Junior is a shape shifting gender fluid kid and Marvel is a supportive dad.

But then the other Vasquez’s join in the fun

Reporter: Captain, new protoge?

Eugene, in it for shots and giggles: Claire, it’s me, Junior

Reporter: … you’re Asian now?

Eugene: woooooowww

Marvel: that’s low even for you

Reportee: but I-

Eugene: Both Captain and I have lived lives of many genders, colours and have been in many cultures. And yet you shame me for feeling nostalgic and reverting to an ancient form of mine.

Reporter: I- w h a t

It’s sparks a lot of debate of cultural appropriation for shapeshifters in general, with a lot of people invoking Martian Manhunter, fae and other shapeshifters. So naturally Pedro steps up

Captain Marvel and Junior both volunteering at a homeless shelter.

Reporter: … junior?

Pedro: yes?

Reporter: what are you doing

Pedro, making an ancient Mexican recipe he got from the Library in the Rock: making a dish I learned a couple of centuries ago from my then family.

Reporter, really doesn’t want to get cancelled: ok

Naturally this takes a lot of coordination, and a lot of people test them by giving info to one kid, and different info to the other. Solomon sees right through them cause the divine group chat is connected to Billy and the chosen Junior. Things were starting to chill for a bit. Then Darla joined in.

Darla, visibly younger than the other forms: Hi :D

Reporter: why do you keep getting younger and younger???

Darla: :3

At this point the reporter is so done. Are you a child with a lightning emblem on you? You are Captain Marvel Junior. And it seems to work most of the time.

Billy: *gets deaged as Cap*

Reporter: oh junior! New form? This one looks closer to Cap!

Billy: I’m not Junior???

Reporter: *bluescreens*

Bonus:

In a Justice League Meeting

Flash: So is Junior like a mantle? If so why is it only one kid at a time?

Hal: yeah, what do the others do when you take one at a time?

Billy, an absolute troll at heart: what do you mean, it’s the one kid?

Superman: what???

Billy: yeah so Junior hasn’t settled into which form they like the best and switch it up. I think they like it better that way.

Martian Manhunter, troll n2: *nods along* finding ones main form is an important part of self discovery. On Mars, many like to alternate between forms as they could not be tied down to one.

JL: ah

Bonus 2:

Batman: *slowly puts away the ‘Not An Adoption Problem’ Support Group invite*

Bonus 3:

Dudley: please please please please

Billy, fed up: WHY

Dudley: it’ll be so funny.

Billy: you know what, fine!

Later Dudley is given some powers but decides to only let the Reporter see him.

Reporter: … Junior????

Dudley: no one will ever believe you *flies off*

[fruitsywriting]

Invincible Variants x Civilian!Reader (Pt.1)

I would love to write for ALL the variants but there’s quite a bit of them where we were unable to figure out their personalities because they were just in the background so I am going to be writing for the ones who actually talked. The reader can be seens as gender neutral, male, or fem. Each variant will have their own warning.

Characters: Sinister, Mohawk, Viltrum, Shiesty, Omni, Full Mask, Maskless, Cowl/Cap, Target/Empire, Prisoner, Lensless, Prime/Mainstream, Retro

Characters in this part: Viltrum and Sinister

It was supposed to be any other normal day. As normal as it can get when you live in a world with heroes and villains, and live in a city. Often, cities are targeted for attacks, that’s why you find yourself living on the outskirts of the city. Close to being out of the targeted zone, but not fully out. You grab your laundry as you put in airpods to listen to some RnB music. You hum along, occasionally swaying your body to the melody, while you put your clothes into the washer. You completely tuned out the world, that is- until you were forced to look reality in the eye.

There’s a slight shake to the apartment building, it has you wondering if it’s an attack or if it’s an Earthquake. You had no time to think over which one is worse when you hear a faint screech. You take out the airpods and realize that the evacuation alarms are ringing in the apartment building. You grab your phone, and a pre-prepared bag full of valued items and you don’t look back as you rush out my front door. Finding yourself in the midst of a frantic crowd running as well, as the alarm loudly yells and flashes to warn you: you need to evacuate.

