#Marbles knows math

[ask-the-pioneer]

According to all known laws of aviation, there is no way a squidcada should be able to fly. Its wings are too small to get its fat little body off the ground. The squidcada, of course, flies anyway

She tries to do some quick calculations in her head, but the numbers just aren't adding up...

[doodle-do-wop]

What the Elvin equivalent of your dad yelling at you about math homework over the kitchen table for Foxfire?

[me0wnz73r]

Marble Hornets relationships except it’s as messy and tangled as the relationships in Miraculous Ladybug

[deadsetobsessions]

Snart Jr.

Lovely prompt by @stealingyourbones in her long prompts list, in which Danny Phantom meets the Rogues of Central City! This will have multiple parts, I just haven't written them yet.

Disclaimer: I know very little about Captain Cold and Mirror Master despite having watched some of the Flash. The general vibe I get from Flash is that Flash just really cares about his rogues as evidenced by how he talks to them and doesn't immediately one-shot them like I'm pretty sure he could do. And that Captain Cold is a snarky asshole that just wants to steal things and follow his plans as planned? Tbh, the whole mini-arc/episode with him just felt like Snart was trying to coordinate the world's riskiest group project. He was so done by the end lmao

"Huh. That's new."

Danny hovered an inch off of the ground, having just been spat out by swirling green portal. He was going to have to get back to the Zone later to hot potato Skulker through a couple of portals in revenge. He had a math exam he had to study for, dammit.

Danny sighed. Might as well see what's happening. The portals rarely lead somewhere boring, and Danny was bored. He floated further in, form going intangible and invisible as he passed through thick but insulated marble walls. See, Jazz? He could totally plan ahead. He's also learning that he could probably rob a bank easily, but Danny would never.

"Never been spat out in a bank before," he hummed, eyes flickering on the numerous forms of cowering people in the lobby. The goons scattered about don't see him, but it would take another ghost to even detect his presence so it was to be expected. He moved further in with little hindrance and soon touched down onto polished floor behind two incredibly suspicious individuals.

"What-cha do-ing?"

The two figures, currently and obviously robbing a bank, whirled around in surprise. Their respective weapons whirred to a start before they stopped, baffled by the meta teen standing there with his white hair waving about and innocent look pasted all over his face.

Leonard Snart knew instinctively that the kid was so full of shit. He'd bet his entire plan on the fact that the kid knew exactly what kind of shit he was stirring. Still, Snart was guilty of a lot of things but direct child-endangerment wasn't ever one of them.

"How'd you get in here, kid?" Mirror Master raised his laser pistol, ready to distract and divert the kid with threats of violence- which Snart glared at him for- or with his hall of mirrors that he'd run to.

Danny shrugged. "I walked. If you guys didn't want me here, you should have guarded the place better."

"They were supposed to," Snart drawled. He cased the kid. Teen. The kid had a weird halo effect, that seemed to draw the eyes to the stylized letter on his hazmat suit. The kid was young. Meta. Non-hostile. "You trying to stop us?"

Danny shook his head. "Nah. Came from the Ghost Zone so 's really non'a my business. I was just being nosy."

Snart gave a curt nod and nudged Mirror Master back into cracking the security measures.

Mirror Master scoffed. "What the hell is a ghost zone?"

"I mean, it's pretty self explanatory, right? It's a zone where ghosts live. Hence, you know, Ghost Zone." Danny did a little jazz hands (oh, yeah, he was definitely gonna get Jazz to make that joke sooner or later) for emphasis.

Snart paused for the slightest bit before continuing with his task. Did ghosts exist?

"...Did the Flash send you here, kid?"

"I'm not a kid," Danny scowled, walking right up to them. He got enough of that from his own Rogues, thank you. "And what's a Flash?"

"The Flash, kid." Mirror Master corrected, shoving monitors and PC's and expensive looking office chairs into... a mirror dimension? Danny shrugged and rolled with it.

"Who's that? Your boss?"

"Local superhero, not our boss. You're not from here," Snart quickly deduced as a small smile wormed onto his face from successfully cracking the security without setting off an alarm. They'd have ten minutes before the system cycles the access codes again and flags the fraudulent ones. That should be enough time.

"Superhero? Are they fast? Actually, where is here?" Danny glanced around at the now bare security office like the Flash would show up.

The guy in green and yellow took everything not nailed down to the ground. Danny respected that, even if he kind of wanted to stop the robbery. But he's not really supposed to interfere. That would be uber rude, since it looked like the guy in the fur jacket seemed like he had planned everything precisely.

"You're in Central City, kid. Did you take a wrong turn trying to get to Keystone or something?" Green-yellow guy snorted.

"Gonna be real honest with you, I've got no idea where that is. What state are we in?" Danny followed as the pair rushed to the safe doors. He could offer to phase them through but no matter how flexible Danny's morals have become over the years, he was going to draw a line at actively helping a person commit crime.

"Kansas. Do you teleport? Are you a teleporting meta?" Snart asked, eyes intense as he both glared at Danny and pressed an ear to the safe door.

"Nah, I wish I could teleport. Getting to school would be so much faster. Kansas? Huh, I've never been."

"How lost are you, kid?" Mirror Master incredulously paused from robbing the packages that were delivered to the bank.

Danny shrugged. "Oh, I'm Danny. Who are you guys?"

"Captain Cold. That's Mirror Master."

Danny shifted as the safe clicks open. "So, uh, are you guys the villains here?"

Captain Cold shot him a weird look. "We're actively robbing a bank, kid. That should be obvious."

"Also, you're acting real calm for a kid speaking to two of Fawcett's best super-villains." Mirror Master chimed in, laser-ing off locks on deposit boxes and shoving cash and stuff into his mirror dimension.

Danny padded in after them. "Eh, you haven't shot at me- not even on sight- yet, which is more than I can say for law enforcement, so you're pretty chill in my book."

Captain Cold snorted, pointedly taking his freeze gun and breaking off a large manual lock. "I believe it's my job to be the chill one. Plus, we don't kill. The Flash would be up our... business if we did. It's not worth the trouble."

"You can say ass. I've heard worse."

"Not from me, kid."

Danny hadn't had that kind of consideration from anyone in a long time. Even if it's a bit... mother-hennish, the halfa couldn't find it in him to be annoyed. "Ah, okay. Well, you also haven't kidnapped me or tried to stop me from following you, so..."

Mirror Master shoved a giant painting into his dimension. "You haven't tried to stop us; it'd be weird trying to stop you."

"Makes sense."

"Heh. You're alright, kid. Though... who's kidnapping you?"

"My fruit loop of a godfather. It's a thing," Danny avoided the searching gaze like a pro.

"Hold this." Captain Cold said suddenly, giving Danny a massive dufflebag.

"Wait, what?"

Captain Cold began stuffing the bag with cash and once the money in the vicinity (not that much) went in, he said "Go look around. Having another person in here is a risk so you might as well make up for it."

Danny's calling it. Captain Cold was full of shit. The guy's a big softie. Danny smiled sheepishly and agreed. Danny circled the place, pointing out expensive looking stuff- "for fun" and not because they were nice to him- when he felt the tell-tale zaps of an anomaly in Clockwork's domain.

"Move!" He shouted at the two villains, both of whom dove out of the way. Instinctively, Danny threw out his gloved hands and iced the floors, instincts bristling at the incoming danger. His jaw dropped as a blur encountered the ice and went ass over tea kettle onto the floor, unable to stop its own momentum.

"Oh shit!" Danny uttered, eyes wide as the blur slammed into the opposite- reinforced- wall with a pained shout. The stopped person was wearing red, with a lighting bolt motif all over their uniforms. That implied speed. Speed implied "The Flash." Danny knew a hero when he saw one and he just iced him. Shit.

"What-" The Flash groaned. Mirror Master and Captain Cold gaped.

"OhmyancientsI'msosorrygottagobye!" Danny shouted.

"Hey, wait, kid-!" Captain Cold shouted. Danny ignored him, going invisible in a panic and sank into the ground, mortified. After thirty seconds of self-hatred, he zoomed out and away. Danny held his head in his hands as he flew back to where Amity was...

Only to stare down at the empty plots of land where his city was supposed to be. Danny shoved a hand into his chest and pulled out his phone.

[No results for Amity Park. Did you mean "Amity Arkham"?]

"What."

Any research he did after that only turned up a Jasmine Fellona, a budding neurobiologist in her field, and other people that were adjacent to the people Danny knew. But nothing, nothing from Amity Park.

"Oh, yeah, we're definitely not in Kansas anymore, Dorothy."

---

As the Flash stood around to keep an eye on the hand-cuffed villains, he couldn't help but ask.

"So, uh, Snart. Did you... get a kid?"

"What." Snart asked, incredibly done with this shit.

"You know. Snart junior? With the ice and everything?" Flash gestured at the un-melting ice that covered the floor leading into the safe. "I mean, I'm not thrilled you're pulling your kid into a life of crime..."

"No."

"Wait, you had a kid and didn't tell me?" Mirror Master asked, mildly offended. "That was your kid? No wonder no one shot at him!"

"He's not my kid." Snart gave Flash the stink-eye. "And don't you have a couple of baby sidekicks running around?"

"C'mon dude, you're so obviously fond of him. It's okay, you don't have to hide it." Flash avoided the topic... in a flash.

"Can someone arrest me right now so these idiots can be removed from my vicinity?" Snart snarked to the approaching officer, jerking his head to point at the beaming Flash.

"You and me both, buddy," Officer West sighed.

---

One trip to the zone and a stressful conversation with Clockwork later, Danny was found in his keep, smacking his ghost head into the ghost wall of his ghost keep. Danny would unleash a Wail if it didn't have the nasty habit of bringing everything around him.

Apparently, he got "Amity'd," a process which meant Amity spat him out like an over chewed dog bone and refused to take him back.

"That doesn't even make sense! I left there a bunch of times! And came back!"

"The city has decided that it was your time to leave, Danny." Clockwork spared a wane smile for the curled up boy-king.

"I have people to protect there! My entire life! My haunt!" Danny yelled, breaths that he didn't technically need coming shorter and shorter. The neon green of the Zone whirled in and out of his vision in a dizzying shudder of anxiety and incoming panic.

"It wasn't your haunt, I'm afraid. The city nurtured you as a young spirit- thus shared her haunt- and has decided that it was time for you to... leave the nest, so to speak."

That stopped Danny's panic in its tracks. "Are you telling me she NightVale-d me? Some kind of involuntary coming-of-age bs?"

If he weren't on the edge of hysterical laughter, Danny would take a moment and proudly say to Mr. Lancer that he had paid attention in class.

"...Yes."

"Fuck." Danny dropped his head down in despair. His head made a loud thunk. The bag of cash he'd accidently made away with sat innocently at his feet. Further proof that it wasn't some nightmare he'd wake up from anytime soon.

---

Danny slumped over the desk, exhausted. Technus had lent him a ghostly hand and hacked into government data bases to re-establish his social security number and all the other dumb bits and bobs that he needed to establish his identity because Amity was an actual ghost town. Ghost to reality, ghost to real life. Ancients, Amity even had their own data network, which he couldn't access outside of Amity itself. This meant that Danny couldn't even call anyone. Ugh.

"I gotta find a place to live," he mumbled to himself. Danny, despite knowing that he needed to do things, did not move for another ten minutes.

Then, as his phone alarm went off, buzzing on the table. Like... Clockwork... Danny sat up straight and wiped all traces of wallowing self pity off his face. The people in the library- students- gave him solemn nods of solidarity. Danny nodded back and left the library.

He wandered around Fawcett City, somewhere Clockwork had recommended he stayed. With Clockwork, recommendations tended to be life-important (plot-important?) orders. Danny liked the place, really. It gave off the weird and settled "what-the-fuck,-Box-Ghost-did-you-have-to-destroy-the-mall?" vibes Amity constantly gave off after the ghosts started coming through. He thought he even saw a talking tiger! Awesome.

"Hey, are you new here?"

Danny looked down. His reflection stared back at him.

Did he have another kid? Did someone clone him again? Ancients curse you, Vlad!

"Uh- yeah."

"Oh. Do you need help getting around? I was born and raised here all my life, so I can totally do that!"

Oh thank the Ancients, this wasn't another Dani. Just a weirdly similar looking kid.

"You know I'm a stranger, right?"

"I don't think anyone helping Nanny Mae pick up her oranges would hurt kids," the kid said archly, but with a grin so like Dani, it made Danny miss his younger sister.

"Okay, you got me there. But still."

The kid sighed. "I know how to be safe, thanks. I'm Billy!"

"Danny. Nice to meet you."

"Okay, Danny, where you off to?"

"I'm actually trying to find a place that'll be cheap to rent." He's sixteen, but Danny could totally pass as eighteen. "I'm thinking about moving to Fawcett. It's nice here, with all the ambient magic and stuff."

This got him a wide-eyed look. "Do you use magic?"

"Something like that."

"Cool."

Danny took in the considering glint in Billy's eyes and decided that it was future!Danny's problem. Present!Danny was currently occupied with trying to stay off the streets. That giant bag of cash he'd accidently absconded with would be helpful and Danny felt kind of bad... but his growling stomach had chased that away quickly.

"This way!"

Danny shrugged his wavering morality off and followed the kid, shouldering his new and stolen duffle bag. If anything happened, he could just go ghost. It wouldn't be the weirdest thing that's happened in this city, Danny made sure to check.

"Have you been by the zoo?" Billy began to rattle off his favorite details about the Fawcett city zoo as he wove around the city.

Danny didn't think he'd actually have to go ghost.

"Not yet, actually. Is it true that there's a talking tiger there?"

"Yeah! Tawky Tawny! He's my friend!"

"Awesome."

[pure-smut]

and they were roommates.

featuring: Ryomen Sukuna x f!reader

contains: roommate!Sukuna, only one bed, best friends to lovers, spooning s*x, unprotected s*x, slightly possessive!Sukuna, teeny mention of a fight/blood at the start

note: all characters are aged up to 21+!

MDNI | 18+ content

word count: 2.7k

masterlist

Ryomen Sukuna is, against all odds, your best friend. Yeah, he’s abrasive and antagonistic and - oh my god - so arrogant but the truth is, you’ve always felt safe with him.

The first day you met, a group of boys were bullying you on the playground, taunting you and pushing you to the ground. Sukuna stepped in, scaring them off, but told you he’s only going to rescue you once.

“You need to learn how to punch,” he said.

When you told him you didn’t know how, he taught you. True to his word, the next time the boys showed up, he watched from a distance. When your little fist connected with one of their noses, spraying a shock of blood across your hand, Sukuna clapped you on the back and declared you “cool”.

Years later, you went to college while Sukuna started working in a tattoo studio. Two broke twenty-somethings, you made the only sensible choice and moved in together as roommates.

At first, he was a barely-present roommate. He’d head out to the club and not return for days, dishevelled and hungover. You got used to finding him passed out on the sofa, chicken nuggets still in his hand, or stumbling in at 6am, trying and failing to be quiet.

It was never a problem – not until you started seeing someone.

You had warned him about your roommate but he still wasn’t prepared when you took him home to see Sukuna in his boxers, his tattoos on show, standing in the kitchen eating cheese straight out of the bag. It was a source of endless frustration for you that he can eat like a raccoon and still look like he’s chiseled from marble.

Your not-quite-boyfriend isn’t pleased.

“Why is he walking around in his underwear?” he asks gruffly once you manage to get him into your room.

“Because he lives here?” you sigh.

To tell the truth, you don’t want to talk about Sukuna. You’re horny, you haven’t been laid in months, and you just want to get to the point. So you pull him on top of you, pressing your mouth against his to shut him up.

