#Press Corps Liars

[grits-galraisedinthesouth]

Manifesting a State Visit🤥🤡

Another day, another lie. While the US government is in free fall, a reporter at the White House press corps briefing said this on behalf of The Meghans:

"There's been some reporting by my colleagues in the British press that His Majesty King Charles would like to visit his grandchildren in California and could do so in conjunction with a state visit..."

[thatonebirdwrites]

L-Corp and chilled scotch

The scotch pours into her cup, the chill saturates through the glass, and the temptation to just throw the glass and drink directly from the bottle taunts her yet again. She resists.

Unlike her ability to resist Kara.

Kara Danvers or rather Supergirl, the hero that is the beloved of National City.

And a habitual liar.

She throws back the scotch, the cool temperature a balm across the burn of the alcohol. Hope sits on her desk, a swirling cubical sculpture, that offers up yet another simulation for Lena to attempt.

Or would have.

The doors swing open with a bang, and Samantha Arias stands there, an expression of fury on her usually smug or gentle expressions.

"Lena Kieran Luthor," she snaps. "I am sick of you dodging my phone calls."

"Oh?" She pours herself another drink and wishes she'd told Jess to not allow anyone into her office. She'd forgotten Sam had full access to her still.

"Normally I'd just roll with it." Sam slams the doors shut, marches over and plucks the glass right out of Lena's hands. "But to ghost Ruby? Your goddaughter?"

So that's the source of Sam's fury. Lena crosses her arms over her chest.

"Now that I won't allow. Ruby adores you, Lena, and you do not get to ice her out like this."

"It's better for her," Lena starts to say, but Sam does the unthinkable. She dumps the scotch into the garbage. "Hey! That's damn good scotch you're wasting!"

"I don't want to have this talk if you're drunk." Sam sighs and presses flips her hair over her shoulder. "I think it's time Ruby and I returned to National CIty, Lena."

"No, you're will not." Lena scowls. "You have Metropolis."

"And what good is that if my best friend is currently ghosting her goddaughter, drinking her life away, and apparently mismanaging L-Corp's funds?" Sam stabs her finger at Lena's chest. "Don't think I haven't noticed that either. What the hell has you this worked up? Is it Kara?"

Lena attempts to school her face in time but the shock of Sam's very accurate guess slips out for a brief second. Long enough for Sam to catch it.

"It is Kara." The fury that Sam rode in with switches to concern. "Lena, whatever happened? You don't have to face it alone. I'm here for you. I'll always be here for you."

"You don't know what I've done, Sam," Lena says flatly. She doesn't want Sam's pity. "Would you want a murderer interacting with Ruby?"

Sam flips her hair over her shoulder again and does a rather dashing pose that reminds Lena far too much of Reign. "Guess whose body murdered dozens and destabilized Earth's climate? Yup, that's me!"

"It wasn't really you," Lena protests.

"Does it matter?" Sam gestures to the sofa, and when Lena doesn't move, she, far more gently than Lena deserves, pushes her down and settles next to her. "Reign, in my body, tried to kill Ruby. There are times Ruby looks at me, and I see fear in her eyes. That's not something we can just erase from her memory, Lena. My hands are coated in blood regardless of who did it. I must live with that, so whatever you've done? It can't be worse than that."

"I killed my brother, Sam," Lena blurts out, and is appalled at herself. She's never said it out loud like this before. Not since she shot Lex, saw his proof of Kara Danvers = Supergirl, and then lit the whole bunker on fire, sealing it forever in concrete and metal with the DNA lock. "Took my pistol, and shot him right in the chest. My own brother. And I did it thinking I was saving Kara, saving the world. But I was a fool." She looks away and reaches for the scotch.

Sam puts it out of her reach and grasps her hands instead. "You're not a fool," she says, softly. "You did what you thought was right."

"Right," Lena sneers. "What even is rightness? Do you know what it feels like to hold the pistol in your hands, Sam? To feel its heft? To smell the gunpowder, hear the bang, the gush of blood? What of that metallic smell? The acidic smoke of a body burning?"

Sam continues to hold her hands, her thumb rubbing back and forth, but she says nothing. Only tilts her head, listening.

It infuriates Lena, but she doesn't want Sam to let go. She feels unmoored, her entire body vibrating with a vicious energy, where she wants those that hurt her to bleed. But Kara can't bleed. She stronger than goddamn steel. No, she can only rip Kara apart, so that Kara has nothing. Just like Kara's damn secret did to Lena's heart.