When you all get to the staircase, the building shakes again. Legs go weak and a few fall down the stairs. The windows shatter as glass flies over the others heads. You can hear a little girl crying, and your heart wants to immediately check to see if she’s okay. However, your brain takes over- telling you she’s with her family and she will be okay. You stumble down the steps, avoiding running over the bodies in the stairwell as you run outside. Instantly, you knew it was a bad idea. Debris is filling your vision- You can’t see where to run. You can hear screaming to your left and you can hear what sounds like a snapping noise to your right. You can’t even turn around to go back into the building. Maybe living alone was a bad idea, right now all you want is your family.

Viltrum Mark:

The debris slowly filters into the air, the cloud is pungent as it clings on to anyone who runs out of the disaster- painting them in grey and white. It sticks to them, making them easy to target. However, that is not necessary. He came here and did what he promised to do. He caused destruction, and he watches as the building groans. It’s about to go down anyways, there’s no point in taking extra lives.

The groaning gets louder and it halts for only a minute before the sound becomes almost deafening as the building collapses on itself- sending a new toxic and deadly wave of debris. Another major city is destroyed, his work here is done. He debates on whether he should leave to destroy another or wait for the heroes to arrive so he can rip them apart- to show them that it’s useless. This is going to be their future anyways when Viltrum shows up to conquer them, he’s just giving them a small sample of what’s to come.

He allows his body to glide backwards, to fully view the damage he has done when he notices something in the corner of his eye. A hero coming to help perhaps?

He launches his body full force to the speck that was moving and lands before them, causing a smaller wave of gravel and debris to kick up. He looks down and he’s almost disappointed. This isn’t a hero, it’s just a civilian that managed to survive.

-

You cough harshly, causing the rawness of it to spread quickly up your throat as small pebbles and debris launch directly in your face. You can barely see through your eyelashes caked in the concrete’s powder. It’s no use to even try and wipe your face, and you continue to blink violently as you look up to see what crash landed in front of you.

Your stomach drops farther than it has in a long time. When you can see an outline of a male in front of you, and by what you can make out- his stance doesn’t scream that he is here to help you. In fact, by the way his body is tense and looking down on you- you can assume that he caused this attack. And so, this is how you die, at least that’s what you told yourself.

“You survived.” He said it in a tone of voice that sounded like a mix of annoyance and being impressed.

“For now,” You rasp out before you cough again. You can’t even make out his face, as the sun glares down from behind him and the fog over your eyes.

“If your body is able to move, I suggest doing so now- your lungs will collapse if you stay here any longer.”

You wanted to bark out something like ‘oh, thanks for the tip, I’ll get up right now!’ but your body and throat were burning. You could only wheeze in response to him.

He harshly grabs onto your arm and yanks you out of the dust and broken concrete, causing you to scream out in pain from just how rough his touch was. He falters for a moment, perhaps he forgot how weak humans are. He gently but firmly swipes his hand over your face, brushing out the debris so you could see better, and so he could make out your features. When you blink away the particles invading your vision, you realize how handsome he is. His plump lips, his thick arched eyebrows, his surprisingly soft eyes.

“Oh. You look different when you’re not caked in debris”

“Uh, thanks?”

He pulls away and begins to hover off the ground, slowly backing up. “Consider this a good deed, don’t go to the major hospital in this city. It will be targeted next and stuffed to the brim with survivors. And leave the city. If you make it, perhaps we will see each other again.”

Was that a threat, or a promise?

-

It was a promise. You had gotten basic treatment at a smaller medical facility before waves of patients were sent there- bombarding the overworked staff. You walked, not knowing where to go now. Shelters were full, your home was gone within the blink of an eye, who knows if your family is alive. Factors on what to do run over your mind over and over again until you see a figure hovering over you, in the moonlit sky.

“You survived. Impressive”

All you could do was stare. You couldn’t yell profanities at him, you valued your life too much but you couldn’t exactly thank him. He did little to actually help you. However, he was expecting a thank you. He lowered himself down to the ground, his movements graceful and elegant.

“A thank you would go a long way.”