Luckily, your distraction tactics work. His fingers don’t quite find your clit but he’s pretty keen so you lick your hand and rub it along your lips, wetting yourself for him. He might not be perfect but it still feels good when he pushes himself inside you.

The bed creaks as you fuck, rattling against the wall. You wish it was a sign of how good he is but, in reality, you just have a cheap, shitty bed frame. Which is why, after five minutes and just as he cums, you hear the crack of wood. You both freeze and a second later, the frame collapses against the floor.

“Holy shit,” he says, a grin spreading across his face. “I must be good.”

You laugh nervously and push him off you. He’s already pulling on his pants, making it clear he’s finished even though you clearly aren’t. But you don’t have time to be annoyed – your fucking bed is broken.

Once you’ve shooed him out of the house, your return to your room to inspect the damage. The frame has completely snapped on two of the legs while the other two are bent awkwardly, half-broken. You thump a fist off the ground, groaning, before lying back on the floor in defeat. You press the palms of your hands into your eyes.

This is great, you think. Just fucking great.

You know you don’t have the money to replace it but you’re desperately doing the mental math anyway, checking and double checking how much you really need to eat in a week to survive.

You’re interrupted from your spiralling by a low whistle. You open your eyes to see Sukuna leaning against your door frame.

“That’s impressive.” He nods at the broken bed.

“No,” you sigh, pulling yourself up to sitting. “The frame just sucks. He wasn’t that good.”

“Oh, I know.” Sukuna shrugs and you narrow your eyes at him.

“How would you know that?”

“Dude, these are pretty thin walls.” Sukuna raps his knuckles off the wall as if to demonstrate. “I know what you sound like when you get yourself off. That guy didn’t even come close.”

Your mouth drops open and your cheeks burn.

“Sukuna, what the fuck?” You pick up a pillow and throw it at him. He bats it away with a laugh. “You’ve been listening?”

He rolls his eyes.

“It’s hardly listening when it’s right next to my head.”

“Oh my god…” You bury your face in your hands. “This night could not get any worse.”

Sukuna crosses the room and squats down next to you.

“Listen, forget that guy and forget the bed. I’ll fix it tomorrow.”

You chance a peek from behind your hands.

“Really? You’ll fix it?”

“Yeah, shouldn’t be hard.” He shrugs and you’re not sure if he does actually know how to fix it or if it’s his arrogance shining through.

“But-”

“You can sleep in my bed tonight.”

You blink at him. Sukuna can be generous when he wants to be, usually when he’s in a good mood, but this is out of the blue. He must see how stressed you are. You beam at him.

“You’re offering your bed?” You ask and he nods. “Where are you gonna sleep?”

He scoffs.

“In the bed, obviously.”

Your face drops and you give him a flat look. You should have known he wasn’t that much of a gentleman.

“I thought you were giving me your bed.”

“I am.”

“Without you in it.”

“Hell no.” Sukuna stands and stretches. “It’s my bed.”

“We can’t share it!” you protest, rising to your feet as well.

“Why not?”

“It’s a single bed and you’re…” You gesture at him. “Huge. I won’t fit.”

Sukuna scoffs again.

“Stop being ridiculous. Just come on.”

Sukuna stalks out of your room and you trail behind him, giving one last mournful look at your broken bed. Damn you, you think before following Sukuna to his room.

Sukuna is surprisingly clean, despite eating like a garbage bin. His room is gaudy, overloaded with trophies from the sports he played in school, but at least it’s neat. You’ve definitely seen worse bedrooms from guys.

Sukuna strips off his t-shirt, leaving him down to his boxer briefs, and climbs into bed. You dither for a minute, tugging down the hem of your night shirt, knowing you’re naked underneath. It’s actually an old t-shirt of Sukuna’s that you borrowed and never gave back. It never bothered you before but now it feels weirdly intimate.

“Hurry up,” Sukuna calls, yawning.

“Ugh.”

You groan and take the plunge, slotting yourself into bed beside Sukuna. He rolls over so his chest is pressed against your back, his large hand on your hip. His body heat radiates off him like furnace and his chest feels like a slightly softer brick wall.

Annoyingly, he’s right – it’s definitely a tight fit but you can both squeeze into the single space. Admittedly, with less than an inch between you and the edge of the bed. You scoot back, pressing yourself tighter to Sukuna so you don’t fall off.

He tuts in your ear.

“Don’t get me worked up.”

“I’m not,” you huff. “I’m just trying not to fall out of this tiny bed.”

“Mhmm. A likely excuse.”

“Shut up.”

Sukuna chuckles darkly, his hand sliding up your night shirt and resting on your bare hip, making you freeze.

“I don’t blame you,” he says, his voice low. “You didn’t finish tonight. You’re all worked up yourself.”

“Shut up,” you repeat but there’s no weight behind it.

You know you could bat away Sukuna’s hand if you want to, you know he would stop as soon as you told him. But you don’t. Again, he’s irritating but he’s right – you’re still horny from before.

Sukuna lazily traces circles against the bare skin of your hip with his thumb. For some reason, even that simple touch is making you wetter than the guy from earlier did. Maybe it has something to do with Sukuna’s bulge pressing against your ass, a promise of what you can have if you choose. Maybe it’s the confident stroke of his fingers playing at the line between friends and something more.

Maybe it’s because it’s Sukuna.

“Stop me anytime,” he whispers against the shell of your ear. “If you want.”

“I know,” you whisper back.

Even with your permission, Sukuna doesn’t move straight away. His large hand slides up and down your hips, the callouses of his palms catching your skin and causing goosebumps to spring up your arms.

When Sukuna’s hand travels up under your shirt to your stomach, you suck in a breath. You’re glad you’re facing away from him so he doesn’t need to see the flush of your cheeks. He’s not even touching you anywhere sexual but each stroke of his finger feels intimate. Like he’s taking his time with you, exploring the parts of your body he’s never gotten to touch before.

Behind you, Sukuna buries his face in the nape of your neck, pressing teasingly soft kisses against your shoulder. You tilt your head back, giving him more access. Sukuna moves his hand up and up until his fingers brush against the soft underside of your breasts. Your back arches on instinct, craving more.

“I thought you’d be rougher,” you say and you surprise yourself with how breathless you are.

A puff of air escapes Sukuna’s nose.

“Oh, I will be, sweetheart,” he murmurs against your neck. “Don’t you worry.”

Sukuna palms your breast, massaging the soft flesh before rolling your nipple between his thumb and forefinger. You’ve always had sensitive nipples and the sensation makes a light moan escape your lips.

“Mmm, noted,” Sukuna says between kisses, lightly pinching your nipple to elicit another reaction.

He’s really working you up now. You push your ass back against him, grinding against the hardness you can feel through his boxer briefs. Your thighs slide off each other, slick with your arousal.

“Sukuna…” you whine and you feel his grin against your neck.

“What is it, princess?” he asks, still playing with your nipples. “What d’you need?”

“More. Please.” You’ve never begged for an orgasm before and you both love and hate how much control Sukuna has over you right now. “I need to cum.”

Sukuna hums, pretending to think it over.

“I like it when you say please,” he coos.

His hand trails down to your stomach again before stopping. He’s grinding back against you, his cock throbbing and needing some friction. You let out another needy whine – he’s so close to where you need him. Your clit is aching to be touched.

“Please, Sukuna,” you say, giving him what he wants. “Please make me cum.”

Hearing you beg him and whining his name is more than enough.

“Whatever you want, princess,” he whispers before pushing his hand lower.

Sukuna’s fingers find your clit and it’s an immediate hit of endorphins. You automatically spread your thighs slightly for him. Sukuna deftly strokes your sensitive bud, your arousal making it slippery and sweet to the touch. His other arm wraps around to continue playing with your nipples and your breathing quickly turns ragged.

Sukuna has to stop himself from moaning. Your pliant body pressed against him, his cock snug between your ass cheeks, and his name on your lips. He’s often wondered how you’d sound, how you’d feel, but nothing more than a fleeting thought. As soon as you got into his bed, something changed. You felt so right next to him. He couldn’t help himself.

Now he’s harder than he’s ever been before. Because it’s you.

You grasp at Sukuna’s thick forearm, feeling the muscles move as he plays with your pussy. You’re right at the edge and you know you’re about to cum. Your mind is clouded, too caught up to consider that you’re about to cum on your best friend’s fingers. You let yourself melt into it, into him, as he brings you to your climax.

“S-Sukuna-!”

It’s your best friend's name on your lips as your orgasm overcomes you, washing through your body and curling your toes. Sukuna works you through it, his touch softening but not letting up, not until you whimper and have to push his hand away, too sensitive to continue.

Sukuna cups your hip instead, one hand splayed on your breast, as he sucks gentle bruises on the soft skin of your neck. He waits for you patiently as your breathing slows, coming down from the high he gave you.

“Feel better?” he asks, not able to stop the smugness from leaking into his voice.

You want to say something snarky in response but your mind has gone blank, the strength of your orgasm wiping your mind clean.

“Yeah,” is all you can say, dazed.

“Ready for more?”

“I… I can barely feel my legs.” You huff out a chuckle.

“Don’t worry, princess, you don’t have to do a thing.” Sukuna smiles against your shoulder, reaching down to free his painfully hard cock. “Just lay there all beautiful for me, yeah?”

You nod, feeling his cock, solid and hard, slide between your slippery thighs.

“Yeah.”

At your permission, Sukuna slots his knee between your legs, hooking it behind his knee and pulling your legs apart. He reaches down to line his cock up with your entrance and you feel his fat tip pressing against your hole. When he’s satisfied you’re in position, his hand returns to your hip, keeping your ass flush to him.

“Ready, baby?”

“I’m ready.”

Sukuna goes slow, pushing in the first few inches, and has to clench his teeth to stop himself from moaning. Your back arches and his hand instinctively moves to your naked breast, the feel of it making his cock throb. He wasn’t lying when he said he would be rough – but not now. He needs you pliant first, needs to stretch you out for him.

Sukuna presses deeper, making you cry out. You’re wet enough for him but you didn’t realise how thick he would be. Sukuna whispers praises in your ear, his fingers teasing your nipples again. The idea of him playing with your most sensitive spots, making you as wet as possible so you can take his cock, is enough to make you dizzy with pleasure.

By the time Sukuna bottoms out, sealing you completely, your eyes have rolled back in your head. Every pinch of his fingers makes your pussy clench around him and you can hear his throaty moans. Sukuna wraps his other arm around your middle, holding you to him as he starts to pump his cock in and out of you, using his knee to keep your legs spread for him.

“Oh, god… Oh, fuck…” you gasp, each stroke tipping you closer to another orgasm.

After a few thrusts, once it’s clear you’ve stretched out to accommodate him, Sukuna stops holding himself back. He’s never felt jealous of the guys you brought home before but now he’s inside you, a wave of possessiveness overcomes him.

“This what you needed?” he growls in your ear, his grip around you almost crushing.

“Y-yes, Sukuna, “you gasp out.

He sets a brutal pace, pulling out almost all the way before slamming back inside you. You feel like a sex doll, held in place while he fucks you, using your pussy to pleasure himself. For some reason, that turns you on even more.

Sukuna buries his face in your hair, inhaling the sweet scent of you as your hot, plush walls squeeze him so deliciously.

“This pussy belongs to me now,” he moans. “Gonna - ah – gonna fuck you so good you don’t want anyone else. Understand?”

“Y-yeah,” you stammer out in between thrusts.

If you’re honest, you’d agree to anything right now. Sukuna’s cock drags against somewhere deep inside you, something that’s sending you hurtling over the edge.

“B-belongs to you, S-Sukuna,” you whine. “Only you.”

Sukuna’s never heard such sweet words. He moans, long and low, his cock throbbing as he explodes inside you. You reach your apex together, your pussy clenching like a vice grip around him as you cream on his cock, your nails digging into his forearm.

You both lie there, chests heaving. Even as Sukuna’s softening cock slips out of you, he makes no indication of moving. If anything, his arms wrap tighter around you.

“I meant it,” he eventually says, voice hoarse. “Did you?”

You manage to turn over, wriggling in his tight grip to face him. Sukuna’s pupils are blown out, sweat glazed across his brow. You press a soft kiss against his lips.

“I meant it.”

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[lizardsfromspace]

Vivek Ramaswamy is getting the leopards eating my face dot jpeg reception everyone imagined from the second someone who is Hindu tried to win over a party of Christian Nationalists, but besides the racism, it's just a wild reminder of how out of touch the right is from culture

Obviously we've now had a couple decades of hard promotion of STEM - to the extent non-STEM fields are frequently denigrated - and swagless tech billionaires essentially running the world, but he knows the truth. It goes back to the 90s, where nerds were made fun of.

We've had legions of guys saying society has fallen bc we don't have marble busts anymore. At last, we have a retvrn guy bold enough to say

A culture that venerates 'Stefan' over Steve Urkel will not produce the best engineers

A culture that venerates 'Stefan' over Steve Urkel

A culture that venerates 'Stefan'

On top of all the reasons it's embarrassing (a man who knowingly joined the anti-immigrant and anti-education party is now trying to pitch "Americans have a poor culture and immigrants are better at engineering" to them???) it's just. It isn't 1996. Besides Whiplash everything here is old as hell. Saturday morning cartoons haven't existed in two decades, nobody hangs out at the mall, he's still stuck on calling out TV as the "tech is ruining our children's mind" boogeyman du jour instead of social media. Did he write this rant as a child in the 90s mad that nobody liked Steve Urkel and Screech as much as him and it's been festering in his brain ever since

*looking at legions of people who spend all their time watching a TV news channel telling them books are evil and must be banned* More books! Let's all go to the math Olympiad instead of football!

Everyone notes that so much of modern Republican anger is basically teenager shit they've kept up to the current day & I guess now we're saying how that manifests for fucking nerds

[miguelhugger2099]

Power of the Sun

Summary: You're Doc O'Hara's assistant A/N: tentacle pron? Art: vencipality on twt

Miguel x Reader, No warnings, a little violent/screaming, Angst?, Word Count: 3,004

Miguel was a man of science. He took pride in his work but was always humble about it. He was a kind mentor, encouraging young brilliant minds to pursue their passion in science and math, connecting with his peers and exchanging ideas to enrich and evolve humankind for the greater good. Knowledge is not a privilege, it’s a gift, he would say. Like any other one of his colleagues and apprentices, you admired him and his work. You followed him around as his assistant and confidant. Miguel trusted you after many years and you had fallen in love with him after many years. For a while, it had remained one-sided. A love you kept to yourself and didn’t believe that a man so brilliant as him would ever fall for someone like his subordinate. He deserved someone equally as knowledgeable–capable of keeping up with him. “Dr. O’Hara, I’ve printed all the documents of the latest experimentation process as well as sending a copy to Osborn.” You walked in his vast lab, heels clicking with each step against the marbled floor. Miguel was all the way in the back, only a dim fluorescent light highlighting him and whatever he was working on. His face was scrunched together as he focused on the task at hand. However when he heard your voice, he looked over his shoulder and his scowl melted. He called out your name gently, now a small smile on his face. He joined you in the middle, hands out as he collected the papers from your hands. He briefly flipped through the pages, scanning with his eyes before looking back up at you. He patted the front pages with the back of his hand and nudged his glasses up further his nose. “What would I do without you?” You flush, scoffing and looking to the side before reverting back to him. “You’d be fine, Dr.O’Hara.” You shake your head and swerve around him to take a look at whatever he was working on.