"As he coughs up blood," she uses the most descriptive language she can in hopes it'll convince Sam to give up on her, "he dragged himself to his computer, turned on the TVs, and showed me exactly who Kara Danvers is. Lex with his dying breaths, his blood filled lungs, said I've been a goddamn fool. Unable to see what was right in front of my eyes." The tears sting her eyes, and that makes her even more angry.

Still Sam doesn't say anything.

"Say something, Sam!" Lena snaps. "Tell me that I'm a monster! A murderer. A villain! It's apparently what Kara thinks. She lied to me again and again, and this whole time she was Supergirl. Probably keeping me, the Luthor, close to make sure I stay in line. So let's be honest, let's lay it all out, don't we? I'm a villain. My family are villains, that's all I'll ever be."

Sam sighs. "No, Lena. No you were never the villain. You've always been the hero. I wouldn't be here if not for you. Ruby wouldn't be here. None of us would. You've saved so many a thousand times over." Her words rain onto Lena's desiccated heart, and the tears threaten to overflow. "And no you are not like your family. I don't know what Kara's deal is. Why she kept that truth from you, but I do know you. And you can't and won't ever be a villain."

"I killed my own brother, Sam," Lena argues.

"Yes, you told me. That doesn't make you a villain." Sam leans closer, her brown eyes intense. "I know that can change a person. Taking a life like that? It's not easy to bear. It sucks, I know."

"You don't even remember what Reign did," Lena says, irritated.

"I do actually. Not all of it, but..." The haunted look in Sam's eye floods Lena with guilt and a hint of disbelief. "When you were working to find the cure in your lab, before Supergirl barged in on us, I -- I started to recall bits and pieces. Then you somehow got both of us in that other dimension. Reign tried very hard to convince me to let go and embrace her. She pushed the memories on me. The crunch of bones in my hands, the nauseating metallic scent, the lifeless eyes still wide with fear. That -- that doesn't leave me."

"Oh." Lena's anger slowly fades into a confusing mire of bitterness and worry. "You didn't mention it."

"How could I?" Sam blinked away her own tears and gave Lena a pained smile. "I was panicking. I remember how you held me. How you reassured me that you would find a cure. You gave me hope that I wouldn't be just an alien weapon. So no, Lena, no matter what you've done, you can't be a villain. You saved me and the world, and I'm not going to let you forget it."

Lena looks down at their hands. She still hasn't pulled away from Sam's gentle touch. "Even if I'm plotting revenge? To make Kara hurt like she hurt me?"

"Even then."

"Revenge is for villains," Lena protests. Sam gives her a look that spells out how she definitely doesn't agree. Frustrated, Lena pushes forward. "Look, I've even dragged Andrea into my plot--"

"The one who viciously betrayed you?" Sam's eyebrows rose.

"The one and same. Gave her Catco." Lena couldn't hide her bitterness from her voice. "I bought it for Kara anyway. Might as well give it to someone who isn't qualified to lead it. Let it tank. Let Kara feel the pain of it. Then I'll unveil her true identity at her damn award ceremony, so the whole world can see her lies."

"Okay." Sam wraps an arm around Lena's shoulders. "So when is this ceremony?"

Lena blinks at Sam, surprised. "You're not going to talk me out of this?"

"I know you, Lena. And I know your heart. When the moment comes, you'll do the right thing. You always do." Sam smiles and the warmth of her arm melts some of the chill that had coated Lena's heart since her brother's death.

"So you're helping me." Lena isn't quite sure what to make of this development.

"I said I got your back, and I meant it."

That fractures Lena just enough that the tears escape. Sam draws her into a hug, and for the first time in weeks since her brother's death, Lena weeps.

***

The Pulitzer ceremony happens in the Art Museum downtown, their theatrical stage converted into a cocktail party. The dishes mostly variations of either French cuisine or potstickers. Thanks to Sam's assistance, Lena wove herself into the planning committee and convinced them to let her give the speech and the award to Kara herself.

Far too easy. At least for the planning portion. Andrea showed up several times to try to convince Lena to give away the surprise sooner, but Lena's firm handling of Andrea shut that down. She'd sent Andrea to Sam for an exclusive interview.

Sam, who would soon become the next CEO of the entirety of L-corp, while Lena stepped down into a pure research consultation position.

That had been Sam's idea, mostly to fix the hemorrhaging of funds issue, so Lena didn't end up investigated by the FBI. Last thing she needed right now, so instead, she'll use her private wealth and L-Corps science grants to fund her projects.

Today, she stands on the balcony, her fingers tapping through the evidence she'd found on the last of Lex's servers. The rest of his servers she'd hacked and deleted until all that was left was what she had stored in this particular tablet.