“... thank you.”

He takes meticulous strides forward. “I am not here to hurt you.”

“Then why are you here?”

He thinks it over.

“Perhaps I feel responsible-”

You cut him off, without thinking, “Oh really?”

His mouth moves into a thin line, “Don’t make me regret this.”

“Regret what?”

He slowly presses your body next to yours, and you have no time to react. You squeeze your eyes shut, assuming he was going to hit you but no. Soft lips press against yours, and it feels so good. Perhaps you are just seeking comfort, you just want to have a shoulder to lean on after the events of today.

Whatever it truly is, you let yourself kiss him back. It’s sloppy, uncoordinated, and frankly- it’s quite feral. His kisses are rough like he’s never kissed someone before, but it’s raw and desperate. If you are his first kiss, it worries you slightly. What did he see in you that it was enough to kiss you?

You find yourself trying to find a happy medium with his kisses, he at first was just trying to show his dominance in the kiss, but slowly lets you take the lead when he realizes you’re finding a nice pace. Your hands reach behind him, and you give his butt a light squeeze. He pulls away and gasps, looking at you like you’ve offended him- but he doesn’t seem opposed to the move. In fact, he hasn’t moved your hand from his rear.

“You’re quite bold.”

“It’s kept me alive so far.”

He hums in response before slowly letting his body move upwards away from your arms.

“You have been proven to be enticing enough, strong enough to survive day 1, and you're bold enough to cooperate with my kiss. I see you as a worthy mate, and after this is over- I will be taking you to Viltrum.” And just like that, he’s gone. Wait, what the fuck did he just say??

Sinister:

Warning: Graphic depictions of violence

He isn’t interested in civilians at all, unless they get in his way. This destruction is to lure out big heroes, what he deems as worthy opponents. He tunes out the screams from civilians, like they’re just annoying ringing noises of tinnitus. Or perhaps a mosquito making a high pitched hum that isn’t an actual threat. Just annoying.

He lands on the ground when he sees heroes and first responders approaching. Perfect, maybe one of the heroes in this world are more competent than the ones in his world. He steps over the pile of rubble when he hears a wet crunch and a loud strangled scream. underneath he sees a body of a person, and by they wrenching sound they made- they’re still alive and he just broke their leg. Their face contorts in pain as he steps off the large piece of concrete and stands right next to them, slowly tilting his head.

-

You were hoping the worst of it was over. You wouldn’t be discovered by any of the variants- and rescue would eventually find you. But apparently you have a big target on your back of sorts, or maybe a family curse. For him, a variant of Invincible here to fuck up your city, to find you was a garunteed death sentence. You can’t even find the energy to turn your body halfway to see how bad your leg must be mangled now. If you’re lucky, you’ll be able to walk again.

“Tsk, tsk. You were in my way.” He hums, like he’s annoyed by your very existence. Honestly, how dare you be in his way, he had important shit to do.

You don’t want to look at him, but you get yourself to. His suit is reminiscent of a bee- no, a wasp. One that can sting multiple times, with a rigid body. You can hear heroes in the distance, but you know it’s no use. Invincible is obviously strong, and this variant is very cocky- and probably has the prowess to back it up.

You try to blink the dust and debris away as he continues to stare at you, not bothering to look behind him as the voices grow near. His gaze is calm, but in a bad way, in a sinister way. You blink, then there’s blood clouding your vision. It sprayed all over your face, it’s warm and drips slowly down your face before you can even process.

A hero tried to attack but within an instant, Invincible ended him. You try to suppress the urge to gag and vomit. You have to close your eyes to avoid the gore in front of you. Invincible quickly kneels before you and gets close to your face- a feeling of him just hovering. Studying.

“What are you willing to sacrifice in order to live? And how much pain are you willing to endure?”

The question caught you off guard. Excuse me? You can barely think as your brain swims with a fog- the concussion was making your head pound and the pain in your leg was distracting to say the least. You try to open your mouth a few times but no words form and spill out.

He doesn’t seem pleased. He grabs you roughly by the ear.

“Hey, dipshit, answer me now.”