Miguel turns. “I beg to differ. For years, you’ve been a great asset at my side.” You hum. “And for years, you keep telling me that. But really, Doctor, it’s you who does the actual revolutionary actions.” He meets you at your side once he’s placed the papers securely somewhere. “Miguel.” He corrects you. “We’ve been together all this time. You know what else I keep telling you? That honorifics is unnecessary. Call me Miguel.” You clear your throat. “Okay, Miguel.” No matter how many times he reminded you, you would always say his name before reverting back to calling him Doctor. Perhaps habits are hard to break. “How’s it coming along?” You turn your head to see what he had been working on for a long time now. Miguel brightened up, standing straight and walking around the device. Four long green mechanical tentacles held up on their own all attached to a long spinal machine. He grazed his hands over the tentacles, admiring his own work. “We’re close, darling. It just needs some testing.” “Well if you’d like I could set up a volunteering headline for–” “No, no, no!” He stopped you by shaking his head and hands. “No, I–we can’t let this get out to the public yet. This is for the expo next month where Osborn will be. Perhaps he can finally understand why I’m doing this…” He mumbles to himself. You’re taken aback by his outburst but you rationalize it by thinking how exhausted he might be. Ever since Norman Osborn had disregarded Miguel’s research, Miguel had been working on crunch time to prove the CEO wrong. “Then how will you test it?” Your hand comes up to hold a claw from one of the tentacles. You examine the carbon fiber skeleton that Miguel used, trying to find the details of the prosthetic. Miguel admires you from the side, his eyes longing and far as he watches.

“I’ll–” He sighs. “I’ll think of…someone.” He murmurs. He feels an ache in his chest and looks back at his invention. The green of the arms glow softly against his brown skin, reflecting off his glasses. He looks over at you and sees the same for you. The curve of your cheeks and the light in your eyes tinged with green. “You know, um. It’s been a while since we’ve-eh- hung out?” Miguel stammers, taking off his glasses and cleans the right lens with his lab coat. “Maybe later tonight we could–if you like, of course– to join me for dinner?” He coughs and quickly places his glasses back on to hide his blush. He fails. You turn your head to face him, surprise evident on your face. “O-oh. As…colleagues?” Your voice pitches higher with nerves. Miguel gulps, Adam's apple bobbing with the action. “Well, no–it’s–what I’m trying to say is I’d like to have dinner with you as…more than colleagues.” Miguel burns brighter. He could solve the hardest equation, understand quantum physics and talk to scholars and billionaires with no sweat but when it came to you, you turned him into a babbling idiot. He glances at you from his peripheral vision, hoping you would not reject him. “Oh..! Then,” You give him a small smile. “I’d love to.”

What started as one date, began another and another until a series of dates had been planned and enjoyed before it blossomed into a relationship with your boss. You never thought it possible. You always thought of Miguel as someone out of your reach, someone who would rather focus on winning awards and gaining money–helping humankind–before ever thinking of settling down with anyone. For months, you had been going out with him, and establishing your relationship and for months you were helping him with his invention. Miguel screamed as he threw everything he had on his desk aside in anger. Pens, papers and other tools flew to the floor and he gripped his hair in frustration. He tugged on his long curls hoping that the pain in his strands would outweigh the pounding in his head. You ran to his side and placed a hand on his back while he curled into himself, heaving heavily. “You need to rest.” You urged. “These damn billionaires,” He growls, ignoring you. “Can’t they see we’re just trying to help people? Can’t they see beyond something as worthless as the money they want?” He stomps away from you, heading to the pinboard that held all his drawings and calculations. He ripped them off their pins and clips, tearing them to shreds as they fluttered to the floor. “This is the next step to human evolution! And they want to dump my shit, my life’s WORK, just because of what?” He laughs hysterically. “Because that malparido Osborn doesn’t believe in it? Are they so far up that elitists ass?” You watch terrified behind him. You feel your heart pumping, your eyes trained on him in case he hurts himself. “Miguel…” He slams his fists on the now bare pinboard, papers strewn across the floor around him. He heaves out another sigh, his anger simmering. “I just want to help people.” He whispers, resting his forehead on the rough surface. While he takes in shaky breaths, you decide to approach him. Placing your hand on his shoulder, you turn his head towards you. Your heart breaks when you see the defeated look on his face. Eyebags had grown deeper, his eyes bloodshot and half lidded from sleep deprivation. “It’s okay.” You whisper.

“It’s not.” “It is. You’re a smart man, Miguel. You’ve done unimaginable things on your own. Your mind is what they need, but you? You don’t need their money. You have that brain of yours.” You tap his forehead and give him an encouraging grin. Miguel’s face falls into a relaxed smile, chuckling when you tap his forehead. “And you.” He whispers. “I have you.” He takes your hand off his shoulder and brings your knuckles up to his lips to kiss them. He keeps your hand against him until he breathes in and out slowly, looking up at you. “Thank you.” He mumbles, kissing your hand again before standing straight and moving his arms around your waist. “What would I do without you?” He grins tiredly. Your arms snake around his neck. “Probably die without me.” You giggled and he giggled with you. “Probably.” He hums while you look at each other, basking in the calm after the storm of emotions. “How about I bring us some tea?” You offer.

“No coffee?” “I think caffeine should be the least of your worries right now.” You roll your eyes playfully when you see his smirk. “English Breakfast?” You pat his chest before sliding away from his embrace, looking over your shoulder as you walk towards the exit. Miguel smiles and nods. “You know me so well.” He sighs and stuffs his hands in his pockets after watching you leave. His smile drops from his face and he looks over at the giant green robotic tentacles. With a gentle hand, he caresses the silicon with care. Then, he moves onto the spinal cord of the device, wondering if Osborn just saw what he could do–then it would all be worth it. With a glance at the door, he makes sure the coast is clear before taking off his lab coat and shirt–and attaches the tentacles to his body.

You loved Miguel, honestly. The man you met was the sweetest. He was kind and caring, always patient and encouraging for new minds that wanted to learn. He was gentle. Was. You wondered where it all went wrong. Maybe you should’ve seen the signs. It seemed like everyday he would get slowly more agitated. Not at you. Never at you. More like, at the situation–at least you’d tell yourself that. You remember waking up one day in Miguel’s apartment. With your growing relationship, you decided to move in with him but it seemed like you were alone again. Miguel was sleeping at the lab more often than not. Other times you would have had to drag him out of his burrow, him snapping with red eyes that he needed to continue working. With a sigh, you shuffled out of bed, the other side being freezing cold, and got ready for work.

After clocking in, you found Miguel exactly where he was last night—hunched over and murmuring to himself. You place the tea you brought down onto the table along with a sleeping pill right next to him.

“Mi amor, you need to get some actual rest. It’s been days. You’ll wear yourself out.” You speak as quietly as possible to not scare him. Miguel doesn’t flinch, only shrugging you off.

“I’m almost done.” He grumbles.

“You’ve been saying that for weeks now.” You frown deeply and nudge the tea closer to him. “At this rate everything will be in vain. It won’t work if—“

“IT WILL WORK!” Miguel screams, slamming his fist onto the table enough to shake the cup of tea's contents, spilling the sleeping pill. “It has to!”

You jump back, heart racing at his outburst.

Miguel huffs and collects himself, anxiously running his hands through his hair. He drags his hands down his face and rubs his eyes.

“Sorry, shock, I’m sorry. I-I didn’t mean to yell at you. You're right—it’s the, uh, lack of sleep.” He sounds exhausted. Every word slurring and when he relaxed even for a moment, his body drooped forward.

“You know better than to do that…” You whisper and he looks up at you with heartbreak in his eyes.

“I…I know, mi cielo—pero—“ Miguel gives you a weak smile, some light coming back to his eyes. “Look. Look! The—the arms! They’re almost complete!” He rushes towards you, ignorant to the way you step back and flinch when he takes your hand in his.

Miguel leads you to where the tentacles stand and presents it to you with a wide smile.  “You see here?” He points to the spinal cord of the contraption. “All these ridges really gave me a run for my money. When trying to attach it to the body, they would stick and often fall. If these are to be used for prosthetics then it needs to not just be connected to the body but a part of it. As if the limb never left—or-or better—made better.” He laughs to himself, placing a hand over his mouth as he stares adoringly at the machine.

Meanwhile your eyes squint. “How…how would you know that? How would you know how they react to connecting to the human body? I thought…this was unstable for human testing.”

Miguel scoffs, waving his hand at you. “No one gets far in their inventions by worrying about the dangers, mija! THINK!” He shouts.

You’re horrified, darting your eyes between his bloodshot eyes and the tentacles. “You didn’t…”

Miguel is already on his way to the device and stands in front of it. The spine digs into Miguel’s back and he grunts, the vest he added secures around his waist, lighting up a soft green. The chip snaps into his neck and Miguel stumbles but regains balance. He slowly stands back up and the tentacles come to life, swirling and curling around him. In the midst of the tentacles wiggling around, it slammed against tables and chairs—knocking the tea you had gotten him to the floor.

“Think about how many lives we could save. Mi amor, mi vida, mi corazón, we’re at the brink of the next stage of human evolution!” His tentacles whip wildly around him as if cheering along with him.

“What…are you talking about?!” You yell, exasperated. “‘Human evolution’? Are you insane?!”

The bottom two green arms slam into the ground, breaking the floor as it’s crushed under the weight of Miguel. They lift him higher so he’s well above you—more than he already is. You take a step back, his height and strength becoming much more prominent.

“Do you think I’m insane, corazón?” Miguel asks softly. There’s a hint of green in his eyes.

“We’re—“ You gasp. “We’re meant to make prosthetics. Legs, arms—I thought this was a test to the future but this…” You run your eyes down the arms of the green silicon. Its claws are digging firm into the ground, holding up a six foot nine man’s weight with ease. Miguel’s face is contorted in a scowl, a burning rage underneath his beautiful brown eyes—a light green glowing in the highlights.

“This…is not you…” “What would you know about me?! You’re just some assistant that doesn’t know jackshit other than printing a few papers! All while I worked on this myself!” One of his upper tentacles slam next to you which makes you jump and lose your balance so you could fall to the ground.

“Day and night, all you did was be some aching headache, forcing me tea and pills when I should be wringing Osborn’s neck with my bare hands to show him what exactly he missed out on!” Miguel cackles, his tentacles lifting him higher like a God.

You’re afraid. Very afraid. It all happened so fast. Who was this man?

The tears well up in your eyes and for a minute—if you said another word it would trigger Miguel to kill you.

Miguel must’ve seen the terror on your face, tears bubbling at your water line and falling down your cheeks while you shivered. He must’ve because his sinister smile dropped slowly, his arms lowering him down. 

“No, no, no—bella—no. That’s—it wasn’t me—“ Miguel’s feet finally touch the ground and when he does, he hisses, gripping his head as an agonizing headache surges through his mind. He groaned and moaned and took several steps back away from you.

“No! Don’t make her look at me like that! She’s afraid! Don’t scare her! Don’t make her fear me!” He screams, hyperventilating as his legs shake beneath him. 

“What? No! I want Osborn! Not her! She didn’t do anything! Leave her alone! Please!” Miguel’s releases tears, giant globs flowing down his face as he faces an internal battle and the tentacles go haywire.

Finding your chance, you shakily get up from the floor, scrambling to your feet to the exit. You scream and fall after just a few steps, Miguel’s tentacles zipping past your head to break through the wall by the door. Another worker outside screams, peering through the hole and witnessing Miguel looking down at you with fury. They run off and it creates a domino effect for an evacuation.

“Where the hell do you think you’re going?” Miguel growls and hovers closer to your shaking body. You turn over your shoulder, heart hammering in your ears and chest. You feel like you can’t breathe.

“Miggy…” You whimper. Miguel’s eye twitches and he looks like he’s struggling between himself and whatever it is that’s in his head.

He stutters your name out before his face is webbed and he groans. Four separate webs wrap around Miguel’s tentacles to attach to his body. Miguel glares up and sees a familiar red and blue suit with big white eyes.

“Don’tcha know it’s rude to be mean to a pretty lady?” The hero quips, standing front of you to protect you.

“Spider-Man…” You gasp—relief filling your chest.

“Spider-Man.” Miguel growls and rips himself free from the webs only to be hindered again once more—this time with stronger webs and with a force strong enough to stick him to a wall.

“Nope! Not yet! I’m still trying to figure out what exactly you are, so give me like five minutes to save some civilians. Thanks, you’re a swell guy!” Spider-Man winks and picks you up in his arms and quickly swings you away to safety.

You look over Spider-Man's shoulder while he swings away and you could barely hear Miguel scream in frustration, his body fighting against the webs. Inside, your heart breaks as you wonder if maybe there was a chance to save him.

A/N: i dont see doc ock miggys. i would like to see more.

[inthedayswhenlandswerefew]

1968 [Chapter 9: Dionysus, God Of Ecstasy]

Series Summary: Aemond is embroiled in a fierce battle to secure the Democratic Party nomination and defeat his archnemesis, Richard Nixon, in the presidential election. You are his wife of two years and wholeheartedly indoctrinated into the Targaryen political dynasty. But you have an archnemesis of your own: Aemond’s chronically delinquent brother Aegon.

Series Warnings: Language, sexual content (18+ readers only), violence, bodily injury, character deaths, New Jersey, age-gap relationships, drinking, smoking, drugs, pregnancy and childbirth, kids with weird Greek names, historical topics including war and discrimination, math.

Word Count: 5.9k

Let me know if you’d like to be tagged! 🥰

💜 All of my writing can be found HERE! 💜

The October surprise is a great American tradition. As the phases of the moon revolve towards Election Day, the candidates and their factions seek to ruin each other. Lies are told, truths are exposed, Tyche smiles and Achlys brews misery, poison, the fog of death that grows over men like ivy. The stars align. The wolves snap their jaws.

In 1844, an abolitionist newspaper falsely accused James K. Polk of branding his slaves like cattle. In 1880, a letter supposedly authored by James Garfield—in actuality, forged by a New York journalist—welcomed Chinese immigrants in an era when they were being lynched by xenophobic mobs in Los Angeles and San Francisco. In 1920, a rumor emerged that Warren Harding had Black ancestry, an allegation his campaign fervently denied to keep the support of the Southern states. In 1940, FDR’s press secretary assaulted a police officer outside of Madison Square Garden. In 1964, one of LBJ’s top aids was arrested for having gay sex at the Washington D.C. YMCA.

Now, in 1968, Senator Aemond Targaryen of New Jersey is realizing that he will not be the beneficiary of the October surprise he’s dreamed of: his wife’s redemptive pregnancy, a blossoming first family. There is a civil rights protest that turns into a riot in Milwaukee; this helps Nixon, the candidate of law and order. For every fire lit and window shattered, he sees a bump in the polls from businessowners and suburbanites who fear anarchy. Breaking news of the My Lai massacre—committed back in March but only now brought to light—airs on NBC, horrifying the American public and bolstering support for Aemond, the man who has vowed to begin ending the war as soon as he’s sworn into office. The two contestants are deadlocked. Election Day could be a photo finish.

Nixon is in Texas. Wallace is in Arkansas. In Florida, Aemond visits the Kennedy Space Center and pledges to fulfill JFK’s promise to put a man on the moon by 1970. He makes a speech at the Mary McLeod Bethune Home commending her work as an educator, philanthropist, and humanitarian. He greets soldiers at the Naval Air Station in Pensacola. He feeds chickens to the alligators at the Saint Augustine Alligator Farm Zoological Park.