“I- I don’t know!” You plead, hoping that maybe there is something in there to appease his humanity- even if it is wishful thinking. Faith is all that can keep you going at this point- or maybe it’s like wishing on a dim, pointless star.

“Not good enough. How about this,” he says steadily, adjusting his squatted position to get more comfortable- not letting go of your ear.

“Are you willing to sacrifice your leg?”

You pitifully squeak out, “yes…”

He smiles, pleased with this answer. Is this a game?

“What about… hm, let’s see…” An idea pops up, “what about the living civilians within a mile radius”

This question catches you off guard, your life doesn’t mean more than everyone around you. But, is it selfish that your life is more meaningful to you? That deep down, maybe you’re scared of what lies for you beyond death. This torment seems to please him enough to not get mad. He doesn’t rush you, he’s just waiting.

“I… I think on a grand scale… my life is not that meaningful. But… to me…”

He listens to your hoarse but hushed voice murmur out this answer, and he grins like a maniac.

“So you’re selfish?”

“I-… maybe”

“Good.”

You look up, confused. “Huh?”

“How else do you think I got here? It’s by being selfish, YOU always come first in your mind.” His words make you realize how much of a piece of shit you sound like. But, apparently you amuse him enough for him to spare you. To let you live for another day, come hell or high water. He lifts the rubble off your leg and tosses it aside like it’s nothing- not caring if it hits someone. He hums and grabs you by your mangled leg.

A screech shreds through your throat as he begins to hover himself off the ground, higher and higher. You jerk your body upwards to at least catch a glimpse. Your leg is so broken, mangled even, that it looks like it could rip apart like a wet paper towel.

“Say, is this pain unbearable? Or do you think you can endure it for another 20 minutes if it means you get to live?”

You cry, wrenching out raw and wet sobs. You plead, “please, don’t.”

“Don’t what? Kill you? It’s either I drop you from here- letting you squish below, or I carry you like this to a safe spot. Might take a while though”

You scream and cry out, hoping that some miracle would come and help you from this mess. But nothing does- so you have to choose.

“I want to live! Pl-please.” A wet strangled noise comes from the bottom of your throat when he raises you higher to throw you over his shoulder. The pain doesn’t stop, your leg is still mangled, but at least the blood stopped rushing to your head and he isn’t gripping your leg anymore. He rubs your back roughly, the weird gesture making it obvious he has never comforted someone before. He kisses your earlobe he assaulted earlier and says in a smooth and cruel voice.

“I’ll take good care of you. We’re similar after all..”

[exhaled-spirals]

« To mention the global loss of biodiversity, that is to say, the disappearance of life on our planet, as one of our problems, along with air pollution or ocean acidification, is absurd—like a doctor listing the death of his patient as one symptom among others.

The ecological catastrophe cannot be reduced to the climate crisis. We must think about the disappearance of life in a global way. About two-thirds of insects, wild mammals and trees disappeared in a few years, a few decades and a few millennia, respectively. This mass extinction is not mainly caused by rising temperatures, but by the devastation of natural habitats.

Suppose we managed to invent clean and unlimited energy. This technological feat would be feted by the vast majority of scientists, synonymous in their eyes with a drastic reduction in CO2 emissions. In my opinion, it would lead to an even worse disaster. I am deeply convinced that, given the current state of our appetites and values, this energy would be used to intensify our gigantic project of systemic destruction of planetary life. Isn't that what we've set out to do—replace forests with supermarket parking lots, turn the planet into a landfill? What if, to cap it all, energy was free?

[...C]limate change has emerged as our most important ecological battle [...] because it is one that can perpetuate the delusional idea that we are faced with an engineering problem, in need of technological solutions. At the heart of current political and economic thought lies the idea that an ideal world would be a world in which we could continue to live in the same way, with fewer negative externalities. This is insane on several levels. Firstly because it is impossible. We can't have infinite growth in a finite world. We won't. But also, and more importantly, it is not desirable. Even if it were sustainable, the reality we construct is hell. [...]

It is often said that our Western world is desacralised. In reality, our civilisation treats the technosphere with almost devout reverence. And that's worse. We perceive the totality of reality through the prism of a hegemonic science, convinced that it “says” the only truth.

The problem is that technology is based on a very strange principle, so deeply ingrained in us that it remains unexpressed: no brakes are acceptable, what can be done must be done. We don't even bother to seriously and collectively debate the advisability of such "advances". We are under a spell. And we are avoiding the essential question: is this world in the making, standardised and computed, overbuilt and predictable, stripped of stars and birds, desirable?

To confine science to the search for "solutions" so we can continue down the same path is to lack both imagination and ambition. Because the “problem” we face doesn't seem to me, at this point, to be understood. No hope is possible if we don't start by questioning our assumptions, our values, our appetites, our symbols... [...] Let's stop pretending that the numerous and diverse human societies that have populated this planet did not exist. Certainly, some of them have taken the wrong route. But ours is the first to forge ahead towards guaranteed failure. ��

— Aurélien Barrau, particle physicist and philosopher, in an interview in Télérama about his book L'Hypothèse K

[fratttymatty]

All British American Boy

(All characters are 18+)

Matthew Hastings leaned his forehead against the cool glass of the airplane window, watching as the endless patchwork of green and brown fields below gave way to the sprawling suburban grid. He adjusted his glasses and ran a hand through his messy brown hair, feeling a knot of nerves tighten in his stomach. He had read every guidebook, watched countless YouTube videos, and even practiced a Midwestern accent as a joke, but nothing could prepare him for actually being here—America.

More specifically, the East Coast of California, a small town near the beach where he’d spend his gap year as an exchange student before university. For an 18-year-old British boy with a penchant for sci-fi novels, indie music, and political debates, it felt like stepping into a completely different world.

At the airport, Matthew’s host family greeted him with big smiles and even bigger hugs. The Bennetts were the epitome of California Americana: Todd, the jovial dad in a baseball cap; Lisa, the bubbly mom with a perpetual tray of cookies; and Chase, their athletic, all-smiles son who was also 18. Chase was a senior at the local high school and the starting quarterback of the football team.

“Matthew,” Lisa said brightly as they piled into the family’s SUV. “What a great name! So classic. So All-American!”

Matthew blinked. “Uh, thanks?”

Chase chuckled from the backseat, where he sat next to Matthew. “Yeah, bro, it’s perfect. You’re gonna fit right in.”

Matthew wasn’t so sure about that, but he forced a polite smile.

The first day at school was a blur of introductions and unfamiliar faces. Everyone seemed fascinated by his accent, asking him to say random words like “bottle” and “aluminium,” which felt strangely alien to Matthew, now that he was in a place where everyone had the same cadence and lingo. It wasn’t long before his name became a subject of constant discussion.

As Matthew walked into the school, he could feel eyes on him. Cheerleaders, jocks, and teachers alike seemed to zero in on him, exchanging knowing glances.

One of the cheerleaders, a blonde girl with a smile that could light up a room, grinned as she approached. “Matthew, huh? Your name sounds so... All-American,” she said, giggling. “You’re not secretly a football player, are you?”

Matthew blinked, caught off guard. “Uh, no, not really.”

“Pfft, I bet you could be,” she teased, tossing her hair over her shoulder as she walked off, still chuckling. “We need more guys like you on the team. You’d fit right in.”

As Matthew made his way through the crowded hallways, another guy—a tall jock in a varsity jacket—clapped him on the back as he passed. “Matthew, huh? Dude, that’s a name you can take to the bank. Like, you’re straight outta one of those All-American movies, right?”

Matthew managed a smile, but inside, he was still trying to make sense of it all. What did they mean? What was this weird association everyone seemed to have with his name?

“Yeah, man,” another guy, a friend of the first, added as they walked past, “you’re gonna be a star here. Football, maybe? You look like you belong on the field.”

Later that day, in history class, his new teacher, Mr. Henderson, remarked on his name with an enthusiastic grin. “Matthew. Now that’s a name I can get behind! Really sounds like the kind of guy who’d be representing the All-American spirit. You’re the pride of your country, huh?”