But it is not the senator the crowds cheer loudest for. It is his wife, his future first lady, here in her home state where she staunched her husband’s hemorrhaging blood and appeared before his well-wishers still marked with crimson handprints. In Tarpon Springs, she and Aemond attend mass at the Saint Nicholas Greek Orthodox Cathedral and pray at an altar made of white marble from Athens. Then they stand on the docks as flashbulbs strobe all around them, watching sponge divers reappear from the depths, breaking through the bubbling sapphire water like Heracles ascending to Mount Olympus.

~~~~~~~~~~

You kick off your high heels, tear the pins and clips out of your hair, and flop down onto the king-sized bed in your suite at the Breakers Hotel. It’s the same place Aemond was almost assassinated five months ago. He has returned in triumph, in defiance. He cannot be killed. It is God’s will.

You are alone for these precious fleeting moments. Aemond is in Otto’s suite discussing the itinerary for tomorrow: confirmations, cancellations, reshufflings. You pick up the pink phone from the nightstand on Aemond’s side of the bed and dial the number for the main house at Asteria. It’s 9 p.m. here as well as there. Through the window you can see inky darkness and the kaleidoscopic glow of the lights of Palm Beach. The Zenith radio out in the kitchenette is playing Satisfaction by the Rolling Stones. No intercession from Eudoxia is necessary this time; Aegon answers on the second ring.

“Yeah?” he says, slow and lazy like he’s been smoking something other than Lucky Strikes.

“Hey.” And then after a pause, twirling the phone cord around your fingers as you stare up at the ceiling: “It’s me.”

���Oh, I know. Should I take off my pants, or…?” He’s only half-joking.

You smile. “That was stupid. Someone could have bugged the phone.”

“You think Nixon’s guys are wiretapping us? Give me a break. They’re goddamn buffoons. They’re too busy telling cops to beat hippies to death.” You hear him taking a drag off his joint, envision him sprawled across his futon and enshrouded in smoke. “Everything okay down there in the swamp?”

You shrug, even though Aegon can’t see you. “It’s fine.”

“Just fine?”

“My parents were there when we stopped in Tarpon Springs. They kept telling everyone how proud they are of me, and I just felt so…dishonest.”

“Of course they’re proud. If Aemond wins, the war ends and more civil rights bills get passed and this hell we’ve all been living in since 1963 goes away.”

“I miss you,” you confess.

“You’ll be back soon to enjoy me in all my professional loser glory.” He’s right: Aemond’s entourage will spend Halloween at Asteria. You’ll take the children trick-or-treating around Long Beach Island—with journalists in tow, of course—and then host a party with plentiful champagne and Greek hors d’oeuvres, one last reprieve before the momentous slog towards Election Day on November 5th, a reward for the campaign staffers and reporters who have served Aemond so well. “What are you going to dress up as?”

“Someone happy,” you say, and Aegon chuckles, low and sardonic. “Actually, nothing. Aemond and Otto have decided that it would be undignified for the future president and first lady to be photographed in costumes, so I will be wearing something festive yet not at all fun.”

“Aemond has always been somewhat confused by the concept of fun.”

“What are you going to be for Halloween?”

You can hear the grin in his voice as he exhales smoke. “A cowboy.”

“A cowboy,” you repeat, giggling. “You aren’t serious.”

“Extremely serious. I protect the cows, I comfort the cows, I breed the cows…”

“You are mentally ill. You belong in an asylum.”

“I ride the cows…”

“Cowboys do not ride cows.”

“Maybe this one does.”

“I thought you liked being ridden.”

Aegon groans with what sounds like genuine discomfort. “Don’t tease me. You know I’m celibate at the moment.”

“Miraculous. Astonishing. The Greek Orthodox Church should canonize you. What have you been doing with all of your newfound free time?”

“Taking the kids out sailing, hiding from Doxie, trying not to step on the Alopekis…and playing Battleship with Cosmo. He has a very loose understanding of the rules.”

“He does. I remember.”

“He keeps asking when you’ll be back.”

“Really?” you ask hopefully.

“Yeah, it’s cute. And he calls you Io because he heard me do it.”

“Not an appropriate myth for children, I think.”

“Cosmo’s what, seven years old?”

“Five.”

“Close enough. I think I knew about death and torment and Zeus being a slut by then.”

“And you have no resulting defects whatsoever.” You roll over onto your belly and slide open the drawer of the nightstand. Instead of the card Aegon gave you at Mount Sinai—you’ve forgotten that you’re on Aemond’s side of the bed—you find something bizarre, unexpected, just barely able to fit. “Oh my God, there’s a…there’s a Ouija board in the nightstand!”

Aegon laughs incredulously. “There’s a what?!”

“A Ouija board!” You sit upright and shimmy it out, holding the phone to your ear with one shoulder. The small wooden planchette slides off the board and clatters against the bottom of the drawer. “Why the hell would Aemond have this…?”

“He’s trying to summon the ghost of JFK to stab Nixon.”

“Oh wow, it’s heavy.” You skim your fingertips over the black numbers and letters etched into the wooden board. There’s something ominous about the Good Bye written across the bottom. You can’t beckon the dead into the land of the living without reminding them that they aren’t welcome to stay.

“Aemond is such a freak. Is it a Parker Brothers one, like for kids…?”

“No, I think it’s custom made. It feels substantial, expensive. Hold on, there’s something engraved on the back.” You flip over the Ouija board so you can see what your hands have already felt. The inscription reads in onyx cursive letters: No ghosts can harm you. The stars were never better than the day you were born. With love through all the ages, Alys.

“What’s it say?” Aegon asks from his basement at Asteria.

You’re staring down at the Ouija board, mystified. “Who’s Alys?”

Instead of an answer, Aegon gives you a deep sigh. “Oh. Yeah, she would give him something like that. Fucking creepy witch bullshit.”

“Aegon, who’s Alys?” She’s his mistress. She has to be. It fills your skull like flashbulbs, like lightning: Aemond climbing on top of another woman, conquering her, owning her, binding her up in his mythology like a spider building a web. And what you feel when the shock begins to dissolve isn’t envy or pain or betrayal but—strangely, paradoxically—hope. “She’s his girl, right?”

“Please don’t be mad at me for not telling you,” Aegon says. “There wasn’t a good time. When I hated you I didn’t care if he was fucking around, and then after what happened in New York I didn’t want to hurt you, I didn’t know how you’d take it. It’s not your fault, there’s nothing wrong with you. She was here first. He’d have kept Alys around if he married Aphrodite herself.”

“I’m not mad.” You’re distracted, that’s what you are; you’re plotting. “Where is she?”

“She lives in Washington state. I’m not sure exactly where, I think Aemond moves her a lot. He doesn’t want anyone to see him around and start noticing a pattern. Neighbors, shopkeepers, cops, whoever.”

“Washington.” Just like when Ari died. Just like when Aemond didn’t come back. “Who knows about her?”

“Just the family. Fosco and Mimi found out because when they married in, the fights were still happening. Otto and Viserys demanding he give Alys up, Aemond refusing. It’s the only thing he ever did wrong, the only line he drew. He said he needed her. She could never be his first lady, but she could be something else.”

“His mistress.”

“Yeah,” Aegon says reluctantly. “Are you…are you okay?”

“I’m okay. What’s wrong with Alys?”

“What?”

“Why couldn’t Aemond marry her?”

“I mean, she’s the type of psycho who gives people Ouija boards, first of all,” Aegon says. “And she’s…she’s not educated. Her family’s trash. She’s older than Aemond. Hell, she’s older than me. She would be an unmitigated disaster on the campaign trail. She unnerves people. But Aemond, he…”

“He loves her,” you whisper, reading the engraving on the back of the board again. “And she loves him.”

“I guess. Whatever love means to them.”

A thought occurs to you, the first one to bring you pain like a needle piercing flesh. “Does she have children?”

Again, Aegon sounds reticent to disclose this. “A boy. Aemond’s the father.”

“How old?”

“I don’t know, I think he’s around ten now.”

And that’s Aemond’s true heir. Not Ari, not any others he would have with me. That place in his heart is taken. He couldn’t mourn the loss of our son because he already has one with the woman he loves.

Out in the living room of the suite, you hear the front door open. There are footsteps, Aemond’s polished black leather shoes.

Aegon is asking: “Are you sure you’re okay? Hello? Babe? Hello? Are you still there?”

“I’m fine. I gotta go.”

“Wait, no, not yet—!”

“Bye.” You hang up the phone and wait for Aemond to discover you. You’re still clutching the Ouija board. You’re perched on the edge of the bed like something ready to pounce, to kill.

Aemond opens the bedroom door, navy blue suit, blonde hair short and slicked back, his eyepatch covering his empty left socket. He’s begun wearing his eyepatch in public more often—not for every appearance, but for some of them—and whoever finally convinced him to concede this battle wasn’t you. His right eye goes to you and then to the Ouija board in your hands. He doesn’t speak or move to take the board, only studies you warily.

“I know about her,” you tell him.

Still, Aemond says nothing.

“Alys,” you press. “She’s your mistress. You’re in love with her.”

“I did not intend to hurt you.” His words are flat, steely.

“I’m not hurt, Aemond.”

“You shouldn’t have ever known about this. I apologize for not being more discrete. It was a lapse in judgment.” But what he regrets most, you think, is that his secret is less contained, more imperiled.

“What we have is a political arrangement,” you say. The desperation quivers in your voice. “You don’t love me, you never have, and now we can be open about it. You need me to win the White House, but that’s all. Your true companion is elsewhere. I want the same thing.”

He steps closer, eye narrowing, iris glinting coldly, puzzled like he couldn’t have understood you correctly. “What?”

“I want to be permitted to have my own happiness outside of this imitation of a marriage.”

“No,” Aemond says instantly.

Your stomach sinks, dark iron disappointment. “But…but…why?”

“Because I don’t trust you to not get caught. Because I need to be sure that I am the father of the children you’ll give birth to. And because as my wife you are mine, and mine alone.”

Tears brim in your eyes; embers burn in your throat. “You’re asking for my life. My whole life, all of it, everything I’ll ever experience, everything I’ll ever feel. I get one chance on this planet and you’re stealing it away from me.”

“Yes,” Aemond agrees simply.

“So where’s my consolation?” you demand. “You get Alys, so where’s mine?”

“What do you want?”

You don’t reply, but you glare at your husband with eternal rage like Hera’s, with fatal vitriol like Medusa’s.

“You think I don’t know about that little card you keep in your nightstand?” Aemond is furious, betrayed. “You used to hate him.”

“I was wrong.”

“Because he was at Mount Sinai and I wasn’t? Three days undid everything we’ve ever been to each other? Our oaths, our ambitions?!”

“No,” you say, tears slipping down the contours of your cheeks. “Because he’s real. He doesn’t try to manipulate people into loving him, he doesn’t pretend to be someone he’s not, when he’s cruel it’s because he means it and when he’s kind that’s genuine too. And he wants to know me, who I really am. Not the woman I have to act like to get you elected. Not who you’re trying to turn me into—”

Aemond has crossed the room, grabbed the front of your teal Chanel dress, and yanked you to your feet. The Ouija board jolts out of your hands and lands on the carpet unharmed. Your long hair is in disarray, your eyes wide and fearful. You try to push Aemond away, but he ignores you. You can’t sway him. You’ve never been able to. “Aegon has nothing to his name except what this family gives him,” Aemond snarls, hushed, hateful. His venom is not for his brother but for you. You have upended the natural order of things. You have dared to deny Zeus what he has been divinely granted dominion over. “You would jeopardize his wellbeing, his access to his children? You would ruin yourself? You would doom this nation? If you cost me the election, every drop of blood spilled is on your hands, every body bag flown home from Vietnam, every martyr killed by injustice here. What you ask for is worse than being a traitor and a whore. It is sacrilege.”

“Let go of me—”

“And there’s one more thing.” Aemond pulls you closer so he knows you’re paying attention. You’re sobbing now, trembling, choking on his cologne, shrinking away from his furnace-heat wrath. “Aegon isn’t capable of love. Not the kind you’re imagining. He gets infatuated, and he uses people, and then he moves on. You think he never charmed Mimi, never made her feel cherished by him? And look how she ended up. I’m trying to carve your name into legend beside mine. Aegon will take you to your grave.”

Your husband shoves you away, storms out of the bedroom, slams the door so hard the walls quake.

~~~~~~~~~~

Parading down streets like the victors of a fallen city, jack-o-lanterns keeping watch with their laceration grins of firelight. Hecate is the goddess of witchcraft, Hades rules the Underworld, Selene is the half-moon peeking through clouds in an overcast sky. The stars elude you.

The children—ghosts, pirates, princesses, witches—dash from doorstep to doorstep like soldiers in Vietnam search tunnels. They smile and pose in their outfits when the journalists prompt them, beaming and waving, showing off their Dots, Tootsie Pops, Sugar Daddies, Smarties, Razzles, and candy cigarettes before depositing them in the plastic orange pumpkins that swing from their wrists. Only Cosmo, dressed as Teddy Roosevelt with lensless glasses and a stuffed lion thrown over one shoulder, stays with the adults. He is the last one to each house, approaching the doorway reticently like it might swallow him up, inspiring fond chuckles and encouragement from the reporters. He clutches your hand and hides behind you when towering monsters lumber by: King Kong, Frankenstein, vampires with fake blood spilling from their mouths.

Aemond wears a black suit with orange accents: tie, pocket square, socks. You glimmer in a black dress dotted with white stars, clicking down the sidewalk in boots that run to your knees, silver eyeshadow, heavy liner. You almost look your own age. There are large star-shaped barrettes in your pinned-up hair, bent glinting metal. As the reporters snap photos of you and Cosmo walking together, they shout: “You’ll be such a great mother one day, Mrs. Targaryen!”

Fosco is Ettore Boiardi—better known as Chef Boyardee—an Italian immigrant who came through Ellis Island in 1914 with a dream of opening a spaghetti business. Helaena, Alicent, and Ludwika are, respectively, Alice, Wendy, and Cinderella; Ludwika clops along resentfully in her puffy sleeves and too-small clear stilettos. Criston is Peter Pan. Aegon wears a white button-up shirt, cow print vest, ripped jeans, brown leather boots, a cowboy hat that’s too big for him, and a green bandana knotted around his throat. He stays close to you and Cosmo because he can, here where the journalists expect to see him being a devoted father and active participant in the family business of mending a tattered America. Teenagers are fleeing their families to join hippie communes and draftees in Vietnam are getting their limbs blown off and junkies are shooting up on the streets of New York and Chicago and Los Angeles, but here we see a happy family, a perfect family, a holy trinity that thanks the devotees who offer them tribute. Otto, who neglected to don a disguise, glares at you murderously. You have failed to give Aemond a living child. You have dared to want things for yourself.

Back at Asteria in the main house, the children empty their plastic pumpkins on the living room floor and sort through their saccharine treasures, making trades and bargains: “I’ll do your math homework if you give me those Swedish Fish,” “I’ll let you ride my bike for a week if I can have your Mallo Cup.” While the other adults ply themselves with champagne and chain smoke away the stress of the campaign trail, Aegon gets his Caribbean blue Gibson guitar and sits on the couch playing I’m A Believer by The Monkees. The kids clap and sing along between intense confectionary negotiations. Cosmo wants to share his candy cigarettes with you; you pretend to smoke together as sugar melts on your tongue.

Now the children have been sent to bed—mollified with the promise of homemade apple pies tomorrow, another occasion to be documented by swarms of clamoring journalists—and the house becomes a haze of smoke and indistinct conversation and music from the record player. Platters of appetizers have appeared on the dining room table: pita, tzatziki, hummus, melitzanosalata, olives, horiatiki, mini spanakopitas, baklava. Women are chattering about the painstaking labor they put into costumes and men are scheming to deliver death blows to Nixon, setbacks in Vietnam, Klan meetings in Mississippi. Aemond is knocking back Old Fashioneds with Otto and Sargent Shriver. Fosco is dancing in the living room with drunk journalists. Eudoxia is muttering in Greek as she aggressively paws crumbs off of couches and tabletops. Thick red candles flicker until wax melts into a pool of blood at the base.