Matthew, unsure how to respond, simply nodded. “Yeah, I guess.”

“Cool, cool,” Mr. Henderson said, adjusting his glasses. “You’re going to get along great here.”

During lunch, as Matthew stood in line, he overheard a conversation between a group of cheerleaders. They were talking about the new kid—him—and they couldn’t stop commenting on his name.

“That Matthew kid?” one of the cheerleaders said, flipping her hair. “Totally All-American. I swear, he looks like he just stepped out of a high school movie.”

“Right?” another cheerleader responded. “I bet he’s gonna be the next big thing here. He’s got the look. That strong jawline? Those cheekbones? Definitely jock material.”

Matthew froze mid-bite, his fork hovering in the air. Strong jawline? Cheekbones? He frowned and ran his tongue along his teeth. He’d never thought of himself as having any of those features. His jawline had always seemed weak and round, and his cheekbones were practically nonexistent. Had they mistaken him for someone else? He glanced around, wondering if they were talking about someone else. But no, they were definitely referring to him.

Later that afternoon, as he was leaving class, the principal—Mr. Gallagher, a tall man in his 50s with a firm handshake—stopped him in the hallway.

“Matthew,” Mr. Gallagher said with a smile, his voice warm but commanding. “I hear you’re fitting in well. It’s not every day we get a guy with such an All-American name. People around here are already talking about you. And I’ve gotta say, I think you’ll do great things at this school.”

Matthew blinked, feeling like the entire world was projecting some image onto him that he hadn’t asked for.

“Thanks, I guess?” he said hesitantly, unsure of how to respond.

“You’re welcome,” Mr. Gallagher said, still smiling broadly. “It’s good to have someone like you in our school. Now, go enjoy the rest of your day. You’re definitely going to fit right in.”

That evening, after dinner, as Matthew was settling in, Chase walked into his room with a mischievous grin and a bottle of cologne in hand.

“Alright, Matthew Hastings,” Chase said, leaning against the doorframe. “Time to complete your transformation.”

Matthew raised an eyebrow. “What are you on about?”

Chase stepped closer, unscrewing the cap of the cologne. “This is the secret ingredient. One spray of this, and you’re gonna be the perfect All-American boy.”

Matthew snorted. “Very funny.”

But before he could protest, Chase spritzed the cologne in his direction. The scent hit Matthew’s nose—strong, woodsy, and oddly intoxicating. He staggered back, his vision blurring.

“What the hell?” he mumbled, clutching his head as a strange warmth spread through his body. His glasses slipped from his face, and he blinked in confusion.

Matthew felt the change like a wave crashing over him. His clothes grew tighter, the fabric hugging new, broader muscles. His hands expanded, becoming larger and more defined. His spine straightened as his body seemed to bulk up, every inch of him transforming into a physical reflection of a guy who could play football, lift weights, and dominate any sports field.

But it was his hair that caught him off guard the most. The gelled, slightly messy brown hair he had always known as his was now slowly shifting. He could feel it growing, thickening, becoming wilder. His once-neat style unraveled, and it was replaced by a messy, dirty blonde wave that fell effortlessly into place, as if his hair had always been meant to look this way. His strands now had a natural tousled look, framing his face with an untamed, confident aura that screamed “California jock.”

He stumbled to the mirror, his heart racing. His reflection showed a tall, athletic figure with a strong jawline, perfect blonde hair that seemed to defy gravity, and bright blue eyes that gleamed with confidence. The nerdy, awkward British boy who had boarded the plane was nowhere to be found. In his place stood a tall, chiseled young man with a cocky smile and a powerful presence.

“Dude,” Chase said, clapping him on the back. “Looking good!”

Matthew turned to him, startled by the deep, American drawl that came out of his mouth. “What... what did you do to me?”

Chase shrugged. “Just helped you find your true self, bro.”

The following days passed in a blur of transformations—both external and internal. Matthew, now calling himself Matt Bennett, slid seamlessly into his new life. He joined the football team alongside Chase, becoming one of the star players almost immediately. His accent, his interests, even his political views began to shift. His love of indie music and intellectual debates slowly faded, replaced with a growing obsession for rap and R&B, the beats pounding through his headphones whenever he wasn’t on the field. He loved the swagger and confidence that came with it, the rhythms that felt so natural now, like they were a part of him all along.