Through the veil of cigarette smoke and the rumbling bass of Season Of The Witch, Aegon finds you when no one is looking, and you know it’s him without having to turn around. His hand is the only one that doesn’t feel heavy when it skims around your waist. He whispers, soft grinning lips to your ear, rum and dire temptation like Orpheus looking back at Eurydice: “Let’s do some witchcraft.”

You know where Aemond keeps the Ouija board. You take it out of the top drawer of his nightstand in your bedroom with blue walls and portraits of myths in captive frames. Then you descend with Aegon into the basement, down like Persephone when summer ends, down like women crumbling under Zeus’s weight. You remember to lock the door behind you. You’re not high—you can’t smoke grass in a house full of guests who could smell it and take it upon themselves to investigate—but you feel like you are, that lightness that makes everything more bearable, the surreal tilt to the universe, awake but dreaming, truth cloaked in mirages.

Aegon has stolen three red candles from upstairs. He hands one to you, keeps a second for himself, and places the third on his end table beside a myriad of dirty cups. You glimpse at his ashtray and a folded corner of the receipt that’s still tucked beneath it, and you think: I have my card, Aegon has his receipt, Aemond has his Ouija board. I wonder what Alys likes to keep close when she sleeps. Then Aegon clicks off the lamp so the only light is from the flickering candles.

He tosses away his cowboy boots, hat, vest and is down on the green shag carpet with you, his hair messy, his white shirt half-unbuttoned. He’s taking sips of Captain Morgan straight from the glass bottle. He’s lighting a Lucky Strike with the wick of his candle and then giving it to you to puff on as he places the planchette on the board. “Wait, how do we start?”

You exhale smoke, setting your candle down on the carpet and then tugging off your own boots with some difficulty. “We have to say hello.”

“Okay.” Aegon places his fingertips on one side of the heart-shaped planchette and you rest yours lightly on the other. He begins doubtfully: “Hello…?”

“Is there anyone who would like to send us a message from the other side this evening?”

“You’ve done this before,” Aegon accuses.

“I have. In college.”

“With a guy?”

You chuckle, taking a drag as the cigarette smolders between your fingers. “No, with my friends. It’s not really a date activity.”

“I think it’s very romantic. Candles, darkness, danger, who’s gonna protect you when the ghosts start throwing things around…”

“You’d fight a ghost for me?”

“Depends on the ghost. FDR? You got it. I can take a guy in a wheelchair. Teddy? No ma’am. You’re on your own.”

“Which ghost should we summon?”

Aegon ponders this for a moment. “John F. Kennedy, are you in this basement with us right now?”

“That is wrong, that is so wrong.”

“Then why are you smiling?” Aegon says. “JFK, how do you feel about Johnson fucking up your legacy?”

“That is not the kind of question you’re supposed to ask. We’re not on 60 Minutes.”

“JFK, do you haunt the White House?” Aegon drags the planchette to the Yes on the board. “Oh no, I’m scared.”

“You are a cheater, this is a fraudulent Ouija board session.” You put your cigarette out in the ashtray and then take a swig from Aegon’s rum bottle. “JFK, are we gonna make it to the moon before 1970?”

Aegon pulls the planchette to the No. “Damn, Io, bad news. Guess the Russians win the Space Race and then eradicate capitalism across the globe. No more beach houses. No more Mr. Mistys.”

“Give me the planchette, you’re abusing your power.”

“No,” Aegon says, snickering as you try to wrestle it away from him. In his other hand he’s clutching his candle; scarlet beads of wax like blooddrops pepper your skin as you struggle, tiny infernos that burn exquisitely. Red like paint splatter appears on Aegon’s shirt. You grab the green bandana around his throat, but instead of holding him back you’re drawing him closer. The Ouija board and all the world’s ghosts are momentarily forgotten.

“You’re dripping wax on me—”

“Good, I want to get it all over you, then I want to peel it off and rip out your leg hair.”

You’re laughing hysterically as you pretend to try to shove him away. “I’m freshly shaved, you idiot.”

“Everywhere?” Aegon asks, intrigued.

You smirk playfully. “Almost.”

“Okay, let’s get you cleaned up.” Aegon sets his candle down on the carpet and strips away tacky dots of red wax: one from your forearm down by your wrist, another from your neck just below one of your silver hoop earrings, wax from your ankles and your calves and right above your knees. His fingertips are calloused from his guitar, from the ropes of his sailboat. They scratch roughly over you, chipping away who you’re supposed to be.

Then Aegon stops. You follow his gaze down. There is a smudge of wax on the inside of your thigh, extending beneath the hem of your dress, glittering black and white fabric that hides what is forbidden to him. Aegon’s eyes are on you, that troubled opaque blue, drunk and desperate and wild and afraid. With your fingers still hooked beneath his bandana, you say to him like a dare: “Now you’re going to stop?”

His palm skates up the smoothness of your thigh, and as he unpeels that last stain of red wax his other hand cradles your jaw and his lips touch yours, gently at first and then with the ravenousness of someone who’s been dying of thirst for centuries, starving since birth. You’re opening your legs wider for him, and his fingers do not stop at your thigh but climb higher until they are whisking your black lace panties away, exploring your folds and your wetness as his tongue darts between your lips, tasting something he’s been craving forever but only now stumbled into after four decades of darkness, trapped in you like Narcissus at his pool.

You are unknotting his green bandana and letting it fall to the shag carpet. You are unbuttoning the rest of his shirt so you can feel his chest, soft and warm and yielding, safe, real. The candlelight is flickering, the thumping bass of a song you can’t decipher pulsing through the floor above. Now beneath your dress Aegon’s fingers are pressing a place that makes your breath catch in your throat, makes you dizzy with need for him. He looks at you and you nod, and he reads in your face what you wanted to say months ago in this same basement: Don’t stop. Come closer.

Aegon lifts your dress over your head, nips at your throat as he unclasps your bra, and you are suddenly aware of how the cool firelit air is touching every part of you, how you are bare for him in a way you’ve never been before. You catch Aegon’s face in your hand before he can see the scar that runs down the length of your belly and say, your voice quiet and fragile: “Don’t look at me.”

Pain flashes in his eyes, furrows across his brow. “Stop,” he murmurs, kissing your forehead as you cling to him. Then he begins moving lower and you fall back onto the carpet, no blood on Aegon’s hands this time, only your sweat and lust for him, only crystalline evidence of a betrayal you’ve long ago already committed in your mind.

You’re combing your fingers through his hair and gasping as Aegon’s lips ghost down your scar, not something ruinous or shameful but a part of you, the beginning of your story together, the origin of your mythology. Then his mouth is on you—yearning, aching wetness—and you thought you knew what this felt like but it’s more powerful now, more urgent, and Aegon is glancing up to watch your face, to study you, to change what he’s doing as he follows your clues. And then there is a pang you think is too sharp to be pleasure, too close to helplessness, something that leaves you panting and shaking.

You jolt upright. “Wait…”

Aegon props himself up on his elbows. His full lips glisten with you. “What? What’d I do wrong?”

“No, it’s not you, it’s just…it’s like…” You can’t describe it. “It’s too…um…too intense or something. It’s like I couldn’t breathe.”

Aegon stares at you, his eyebrows low. After a long pause he says: “Babe, you’ve come before, right?”

I’ve what? “Yeah, of course, obviously. I mean…I think so?”

He’s stunned. He’s in disbelief. Then a grin splits across his face. “Lie back down.”

You’re nervous, but you trust him. If this costs you your life, you’ll pay it. He pushes your thighs farther apart and his tongue stays in one spot—where you touched yourself in the bathtub in Seattle, where you wanted him when he slipped his fingers into you for the first time—and suddenly the uneasy feeling is something raging and irresistible like a riptide in the Atlantic, something better than anything you knew existed, and you keep thinking it’s happened but it hasn’t yet, as you cover your face with your hands to smother your moans, as your hips roll and Aegon’s arms curl under your thighs to keep you in place so he can make you finish. It’s a release that is otherworldly, celestial, terrifying, divine. It’s something that rips the curtain between mortals and paradise.

It’s always like this for men? That’s what Aemond has been getting from me, that’s what I’ve been denied?

As you lie gasping on the carpet Aegon returns, smiling, kissing you, running his fingers through locks of hair that have escaped from your pins. “Not bad, right little Io?” he purrs, smelling like rum and minerals, earth and poison. Now he’s taking off his jeans, but before he can position himself between your legs you have pushed him onto his back and straddled him, pinning his wrists to the floor, watching the amazement ripple across his flushed face, the desire, the need. You tease Aegon, leaning in to nibble at his ear and bite gingerly at his throat, never harming him, never claiming him, grinding your hips against his and listening as his breathing turns quick and rough. Then you slip him inside you, this man you once hated, this man who was a stranger and then a curse and now a spell.

Aegon wants to be closer to you. He sits up as you ride him, hands on your face, in your hair, kissing you, inhaling you, shuddering, trying not to cry out as footsteps and laughter and thunderous basslines bleed through the ceiling. You know he’s been high on so many things—things that corrupt, things that kill—and you hope you can compare, this brief clean magic.

He can’t last; he finishes with a moan like he’s in agony, and as the motion of your hips slows, you take his jaw in your grasp and gaze down at him. “Good boy,” you say with a grin. Aegon laughs, exhausted, drenched in sweat, his hair sticking to his forehead. He embraces you so tightly you can feel the pounding of his heart, racing muscle beneath bones and skin.

He’s murmuring through your disheveled hair: “I gotta see you again, when can I see you again?”

You don’t know what to say. You don’t have an answer. You unravel yourself from Aegon and dress yourself in the red candlelight: panties, bra, dress, boots, all things that Aemond chose for you, all things he bought with his family’s money, all things he owns. Aegon has nothing to his name and neither do you. You are—like Fosco once said—pieces of the same machine.

“Where are you going?” Aegon asks, like he’s afraid of the answer.

“I have to go back upstairs to the party before someone realizes I’m missing.”

“Are you serious?”

“I am.” You kneel on the carpet to kiss him one last time, your palm on his cheek, his fingers clutching at your dress as he begs you not to leave. “I have to, I have to,” you whisper, and then you do.

You grab the Ouija board and planchette off the green shag carpet, hug them to your chest, and hurry up the steps. The first floor of the Asteria house is a maze of cigarette smoke and clinking glasses, guests who are dancing and cackling and drunk. From the record player strums Johnny Cash’s Ring Of Fire. You slip unnoticed to the staircase.

In the blue-walled bedroom you share with Aemond, you carefully place the Ouija board and planchette in the top drawer of his nightstand exactly as you found them. Then you go to your vanity to try to fix your hair. As you’re rearranging clips and pinning loose strands back into place, the door opens. Aemond is there, feeling beloved and invincible, looking for you. He crosses the room and closes his long fingers around your wrist. He wants you: under him, making children for him, possessed by him.

“Come to bed,” Aemond says.

“Not right now. I’m busy.”

“You aren’t busy anymore.”

“I told you no.”

He wrenches you from your chair. Instead of surrendering, you strike out, hitting him in the chest. You don’t harm him, you’re not strong enough, but genuine shock leaps into his scarred face.

“Don’t fucking touch me,” you hiss. You can’t let Aemond undress you; he will find the evidence of your treason, he will see it, feel it, taste it. But that’s not the only reason you stop him. “Every goddamn night I give you what you want, and exactly how you want it. Tonight I’m saying no. You want to take me? You’ll have to do it properly. I’m not going to give you the illusion of consent. You remember what Zeus did to all those women, right? Go ahead. Act like the god you think you are. But I’m going to fight you. And if those people downstairs hear me screaming, you can explain to them why.”

Aemond stares at you in the silvery light of the half-moon. You glare boldly back. At last he leaves and descends the staircase into an underworld of churning smoke, returning to the party to sip his Old Fashioneds and decide what to do with you.

[jellyfishsthings]

Family Redesigned

WARNINGS: I guess my bad writting

An: Decided to take a spin with the DC Fandom and write for my favourite... not quite well if I might admit...

requests are open

In the bustling halls of Wayne Enterprises, where marble floors gleamed and the scent of strong coffee lingered in the air, a young woman was about to redefine what it meant to be a modern pioneer. Her project, a cutting-edge programmed nanotechnology that would apply to the neurons of injured people that lost a member of their body to work with a robotic substitute. She and her team had fascinated not only the attendees of the annual science gala but also caught the attention of none other than Bruce Wayne himself. With his signature charm and a penchant for philanthropy, he had decided to fund their ambitious endeavor.

Little did she know, their project was not only stirring excitement among investors but also causing an unwanted stir in the hearts of the Wayne family. Dick Grayson, Bruce’s charming and light-hearted adopted son, had just mustered the courage to express his feelings. Whenever he bumped into her while delivering coffee or visiting the lab, his confident smile often accompanied a playful quip.

“Are you sure you’re not an engineer? Because you’ve clearly engineered a way into my heart,” he quipped one afternoon, leaning casually against the doorway as she adjusted the settings on her prototype.

“Very smooth, Grayson,” she responded, feigning disinterest but unable to suppress a smile.

“Oh, come on,” Dick continued, taking a step closer. “With this project of yours, you must have some serious chemistry skills.”

She rolled her eyes, her cheeks slightly pink as she returned her focus to the project. Flirting was hard for her to deal with when she was neck-deep in wiring and graphs. Still, there was something charming about Dick, a knack for making even the dullest moments seem vibrant.

Their first encounter was the most memorable.

It started innocently enough one day when she was deep in thought, surrounded by scattered papers in a bustling Wayne Enterprises lounge. Suddenly, she collided with a tall body, scattering her carefully organized notes like confetti.

“Watch it!” she grumbled, looking up to find a charming yet roguish face stifling a laugh.

“Sorry about that. But in my defense, you were like a tornado going through your notes,” he said with a smirk. “Dick Grayson, at your service.”

She raised an eyebrow, judging by his look of mischief that he was trouble wrapped in charisma. “Thanks, but I prefer my tornadoes to be slightly less charming and a little more focused.”

“Touché,” Dick said, taking a seat across from her. “What’s the project about? Saving the world, I hope?”

“Something like that,” she said, her competitive spirit sparking. “It’s about harnessing neurotic energy using nanotechnology. Bruce always has an eye for the future.”

“Very ambitious! Perhaps you’ll save the planet, then?” Dick leaned closer, the playful glint in his eyes suggesting he wasn’t just flirting with her project.

“Or get a decent grade. Much less glamorous, I know,” she chuckled, feeling the conversation warming up. A hint of blush crept onto her cheeks, an odd reaction she hadn’t expected.

“Who said grades can’t be glamorous? I once did a project on the benefits of pizza," Dick confessed, to which she burst out laughing.

As their banter continued, she unwittingly inspired Dick. He began to hover around her lab more often, throwing out quips and jokes, but every time she flipped the script and tossed back a rebuke, he felt an exhilarating challenge.

Meanwhile, in another part of the Wayne manor, the youngest of Bruce’s million children, Damian Wayne, was busy brooding over a math homework that seemed more challenging than his usual sword fighting practice. She, having spotted the little assassin frowning at an open book, had selflessly offered her help. Miraculously, Damian had absorbed her explanations, hanging onto her every word as if they were the last pages of a thrilling novel. “Why do you care about this so much?” Damian asked, eyebrows furrowed as he struggled with a particularly difficult algebraic equation.

“Because everyone needs a little help sometimes,” She replied earnestly with a gentle smile.

Somewhere between deciphering equations and sharing small laughs, something unexpected happened. The stoic young assassin found himself blushing under his usual grumpy demeanor. This made his heart race—a feeling he had never quite felt before.

“I… appreciate it,” he finally muttered, this surprising show of gratitude softening his usually cold exterior.

Back at the HQ of the Wayne enterprises, Bruce Wayne was having his own crisis. Normally known for his unreadable expression and laser-focused business sense, he found it exceedingly hard to ignore her enthusiasm when she discussed her project during one of their weekly meetings. She was bright, driven, and utterly disarming, diving into topics like neuroscience and computer science, while Bruce sat at the edge of his seat, hanging onto her every word.

“Her project is admirable, I mean if you look at the prototypes and the coding or the engineering sketches she and her team had made,” Bruce said, inadvertently leaning forward in his chair. “That’s… brilliant.”

“Uhhh, Dad?” Dick nudged him, eyes glinting with amusement. “Slightly creepy how you’re hanging off her every word like that. Just a bit.”

“Shut up, Dick,” Bruce shot back, too distracted to notice the amused laughter of his other children.

But the chaos didn’t end there. Jason Todd, the rebellious older sibling participating in a book club as part of his community service, came home one evening with surprising news. With mischief lighting up his face, he proclaimed, “You guys will never guess who I met at the book club. Dick's godess that accidentally fell on earth is a member! Can you believe it?”

“Yeah, right,” Dick replied, crossing his arms with a smirk. “You must have a real knack for screwing things up, Jay. She wouldn't join anything that would put her with you.”

“Oh, she totally did,” Jason insisted, grinning. “In fact, we bonded over a mutual disdain for the ending of the last Batman novel.”

“I’ll pretend you didn’t just say that,” Damian deadpanned, though his intrigue was evident.

The realization hit Dick hard, and it came with an overshadowing sense of protectiveness. The thought of his family all being smitten with the same woman—his girlfriend no less—was an unwelcome twist. As she began to flutter into their lives more and more, he felt his shield of vigilance slip away amidst the chaos of her radiant energy.

The day of the big presentation arrived, and she stood behind her booth, butterflies in her stomach. The Wayne family, now a blend of supportive allies, stood gathered, every one of them uncharacteristically eager. Bruce, Dick, and even the usually unimpressed Damian sat side by side, eager to see her shine.

She began speaking about her prototype, detailing the mechanics and the purpose behind her project, each word pulling the audience deeper into her passion.

When she spoke of miscalculations and victories, Bruce nodded in agreement, making direct eye contact with her. Dick watched with a mixture of admiration and mild jealousy, while Damian listened intently, his mind processing the logistics of her project.

“Thank you all for supporting me,” she concluded, now beaming with excitement. “I genuinely believe we can make a difference, one person at a time.”In that moment, something snapped. Bruce, usually so guarded, smiled genuinely and exclaimed, “That’s fantastic ! I’ve never heard anyone articulate the importance of neuroscience and engineering so well.”

Her blush was immediate, and the warm glow in her cheeks competed with Dick's growing admiration. Just when all seemed to settle, Dick leaned over softly towards her, whispering, “Now that’s quite the power move, mind if I take you out to celebrate your big win?”

“Maybe after you help solve some math problems for Damian,” she teased, laughter spilling from her lips as realization struck the brothers.

“Maybe both,” she added cheekily, eyeing Damian, who was trying to maintain a grumpy expression despite the spark of joy in his eyes.

With the evening coming to an end and plans being made amidst shared laughter, she found a place in the hearts of the Waynes, her project becoming more than just science. It was fueled by the chemistry, unpredictability, and warmth of family and specifically love.

[rocknrollsalad]

rating: m cw: discussions of sex, sex toys tags: modern au, established relationship, Eddie is a menace, target doesn't understand what a Christmas tree is, steve knows what his boyfriend wants word count: 856

written for @steddieholidaydrabbles prompt "tree"

-

“Hey, Steve! Check it out!”

The giggle that followed had Steve rolling his eyes before he turned around. He knew he was going to turn around and find some reindeer statue mounting another or Santa’s arm bent the wrong way so it looked like he was jacking off.

Eddie’s sense of humor was like that and usually Steve enjoyed it. The jokes were funny but right now he was trying to do calculations far beyond the scope of someone who repeated most math classes in high school. He didn’t have time to look at the lion menorah that resembled a dick from the right angle. Not while trying to remember how many inches were in a foot.

Still, he looked. What Eddie had this time was a white ceramic tree which he held like a fancy waiter offering the night’s wine choices.

Steve did a double take. This wasn’t the usual suggestive candy cane placement but almost an outright sex toy. Though he had other problems to work out, Steve was dying to know who put this in their house. No way anyone did so seriously. Who was this for? Was Eddie the target market?

“It’s ribbed. For her pleasure,” Eddie said, trying to be seductive but too caught up in laughing at his own joke.

“And it doesn’t have a flared base. For your trip to the ER,” Steve couldn’t get into it right now. He was on a mission and that mission wasn’t questionable shaped Christmas trees.

Before he could start to entertain the numbers again, Eddie said. “Then you’re definitely not going to want this one.”

Against better judgment, Steve turned to see Eddie holding a marble cone. Possibly meant to be a tree because Steve didn’t remember Eddie wandering away for long enough to go to any other section. It looked nothing like a tree though—just a cone.

“Get real,” Steve sighed.

“Wait!” Eddie said, turning to the shelf. He grabbed a red glass tree, it looked far more like a holiday decoration but still a butt plug. Eddie wiggled the tree and widened his eyes, singing “Flared base.”

Which the tree did have but Steve quickly pointed out, “It’s smaller than the bottom of the tree so it’d still…” Steve finished that thought with a slurp.

“Yeah, same problem with this one,” Eddie held up another ceramic tree, this one was green and had lights sticking out of it in every direction. It was purely tree, the only reason it resembled a sex toy was this conversation.

“That has more problems than it’s lack of a good flared base,” Steve said, tossing in several boxes of lights. He wasn’t sure if he was going to have to return boxes or come back for more but it was clear shopping was done for today.

Eddie wasn’t finished, though. “Then how about these?”

In each hand, Eddie held wooden “trees”. A word that had never been so loosely used before. These were probably for dollhouses or kids or something given how small they were. One was all brown and snow-capped. The other was, in all honesty, a green plug.

Eddie finally won, Steve’s jaw went slack as he tried to figure out who in the design department was approving all of these and why were there so many. This wasn’t Eddie’s dirty mind or ability to position figurines just right. It was real and probably went through several rounds of approval to sit on the shelves of a big box store looking like you needed a black bag to carry them out.

Finally earning something other than annoyance, Eddie tossed the two wooden ones in the cart and they made their way up to the register whispering about the ones Eddie didn’t show off. Bragging that he didn’t bring the ones up that looked bristly and painful.

What stuck out to Steve was the amount of “I’d try it” jokes coming from Eddie. Not only did he know better but they had non-festive toys at home. Safe toys that would do the same thing and save them the most embarrassing of x-rays. Whether Eddie needed a festive orgasm or some play time, Steve was going to make sure he had both. The signals were coming in loud and clear.

Once they were home and Eddie was invested in a project of his own, Steve set to online shopping. He’d expected to find something similar to the tiny wooden tree now on display by their TV. With next to no digging around, he found something infinitely better. Which shouldn’t have been the surprise it was. Purchase had never been clicked so fast.

With expedited shipping (costing him a small fortune) Steve bought Eddie a Christmas tree. One that looked more tree-like than anything he picked up today. A little smaller than some of the other plugs rolling around the drawer of fun but bright green with a flared base and a star on top.

The jokes about trimming the tree and decking the balls would be numerous and insufferable but what a small price to pay for love. And a night of great sex.

[justasimpleton-26]

Jason Todd x Reader: College life

College had stressed you out to the point where you considered a life of crime.

Don't get you wrong; you didn't want to commit any type of crimes or fight anyone of the BatFamily, but how were you going to use Geometry in real life?

You were so focused on stressing over your upcoming exams that you weren't paying attention when you bumped into someone.

You used the term "someone" very loosely; for all you know, the marble statue was dressed in cool clothes by some student as a joke.

It isn't until the statue turns to look at you that you realize that holy shit this is an actual human being.

A very buff person, but human all the same.

He has spiky jet black hair that sticks up in random places, his bangs colored stark white. Emerald green eyes peer down at you as this man looks over six feet tall, his body bulky with muscle.

The guy wears a faded black t-shirt that looks almost gray, his pants faded and biker boots shoved on.

"...miss?" the guy asks, making you shake yourself out of ogling him some more.

"I'm sorry, what was that?" she'd asked, and he chuckled.

"I was asking if you were lost." the guy repeated, and you blushed, trying not to make it noticeable that you were blushing.

"Sorry, I live on campus so I know my way around. I wasn't paying attention to where I was going which is why I bumped into you. Sorry about that by the way." you rushed to explain, bringing your book closer to your chest.

"Ah, I see. I'm Jason by the way." the guy-Jason-said, as he moved his book and a graded paper to his left hand as he held out his right to shake her hand.

You took it but couldn't help but notice that he was holding a geometry book, and the graded worksheet on top was actually a geometry test with high marks.

An idea planted in your brain, so you looked up at the genius giant, and tried to not make it seem like you were desperate for help. (Which you were, Jason didn't need to know that.)

"Hi Jason, um, look this is going to seem random, but I was wondering if you could maybe tutor me in geometry?" you asked, secretly hoping against hope that he would say yes.

Jason blinked, as if the question had caught him off guard.

"How did you know-" then he looked at the paper and book he was carrying and nodded as if that made sense. "Yeah, sure, meet me at the college library once your done with all your classes."

You thanked him profusely, and there was even a skip in your step as you headed back to your next class, leaving Jason behind.

It's not until you're having your bride and groom dance that Jason admits that the geometry book and test was actually Roy's and he'd been carrying his stuff when you approached him.

You're in disbelief and ask Jason if he was even good at math, and he chuckles before he gazes into your eyes.

"I am now, Roy tutored me." Jason answers.

[loserlvrss]

꒰ 𝐑𝐔𝐍𝐍𝐘 𝐍𝐎𝐒𝐄 ꒱ 章昊

summary : your boyfriend is denying he's sick, until he can't anymore

genre : cringely sweet fluff, hao x afab!reader, drabble, established relationship tws : pet names, mentions of being sick, pouty hao author notes : not even i can resist princess hao, im not the strongest soldier word count : 1.2k

you approached the man in the kitchen, he was making a tea you could smell from where you happen to be studying. lucky for you, hao knew you well enough that he had two mugs set out on the counter top. he was bobbing the bag as you came up behind him, wrapping your arms around his front gently.

“oh, hi!” he said after coming down from being startled. hao let go of the string, and turned around so now you were leaning against him leaning against the cool marble. you kissed the nape of his neck. “i was just about to bring this to you, how’s studying?”

“why’d i ever take environmental chemistry and biology.”

“because you’re a woman in stem!” he explained adamantly. “my woman in stem.”

you rolled your eyes, noticing the puffiness under his—that wasn’t usually there. you also spotted a light tint to his cheeks, it being darker on his nose. your eyebrows creased as you began connecting the dots.

you hadn’t noticed when he briefly came to say hello shortly after showing up to your apartment. and even if you noticed then, you would’ve brushed it off as him just being out in the cold. but now that you were up close and personal, you couldn’t only feel his warmth, but see it splotching his skin.

“hao…” you trailed off, backing off him, and leaning back to island. “why are you making tea? you don’t even like it that much. are you sick?”

he found it strangely odd that you could see through him so well, when his members were almost none-the-wiser to it earlier. he thought he was playing the roll of being healthy exceptionally, not even sniffling though he felt the crushing need to.

you watched as your boyfriend didn’t twitch, didn’t even flinch and definitely didn’t look guilty, but still you knew something was up. so you pressed on, quickly bringing a hand to his forehead—to which he almost instantly tried to dodge—your tell that he was lying through his teeth.

he caught your wrist. “y/n, i’m fine. really, it’s nothing. i just thought tea sounded good, and you just got a new one.” your eyes burned into him. “you know i like whatever you like.”

“yeah, but…” you gave him one last look, him dropping your hand in the meantime. “are you sure you’re feeling well?”

“yes.” he replied simply. “i’m okay, really, y/n. you worry too much. maybe you should’ve been a pre-med student instead.”

“oh, absolutely not.” you laughed, taking the mug he was holding out towards you. “i’d have no time to see you.”

“wow, you really love me, huh?”

you took a sip, mint and ginger lacing your tastebuds. you hummed in approval, wrapping your other hand around the warm ceramic.

“yes, which is why i’m not convinced you’re not sick.” he scoffed, turning his head to the side in disbelief; but he knew you were beyond stubborn when it came to him. “but, i’ll let it go, only until you can’t deny it anymore.”

you left him in the kitchen, going back to your spilled out notebooks and pens. you glanced at the laptop, groaning when you remembered what you were just in the middle of. you cursed whoever decided that equations needed to be used wherever possible outside of math, and gently set the mug against the wood. you put the back of your hand to your forehead, dragging it down to your cheek—just to compare what you briefly felt against hao’s skin. and what you found convinced you that he was sick and in denial about it.

however, you couldn’t figure out why. was he afraid to be in a vulnerable state around you? no, you’ve seen him in more compromising situations. so, was he just being stubborn? was he just trying to play it off because you had noticed when he was playing his role oh so well? you knew him better than that, and he definitely knew that too.

you took a breath, clearing your mind of worry and picking up the black pen that seconds ago laid lifeless. if he needed you, he’d say so, wouldn’t he? you promised you’d just have to wait and find out—and you knew soon enough that you would find out just how bad his sickness would get.

just then, a loud sneeze rang out against the silence, a groan following, though you couldn’t tell if it was because he was annoyed, or if the intensity actually hurt him.

“ha!” you shot up. “i knew it. i know him better than that. he thought he could—" you boasted, until another sneeze met your ears and your eyebrows (once again) came together. you turned briefly to put your pen back down, blinking a couple times when you saw hao standing against the doorframe.

he was pouting, and honestly, even though you knew he wasn’t feeling well, it was satisfying being right—call it your toxic trait but you had to bite back saying i told you so.

just as quickly as you got yourself to calm down, your concern came back. “baby, are you okay?” you reached out for him, and he complied, accepting you against him. he sniffled again, holding you tighter. “baby, why didn’t you just say you were sick. you know i would’ve taken care of you.”

“can you do it now?”

you nodded. “of course, my love. let’s get you to bed.”

you took his hand and led him a couple feet to your neatly made bed. you undid the sheets, pushing him to sit down. he was still slightly pouting his lip out up at you, and you fought the urge to ruffle his hair, instead opting for a gentle kiss against his forehead. he wasn’t normally like this, but whenever he was, you both seemed to milk it dry. he laid down and tucked him in playfully, earning a small laugh.

“i’ll be right back, i'm going to grab you some medicine, okay?”

he nodded, burying himself further into your dense blankets. but before you went, you finally were allowed to check his temperate against your own; it being exactly what you suspected, a fever. after, you ventured to the kitchen, rummaging through your cabinets until you found the flu medicine you bought at the beginning of winter, thanking your slightly-younger self for somehow predicting its need.

you came back, and hao instantly sat up. you started insisting through protests, but after he took the medicine from you, he complied, hermitting back under the covers.