His love of sci-fi novels seemed trivial now, a memory from another life. His sense of identity, too, morphed. The boy who had once questioned his sexual orientation—who had once enjoyed the company of both men and women—found himself suddenly, unmistakably attracted to women. In fact, he couldn’t even remember the last time he’d been with a guy. His attraction to men was now something distant and irrelevant, like a forgotten dream.

His new family felt like his real family. He called Todd and Lisa “Mom” and “Dad” without hesitation. And then there was Cassie, the bubbly cheerleader who became his girlfriend. With her blonde curls, wide smile, and endless use of words like “like” and “totes,” she was everything he never knew he wanted.

Chase noticed the change, of course. One day, while tossing a football back and forth, Chase shot him a sly grin. “You like the new you, right? You’re basically the ideal All-American man now. You’ve got the looks, the skills, the right political views, and, of course, the perfect girlfriend.”

Matt laughed, a confident, almost smug laugh. “Yeah, bro. I mean, it’s like I’ve always been this way, y’know? Girls, football... that’s all that matters. Oh, and, uh, conservative values, right?”

Chase slapped him on the back. “Hell yeah. If we all just stuck to our guns, everything would be perfect.” He paused, his grin widening. “Just like us.”

At school, Matt became a local legend. His name, now officially “Matt Bennett,” was on everyone’s lips. Teachers and classmates alike would remark on how “All-American” he looked. At the football games, Matt was cheered on as a hero. His life, once a tangled web of uncertainty and self-doubt, had been rewritten.

Now, he was Matt Bennett, the perfect All-American jock, and he couldn't imagine being anyone else.

One afternoon, as he walked hand-in-hand with Cassie through the school’s hallway, Chase slapped him on the back. “Told you, man. Brunettes are great, but blondes? That’s where it’s at.”

Matt laughed, his perfect white teeth gleaming. “You were right, bro.”

And as he leaned in to kiss Cassie, he didn’t think about the boy he had been before. Why would he? He was Matt Hastings now, the perfect All-American boy.

At school, Matt became a local legend. His name, now officially “Matt Bennett,” was on everyone’s lips. Teachers and classmates alike would remark on how “All-American” he looked. His new, muscular frame made him a standout, but it was his natural charisma and sharp athleticism that earned him respect.

“You know,” one of his classmates commented during lunch, “Matt Bennett... that name just screams All-American jock. It’s like something out of a movie.”

Another added, “Dude’s gotta be the most ‘jocky’ guy in school. I can already picture him playing pro football someday.”

The attention was flattering. He found himself slipping into the role effortlessly, becoming the guy everyone admired, the one who fit the mold perfectly.

But there was something else. It was in the way he now saw the world—through a lens of conservative ideals. Matt often found himself in debates with classmates, his new opinions solidifying as the days went on. He believed firmly in traditional gender roles, the importance of family values, and a strong distaste for liberal ideologies. The political conversations he had once enjoyed with his friends back in England seemed ridiculous now.

One day, during a lunch break, he and Chase found themselves talking about their political views.

“You know what’s messed up?” Matt said, taking a bite of his sandwich. “The way the country’s going. I mean, I don’t know how anyone could vote for those liberals. Everything’s just getting too soft.”

Chase nodded. “Exactly, man. It’s like people don’t want to stand up for what’s right anymore. We need to take America back. Make it great again.”

Matt chuckled. “I’m with you. It’s all about family, football, and freedom.”

Everything about Matt Bennett felt right now. His identity was clear, his life full of purpose, and every moment felt like an affirmation of his new self. He was exactly who he was supposed to be—perfectly All-American, living the life he had never even known he wanted.

And when he kissed Cassie, his blonde, bubbly cheerleader girlfriend, the world felt even more complete. He didn’t think about the boy he had been, the questions he had once asked himself. Why would he? He was Matt Bennett now—an All-American jock, straight as an arrow, and proud of it.