“y/n?” he asked. “are you done studying yet?”

you debated for a second, only realizing that you were as ready as you’d ever be—considering this is going on your second week straight of nothing but chem and bio practice tests.

before you had the chance to answer, he lifted the cover for you to join him under. you ran to hit the light switch, coming back and climbing into the bed with your boyfriend. you snuggled against his chest, listening to his regulated heartbeat and breaths. and before you knew it, he was fast asleep.

you just hoped that he would be better once he woke up.

reblogs, likes and comments are greatly appreciated! thank u!

— perm tag list .ᐟ send an ask to be added c:

[chouxsardine]

Permission to Fall -- Jake Kiszka x reader

Summary: "Don't be afraid of falling, because he will catch you everytime" --Where things became too much at your company's Christmas party and Jake comes to the rescue as the most thoughtful boyfriend that he is.

Pairing: Jake Kiszka x reader

Word Count: 3211

Warnings: descriptions of a panic attack, feet (nothing gross or super detailed), a drop of superstition (let me know if I've missed any)

Genre: Fluff, hurt/comfort

Author's note: This is originally an idea inspired by @jakesguitarsolo and written for her. I hope you feel better now, dear. One idea spins into me pulling an all nighter...And here it is. This also goes to whoever feels stressed around this time of the year. Yes, things are tough, but you are stronger. I am so proud of you. If you want to talk, feel free to send me an ask or message. This is my first gvf fic and my first time writing anything for threes years. I really enjoyed writing it. I hope you enjoy reading it too.

🎧: I am listening to I Need You Most of All by Stephen Sanchez while writing this (you can tell the title is taken from the lyrics)

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Suddenly everything is too much.

But you know damn well that it doesn’t just happen “suddenly”. In fact, shit has been building up for days, or even weeks. You don’t know if it’s the end-of-year frenzy getting into everyone’s head, Mercury is in retrograde, or the depleted Vitamin D levels due to shortened daylight, you’ve had it particularly rough recently, from small inconveniences like your favourite snack being out of stock at the local grocery store for three consecutive weeks to mishaps like you taking the blame for your impotent coworker. You are exhausted, to say the least; you couldn’t wait for the holidays. Not entirely for its cheer, but for the few precious days off. You just need a break from everything.

Now you are stuck in your company’s holiday party. The annual event that you dreaded the most. It involves too many fake smiles, false-hearted small talk, and tooth-rotting-sweet cupcakes that clearly have too much food colouring. All the mental preparing goes south as you stand in the room, the stabbing pain from your high-heels growing more and more unbearable by the second. Too many people.

“Just another thirty minutes, you can do it. Just another thirty minutes”. You hopelessly glance at the clock on the wall, flashbacking to your childhood self squirming in the seats waiting for math class to end.

But of course, something has to make matters worse. The real straw that breaks the camel’s back is your clumsy coworker accidentally bumping into you and spilling her drink on your shoes.

“Oh my god, I am so so sorry, y/n!” She hastily apologizes in a high-pitched squeal. A few people turn their heads toward your direction.

“No, no, it’s okay, don’t worry about it.” Embarrassment. Embarrassment. Panic. Trouble. You try to wave her off. The shoes aren’t even your top concerns right now; you just want her to stop talking and stop attracting more unwanted attention.

“Really? Oh I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to! It’s just—”

“Please.” You take the handful of tissues from her, look her in the eyes, almost pleading, “It’s fine. Please excuse me, I’ll just go to the washroom real quick.”

Once the washroom door is closed behind you, you feel like collapsing right there on the floor. You wobble your way to the sink, arms propped up on the cold marble surface. You don’t dare to look at yourself in the mirror. Your ears are buzzing and the twisted feeling in your lungs tightens. As if a cold hand is wringing a wet towel inside your stomach, as if someone is shoving your head into cold water, you can't breath properly. You try to draw a breath, but end up sounding like a stranded whale. Before it develops into a full-blown panic attack that you can’t handle, you managed to muster the last bit of your sanity and dial that number with trembling fingers.

Jake picks up on the second ring.

“Hi, love. What’s up? ”

Upon hearing his voice, your tears break free. You are sobbing so hard that you have to bite down on your knuckles to keep the volume down. God forbid any busybody out there overhearing sobbing coming out of the washroom. “Ja—Jake—-”You struggled to form a coherent syllable.

“What’s wrong, y/n? Are you hurt?” His voice immediately grows sterner, stripped of of the previous languidness.

To talk under this state feels like squeezing words out of your veins. “Ca—can—you..come p—pick me up? Company—p-party.” You stutter through gritted teeth.

There is some shuffled noise over the phone, a loud bang sounding like he had bumped into something, a silent “fuck” under his breath, then his voice reaches your ears again: “Coming right now, baby, take a deep breath for me.”

You hear the faint beeping of car keys. More shuffled noise. More beeping. That means he has started the car, right? That means he will be here soon, right? You mind is racing and spinning and your lungs are still acting up, only allow silvers of oxygen into your body. You feel like you are watching the world through a distorted filter. A scarier thought jumps into your brain: you whiny puny thing, continue crying and your panic will affect Jake. The roads are slippery now, and it will be all your fault if he ends up in a car accident.

As if being slapped in the face, you manage to suck in a deep breath like a scuba diver resurfacing to the water: “Drive safe please, please Jake, please—I will wait for you.”

Jake makes a sound that is somewhat between a relieved laugh and a resigned sigh. He knows instantly what’s going on in your overthinking brain; you are worried about him. The thoughtfulness must be engraved in y/n’s brain, he thought, always, always putting others in front of herself, even when she’s having a panic attack. And Jake knows you are correct. It is only upon hearing your words that he realizes how hard he was gripping the steering wheel. He recomposes himself, relaxing his shoulder, “Don’t you worry about me, love. I will stay on the phone if that makes you feel better, yeah? Ain’t nothing gonna happen to me.”

“Knock on wood!” You hiss between sobbing, frantically searching for any wooden material around you. Damn it, why is everything so shiny and glassy?

Jake is amazed that he even lets out a short laugh under the circumstances. Yes, his heart aches hearing his girl being a mess over the phone, and he wishes he could grow wings and fly to her side. But meanwhile, he can't help but find you cute like this. He knocks three times on the mini wooden tissue box that he keeps in the middle console.

“Yes, knock on wood. You hear that, doll?”

“Hmm.” You would honestly believe anything now. Hearing Jake’s voice and imagining him coming to you is like brown noise for babies. Your lungs finally decide to have mercy on you, and you can now somehow draw in shallow breaths albeit the pain in your chest.

Jake is relieved as he sees the green lights shining at the last intersection before turning left onto the side road where your company is located. “I’m here. Can you come down by yourself, love? Or do you want me to get you?”

“I can come down.” You say. The thought of him finding you in a messy pile on the bathroom floor makes you wince, even though he’d probably seen worse.

“Okay baby, see you in a second.”

You don’t remember how you collected your coat and pushed your way through the crowded room without many people noticing. The next moment, your sensations are restored, and you find yourself already in Jake’s arms. He's waiting for you in the area between the automatic glass door and the revolving door outside, a place that is warm with air conditioning but won’t attract nosy people. He wraps you in a hug with his wool jacket. His comforting scent fills your nostrils, a powerful pacifier for your naughty lungs. For the first time this evening, you can finally breathe properly like a normal human being. The rush of fresh air makes you release a loud sob like a newborn baby. The relief of seeing him safely standing in front of you and the release of finally being free from the stressful and stuffy environment ushers more tears to stream down your face.

“Shhhh…..you’re okay now, y/n, safe now. I’m here.” His hand wraps protectively around the back of your head as he plants kisses into your hair. “Poor girl, let’s get to the car and go home.”

Home. Home sounds heavenly to your right now. You couldn’t think of a better combination of these four letters in the whole of human history.

On the way back, you curl into a ball on the passenger seat like a battered puppy. Jake holds your hand whenever he gets the chance, his strong calloused fingers gently massaging yours, tracing the patterns on your palm, his thumb brushing the back of your hand, providing warmth. No longer crying, your shoulders occasionally shudder with involuntary sobs that escape you. But other than that, you are falling into a trance. Your gaze concentrated on Jake’s perfect side profile through hooded eyes, watching in awe as the passing streetlights formed patterns of shadow on his graceful nose and cheeks; your mind numb without a single thought.

It is only when Jake wakes you up that you realize you have fallen asleep. The car is already parked in the garage, the familiar and comforting damp smell seeping in.

“We are home now, sleepyhead.” Jake smiles at you, tapping on your wrist to signal you to wait as he gets out of the car and opens your side of the door. Just as you were about to step off, Jake reaches to cradle you by the shoulders and knees, carrying you bridle-style into the house. You hide your face shyly in the crook of his neck, secretly grateful because your feet are indeed sore in those heels.

Jake puts you down by the shoe rack, motioning you to put your hands on his shoulders to steady yourself as he squats down in front you, holding your ankles and taking off your shoes. If he did see the stains, he didn’t ask any questions, only cooed when he saw the blisters on your heels.

“Let’s go upstairs and get your makeup off, then we’ll cuddle and go to bed, yeah?” Jake stands up, hanging up your coat before cupping your cheeks and placing a kiss on your forehead.

You never hated makeup more than now, regretting to put it on in the first place, now that it has become the annoying barrier lying in your way to bedtime. But Jake says “let’s,” that means he’s going to do it together with you, right?

“Jake?” You whine bashfully.

“Yes, love?”

You tilt up your chin and close your eyes, “One more kissy, please?”

Jake swears he feels a part of his heart melt right there. Who is he to deny you?

“Of course, as many as my princess would like.”

Stepping into the bathroom, Jake sits you on the closed toilet seat. He opens the drawer, grabs your makeup remover and some cotton pads. He applies some liquid onto the wipes and lifts up your chin.

“Close your eyes for me, love.” The cool liquid on your eyelids makes your eyebrows twitch, causing Jake to chuckle, “I know, I know. Just a little longer.”

You sit quietly, mesmerized and hypnotized under his touch. His movements are almost rhythmic. Is this how cats feel when their owners scratches behind their ears? You fear that if you make a sound, you will actually let out a purr.

Jake continues until most of your makeup is gone. “Hold out your hands,” you hear him say and complied. Two dollops of foamy liquid landed in the centre of your palm, and you opened your eyes to recognize they are your face wash. Jake tugs on your wrist, leading you to stand in front of the sink.

“Can you wash your pretty face now, darling? Wash up, and I’ll be back in a minute.”

You nodded, feeling lighter and more relaxed now without your makeup and even more content when you turn on the tap and find out that Jake has already tuned it to a lukewarm temperature for you.

When Jake returned, he was calling you from the bedroom. You have already brushed your teeth and let down your hair.

You walked into the bedroom and are welcomed by the scent of bergamot and sandalwood from your favourite candle glowing on the night stand. Jake was pulling an old T-shirt out from the closet. It was the vintage Joan Jett and The Blackhearts shirt, the patterns half faded, and materials worn-out soft. You saw him laying out one of his boxers for you too. He knows you always prefer them to your own underwear as pyjamas.

“Come sit, angel.” He patted the bench at the foot of the bed, him sitting across from it on a small stool.

It is only when you walked close that you saw the wooden foot spa basin, with clouds of steam rising from it. As you sat down, he gently took your ankle and balanced your feet on the edge of the basin, so that the hot water is steaming your sole.

“It’s still a bit hot.” He looks up to you. “I put Epsom salt and eucalyptus oil in it.”

“Where did you get this?” You feel like the heat from the bottom of the feet is slowly being absorbed into your veins and rising up to your cheeks. You wiggle your toes nervously.

Jake lets out a giggle, “Well, mum suggested once to Josh about the foot spa thing, said it helps with stress and tense muscles. You know, with him running barefoot on stage and all.” He reaches down to sprinkle some water onto your feet, letting you adjust to the temperature. “But Josh got the fancy electric ones. I thought this is better. More authentic, don’t you think?”

“Uh-hmm.”

“Your nails are all chipped,” Jake looks down, “maybe tomorrow we can repaint them? I saw you bought a new colour the other day.”

Tender. So tender. From his tone to his caramel brown eyes. The light from the lamp illuminates the left side of his face, giving it a solemn, smooth glow like a wax statue. Your heart swells; love makes it rise like Soufflé in the oven. The soft surface rises up until it touches your ribcage, threatening to spill those tears again.

“Thank you, Jake.” You dare not raise your voice, fearing that it will break, “I just got a bit overwhelmed at the party, is all.”

Jake eases your feet slowly into the water now that it’s the perfect temperature. The slight sling of your blisters is soon overwhelmed by the all-encompassing warmth that rises all the way to your ankle.

After a few heart beats, he speaks again. “You’ll always have me, y/n. You are allowed to fall, to break. I will be here to catch you, to piece you together. Whatever you need.”

Finally you were snuggled together in bed. You, a human koala, cling to Jake with your face pressed against his chest. His arm snakes around your shoulder, fingers mindlessly tracing your collarbone, strumming some unknown patterns. His heartbeat thumping in your ear, the perfect lullaby. The steady rise and fall of his chest is like waves, rocking you into a sweet slumber. Your eyelids feel heavy like velvet drapes. There’s still a stubborn voice in your brain keeping you from falling asleep. There’s still one more thing you need to do, even though you understood each other perfectly.

“Jake?” Your voice low like a murmur. Jake almost didn’t hear you at first.

“What is it, babe?”

“I love you.” Those words come out as a slur, and like a magic spell, you fall into the deep embrace of sleep as soon as the last syllable leaves your lips. Now clear of any stress and worries in the arms of your lover, the strained string in you brain that has been holding on for dear life the whole evening finally snaps. You’re out like a light.

“I love you back, y/n, through and through.” He whispers into your dream.

You woke up to an empty bed, the sheet on his side still has the human-shaped imprint. Jake is a night owl; it is pretty common that he just gets up in the middle of the night and ends up doing some random things around the house. Most often it’s him strumming the guitar and experimenting with his ideas for new tunes in the home studio downstairs. But you have also caught him fixing chipped paint on the walls, repotting the succulents in the garage, and pouring broth into the crockpot with chicken thighs and smoked ham hock (“so we could have warm chicken chili in the morning!”; to be honest, it’s indeed delicious; you had two bowls and had to skip lunch that day). Just to name a few, so the possibilities are endless.

You get out of bed, creep cross the corridor and tiptoe your way down the stairs. The lights at the doorway are on; you thought Jake forgot to turn them off. However, as you approach, you see Jake squatting down next to the shoe rack, his back towards you, and a brush and some spray bottles laying nearby.

You move closer and see him holding the clothes steamer near your wine-stained shoes. The heels you wore have a suede tip in the front, and unfortunately, that’s where the wine was mostly spilt on. After a few moments, Jake uses the wire brush to clean the surface. He stops from time to time, holding it further to inspect the result.

You waited until he stops again to make some sounds, announcing your presence. Jake immediately turns around. His eyes softens upon seeing you.

“What are you doing up?”

You go to squat down next to him, kissing his temple before resting your head on his shoulder.

“You just bought these not so long ago, yeah? It’d be a shame to leave them stained.” Jake lets more steam soak into the fabric before brushing them again. “I’m almost done. I saw this trick online, and it looks pretty legit.” It’s only then that you noticed his phone on the side, the screen showing the replies from some Reddit post.

“Thank you, baby.” You rub your cheeks slightly on his T-shirt; the feeling of warm pastry once again fills your heart.

“No worries, doll. I think it’s good for now. Let’s leave them here and check in the morning.” Jake starts putting away his tools before pulling you up and wrapping his arm around your waist, leading you back upstairs.

On your way, something familiar catches your eye. You must’ve missed it earlier.

“Wait, where did you get that?” You stop, pointing at what happens to be a whole case of your favourite snack lying on the kitchen counter.

“Oh, I saw the stores are out of them, so I ordered them online. They just arrived today.” Jake scratches his head, his tone tainted with slight disappointment.“I thought they’d be a nice surprise as stocking stuffers, but…”

You stopped him mid-sentence with a kiss.

“I love you.” This time you said it clear against his lips.

“Oh doll, I love you back,” he smiles, showing the cutest wrinkle on his nose. His hands brush your shoulder as you resume your steps upstairs. “Let’s get a few more hours of sleep now. And when you wake up, you will wake up to some yummy pancakes and a pair of stain-free shoes, huh? How does that sound?”

Oh Lord, that sounds heavenly. That sounds just like home.

“I’d like that, Jake. I’d like that very, very much.”

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Thank you for reading :) any comments and feedbacks are greatly welcomed and deeply appreciated

(The stain-removing tips comes from malccy72 on reddit :D

If you also feel like reading a smutty (but also fluffy?) piece🤭: Mariner's Complex || Love is a four-legged word || The Lucky Ones

or some Christmas fluff: Ticked (all my boxes)

[maxiroff]

I guess your not who I thought you were ~Natasha Romanoff

Summary: Reader is bullied in school and Natasha asks her to tutor her. They fall in love but is their relationship really as good as reader thinks and what happens when Natasha is put in the spot?

Ps. It’s a shit summery but it will have to do.

Paring: Popular Natasha x bullied reader

Words : 1756

Warnings: ANGST , bullying- mentally and a bit physical, self hatred, eating disorder, talks of suicide, self harm, no happy ending

Note: This is my firs time writing angst so it’s not that good and it’s kinda rushed. And again English is not my first language so there may be errors and I haven’t proofread it.

It started with you tutoring her in math and in english. You were the nerdy outcast that nobody wanted to be seen around with. You’ve been bullied since you can remember and while you tried not to let the comments get to you, sometimes they just do.

“God you're so fat you should just stop eating.”

So you did. And it worked for a while, until it didn't. Every time you stepped on the scale the numbers seem to go up instead of down and your clothes still seem to sit too tight on your body. As the weeks progressed you got thinner and thinner but it was in vain, the comments didn't seem to stop.

“You could at least put on makeup, it's no wonder no one wants you.”

So you did. You bought everything your money would allow, foundation, concealer, mascara, contour, a brow pencil and blush. But it didn't matter, you knew that whatever you did it would still be in vain. You would still be the joke of the school. Everyday you hid behind the mask on your face and every time you looked in the mirror as tears streamed down your face you could see how you were slowly fading away.

God why could you never be enough. There was always something wrong with you and the more people said it the more you believed it.

“You’re such a waste of space, you should kill your self no one wants you here anyway.”

They said as one of them bumped their shoulder into yours so hard you were pushed into a locker. Your arm ached as you could feel how tears welled up in your eyes. All eyes were on you, laughing as you ran as fast you could out of there. You could taste the saltiness of the tears upon your cheeks as you ran all the way home. It was all a blur but suddenly you were home, standing in the bathroom looking in the mirror. Your mascara smeared over your face as you tried to wipe away your tears. The longer you looked the more flaws you could see and the louder the voices in your head seemed.

“You should do it, you know they’re right.” “Your a disappointment to everyone” “Stop eating your so fat” “KIll youself” “No one wants you here anyway” “Kill yourself, do it”

“Aaahhhhhhhh, stop, stop, stop” You shouted as your knees gave out and you fell hard to the marble floor. Leaning your back against the tub you tucked your knees up to your body making you as small as possible. Resting your head on the top of your knees you finally let yourself let go.

“Please” you whispered as sobbs wrecked your body. You were so tired, so tired. When would it stop, why couldn't they just stop, you never did anything wrong. Maybe they were right, you would be doing everyone a favor anyway. You slowly lifted your head looking through your blurred vision for your razor blades. When you turned your head to the right you saw them laying in the corner of the tub. With shaky hands you slowly picked it up and brought it closer to your face, admiring it for a second.

If you found a big enough vein and made it deep enough maybe it would do the job, maybe. It was as if you were in a trance as you slowly rolled up your sleeves and brought the razor towards your arm. With a deep breath you dragged the blade in a perfectly straight line across your arm. Small pearls of blood slowly started to develop in the wound. One turned into many and the blood started to drip down on your clothes and onto the floor. That's when you seemed to wake up.

“Ahh fuck what did I do, what did I do, what did I do?” You quietly chanted over and over as you wobbly stood up and made your way to the sink. Panik set in the moment you realized the amount of blood you had lost and saw black dots in your vision for a moment. Fumbling with the first aid package in the cabinet above the sink you got out bandaids, bandages and rubbing alcohol.

Your eyes welled up again at the sting from the rubbing alcohol in the wounds blurring your vision once again. Carefully you wrapped your arm with the bandage and secured it with the band aids. Not your finest work but it worked for now. You made your way to your bedroom just wanting to sleep after the shock of what happened.

When you woke up the next day you had a text from an unknown number.

Hey I know this might be weird but I have been failing a few classes and I happen to know that you have really good grades in them and was wondering if you could help me?

-Natasha Romanoff, in your economic class.

That was almost three months ago now. Natasha was known for being the popular girl in school, always has been. You knew it could be a mistake to say yes given that she was also known as one of the school bullies. Which you knew all too well having been at the receiving ends of some of her comments. But what the hell right, it's not like life could get worse.

And it didn't. In the beginning it was quite awkward but it wasn't that bad. As the weeks progressed you and Nastaha got closer and she asked you out. You almost couldn't believe it but you said yes and it was the best thing that had happened to you. Of course in the beginning of the relationship you were weary of her intentions because of the nature of it. But as time passed you trusted her more and started to open up about your struggles with mental health and your ED. And in return she told you about her insecurities about being out to the school because she was afraid of being treated differently.

You helped each other and you told her it was okay to keep your relationship secret when she asked. Of course it hurt to not be able to hold her hand in school and not being able to walk her to class or kiss in the hallways like everybody else. But if that was the price that came with being with her, it was worth it, she was worth it. Your small but memorable moments were what counted.

For example yesterday it was your guys six month anniversary and when you opened the door for her she stood there waiting for you with a big bouquet of flowers. She also got you your favorite chocolate and she gave you a build-a-bear with a massage saying she loved you build into it. You had set up a romantic dinner for you and put the flowers on the table. Now it was your turn to give her your gift and you were nervous as hell for her reaction.

“Ehh so you know i couldn't really afford anything fancy but i remembered how you said a few weeks ago that you liked more personal stuff. So I made you this necklace, it has both our initials and I have a matching one.” you said as you carefully handed it over to her. You couldn't even look at her because you were afraid of her reaction. The silence was defeating. Why didn't she say anything? Maybe she hated it. Maybe she thought it was ugly, I mean it was home made after all. God this was a bad idea.

“Em you don’t have to wear it-”

“No shut up I’m going to wear it forever, I love it” Your eyes looked up at her shimmering with tears. “Really” You said hopgull.

“Yes really” she put her hand under your chin and kissed your lips softly. “I love you so much my darling. You are the most valuable thing in my life and I’ll wear this as a sign of that.”

You still could not let that memory go as you wandered the halls a few days later.

You knew Natasha said she wanted to keep the relationship private because she wasn't out to the school. And while you knew that might have been true you knew now that she finally was out that the real reason was because she was ashamed. She was ashamed of you. She didn't want to be seen with you. You could hear your own heart crack when you realized that. It hurt but you knew you could get past that because she meant that much to you.

You normally wouldn't talk to her in school, per her request, but right now you didnt care as you got closer to her and her friend group. She had taken off her necklace when she showered at your house and forgot to take it with her so you were just going to give it back. In and out, a quick exchange, barely any words needed.

You could see how her friends sent you weird looks as they realized you were coming in their direction but Nat hadn't noticed you yet.

“Oh look who it is, the freak” they all laughed and Natasha turned towards you. Her eyes immediately widened and you could see the panicked expression spread on her face.

“What the hell do you want?” Came from one of her friends but you just ignored them.

“Emm N-nat you forgot this at home” you said as you slowly inched your hand closer to her showing the necklace. She watched you with a weary expression.

“And why would I want to have that” she said with a serious tone as her friends laughed at her comment and you slowly drew your hand back in shame.

“I would never wear something as ugly as that, it's even uglier than you” this time she laughed along with her friends. Your eyes filled with tears at the humiliation and hurt as you remembered her promise to you when you gave it to her.

“I guess you're not who I thought you were” was the last thing you said as you turned to run away with tears streaming down your face. Throwing the necklace towards a trash can only missing it by an inch making it fall to the floor. How stupid of you to believe she would ever want you as much as you wanted her.

Part 2 here if you want a happy ending instead

[cocteaucherry]

posting things from the drafts <3

gojo x gn!culinary arts reader

cw- inaccurate depictions of culinary school, gojo being a fiend,

Gojo was ecstatic you wanted to go try going back to school, he preferred you wanting to go in a less dangerous field anyways (even though you’ve expressed multiple times you could hold your own) He was just nervous anytime you were sent on dangerous missions, blowing up your phone every five minutes.

You had sat down with him expressing every option and each field you could go into, bouncing from math to science you ultimately decided on Culinary Arts. Satoru decided selfishly that was the best thing he ever did in his life.

Each day when you came back from classes a new sweet treat appeared in your hands, your first week you bought home half a fruit tart. You were very self conscious since your instructor insulted your knife skills when it came to the fruits.

Satoru didn’t care though, the next morning you woke up to find only crumbs left in the container. The second week you had learned to make caramel and various candies, every time you left your precious sweets unattended your not so precious boyfriend mauled them down.

“Satoru! Did you seriously eat the rest of my caramel candies?” You asked obviously knowing the answer, “ermm.. no! What are these candies you speak of?” He yelled from the bedroom as you stared down at your empty container, “Gojo, be serious!” You heard the bed creak and all of a sudden your 6’3 boyfriend was standing in front of you with the expression of a kicked puppy.

“Hey! What’s with the “Gojo” treatment?” He whined leaning against the counter, his arms crossed across his chest, “You'll return to Satoru status once you admit your crimes.” You deadpanned crossing your arms, “okay so hypothetically- what if I HYPOTHETICALLY ate them.” “Then im-“ you were interrupted by his finger being placed on your lips, “WHAT if it was some sort of candy stealing curse? That’d be a shame!” He feigned raising his hand to his forehead.

“Yeah you’re not getting that status back.” You sighed walking away hearing him try to plead with you.

His sweet thief addiction only intensified when you had to practice at home, you were instructed to make a two tier marble cake with the design your instructor gave sounds easy? Not when Satoru’s off of work.

“Please baby! Pleaseeeee?” You glanced down annoyingly at the sight before you, on both knees- bright blue eyes peering up and you and snow white hair almost fell over them. You groaned looking away continuing your work to whisk the frosting, “you already licked the bowl AND spindles clean, how have you not crashed yet?” You grabbed the palette knife slabbing a glob of icing on the first layer.

“I’m just a boy and you’re breaking my dreams!” He whined, clasping his hand in a prayer stance, “you’re a twenty eight year old man, and one of the strongest people in the world.. sounds to me you’re alright,” you swear you could see hearts in his eyes, “So you do think I’m the strongest?~” he said in a songy tone.

“Everyone does!” You exclaimed, turning your head away from the icing to check your phone, when you swung your head back your boyfriend was missing and so was the spoon in the frosting bowl, peeping down you could see a large empty hole where the stolen frosting was.

“Toruuu come on!!!” You yelled running down the hall to find him and your stolen spoon.

(id love some more ideass, my ask box is open id greatly appreciate it <33

[physalian]

On Using Measurements and Metrics in Fantasy

This is what *I* do and what I find more immersive, easier to write, less world-bending, and more productive: I don’t use actual metric or imperial measurement systems. Why?

Personally I don’t like seeing a world completely different than our own referencing an Earth-bound measurement system (but when I must, I use metric even though I’m American).

Some people don’t have a useful frame of reference for how big something actually is if you just throw big numbers at them. Or even big units. Yeah I know a ‘football’ field is big, but that’s a very foggy and useless ‘big’ if I don't actually watch the sport and see it on a daily basis.

Specific numbers end up seeming more important than they are, whether you’re giving weights, lengths, times, etc, because you got specific. 24 hours won’t raise any brows but 22 hours will. And you just open yourself up to plot holes getting needlessly specific. You’re inviting your readers to do the math and if *you* didn’t do the math, they will find out about it.

This is for fantasy, not any other genre, although I’d still rely on vague numbers anyway unless I’m writing something super sciency where the math is important. Anything from sports to rocket science.

So what I do instead:

Give you measurements you can reference yourself. If I have a tiny fantasy macguffin, it’s about a pinkie finger wide, not 2cm. If I have a sci-fi ship, it’s about two houses/stories tall, not 20ft. It’s a puncture wound the size of a fist, not 4in. It’s a bed small enough for the character to sprawl and still hang off. It’s shoes that can fit in the palm of their hands.

Why I think this works better:

I really suck at converting numbers to actual measurements. Tell me to measure 4 inches between my hands and I’ll give you a gap +/- 2. But the size of a fist? Well I’ve got two right here, now I know what you’re talking about. Hands aren’t all the same size, but for me reading, that’s all I need to know. Do not make me bust out a tape measure or google to properly appreciate the scale of a thing in your book.

Outside of letting my characters give rough time estimates (e.g. a journey taking maybe 2 weeks) because they don’t know themselves, specific numbers aren’t very useful.

If you pick the right size comparison (picking the right allegory), it’ll read more immersive and less sterile. A character just got shot. Is the wound 1 cm, the size of a pencil, or the size of the fingers trying to dig the bullet out? A character is trapped in a criminally small cell. Is it 5 feet wide, or is it so small, they can’t even stretch out fully? A character has to make an incredible shot with a gun or a bow. Is their target 100ft away, or is it an ant on the horizon, is the target’s head the size of a marble? A character is about to fall, is the drop 800ft, or is it so far, they can’t even see the bottom? So far there’s clouds at the bottom? So far the river below is thin as a hair? The biggest lake in the region might be 4 miles across, but more importantly, standing on the bank feels like standing at the coast, cause that there’s an ocean. A tower might be 60ft tall, but more importantly, it gives you vertigo and seems to sway in the wind and it’s taller than every other structure around.

I think this also works with character descriptions. My character has no idea how long he’s been held captive, but his hair has grown out over his eyes to cue you in on the passage of time. Or my character isn’t 4’11, but her head doesn’t reach her boyfriend’s chest. Or, my character has some truly massive muscles, biceps like this other dude’s head. My character has an ugly scar from a nasty knife fight. It’s not eight inches across, but the person touching it can’t even cover it with their whole hand. This character has lost a lot of blood, not 1 liter, but enough that their clothes are dripping with it and the carpet can’t soak it all up.

Generally, the actual number isn’t the most important detail your audience wants to take away from the page, it’s what that metric now means for the scene. A 4ft cell means nothing to me, but a cell so small, my character might go crazy from claustrophobia is important.

And, also, maybe your characters also suck at gauging metrics. I have a character who’s good with horses who’ll give you their heights in hands, but another who’ll just say that one’s so tall, he can’t see over her shoulders.

When the characters need to know the numbers, give the numbers. If you have two people building something, letting them toss weights and lengths back and forth makes sense. But when it’s only the audience that needs to know the numbers, consider coming up with some other way to convey them.