The rest of her plan involved a carefully written speech about honesty and truth, so when the news breaks, the juxaposition of her words against the truth of Kara's lies will surely destroy her like Kara's lie had destroyed Lena.

She'd practiced her speech in front of Sam and Ruby, though Ruby still had no idea why Lena was so bitter toward Kara. Sam didn't convince her to alter any parts of it, though she did ask one question that haunted Lena still:

"Is this your truth or a half-lie for Kara's sake?"

Lena had scoffed and said the latter, but Sam tilted her head as if not believing her. All her years of Luthor upbringing could not fool Sam, who somehow pierced through to her real feelings with just one look.

Now she overlooks the guests who mill about the extravagantly decorated room. The scent of savory food wafts up from below, the wine already heavy in her stomach. Kara keeps looking up at her from where she speaks with Alex and Kelly, and Lena does her best to ignore each glance.

Every time Kara looks away, Lena looks down at her and wonders. Was anything Kara shared real? Was it all an act? Those questions haunt her as much as Sam's, and she turns and walks into the backstage area.

To her dismay, Kara finds her there. Of all places for Kara to show up. Lena schools her features into delight for Kara as she speaks of how she plans to give the award speech.

Except Kara does the exact thing Lena assumed she'd never do.

She takes off her glasses. "I'm Supergirl!" Words tumble from Kara's mouth in an avalanche. "And I'm so, so sorry. I should have told you ages ago, but I loved being just Kara with you. And I was afraid to lose you, and I can't lose you. So I thought I could be just Kara with you, and I convinced myself I wouldn't lose you then.... but I've been a fool. So selfish. I've been lying to myself too. I thought I was protecting you, but I've been hurting you, haven't I? And I can't bear that. Gosh, Lena, I'm so sorry." Her tears smudging her makeup, and the repeated apology sear into Lena.

For once in her life, Lena has no idea what to say or think. Is this also an act?

"Please, Lena, say something," Kara begs.

And yet, Lena can't.

Kara apologized. Kara finally told her the truth.

What can she do with this? Surely it's not real. Just another ploy. Kara must know Lena knows. She must have slipped up somewhere, given away a clue.

And yet, the earnest grief in Kara's expression, the way she says "I just wanted to be Kara with you. Just Kara. I'm so sorry. I was wrong to lie to you all this time."

The way she begs Lena to speak, it all collides with Lena, and she feels breathless, on the verge of tears.

What does Kara even mean? To admit the wrongdoing? To admit she was being selfish?

Lex would never do such a thing. Lillian would scoff at the idea that she could be wrong.

So what does it mean for Kara to admit she was wrong? To admit she lied? To admit she had hung with Lena to play the role of human? The apology, the tears, the desperate longing in Kara's voice is unlike any apology Lena has ever heard.

She can't process it.

The host catches Lena's eye and taps his wrist. "It's almost time."

Lena takes the opportunity and steps around Kara. Her feet move for her, and she follows the host to the back of the stage, hidden by the red curtains. She hurriedly wipes the tears from her eyes, and touches up her make-up.

The truth in the tablet weighs heavy in her hands. She steps onto stage at her cue and places the tablet on the podium. The send button glares up at her, and her fingers hover over it.

The crowd lines up in rows in front of the stage. Kara stands next to Alex and Nia. Kelly, Brainy, and J'onn stand off to one side, and in the corner of the crowd, leaning against a pillar, Sam stands.

Kara's eyes are still red from her tears, her make-up fixed.

The speech rolls off Lena's tongue like sour candy. She's practiced it enough that the emotive moments come out as planned.

It's Sam's expression that cuts Lena far more than the rising hope in Kara's. Sam's expression burns with an intensity, as if she sees into Lena's soul, knows exactly her indecision.

Lena's finger hovers. One tap and the whole world will know the truth.

And yet her finger refuses to touch the screen.

Kelly glances between her and Kara, her brow furrowed. Does she know?

Alex knows definitely.

Does Brainy? He stands rigid slightly behind Nia, where the young reporter smiles up at Lena. Did they know?

J'onn has his arms crossed, and surely he knew.

Was any of her 'friends' real?

Beyond them, the crowd shifts and edges closer. Dozens of faces upturned to hear her speech, to hear her speak of the virtues of Kara, to listen to her extol on honesty and truth, and to lay that at Kara's feet.

As if Kara was truthful and honest. As if she truly deserved this award.

And yet, her heart betrays her. She drops her hand next to the tablet. Pauses to take a breath. This is it. She needs to do it now, but her hand doesn't hit send. Instead, she exits the program, picks up the award from its case, and steps out from behind the podium.

"And so I present to Kara, the Pulitzer Prize, for her truthful reporting of my brother's deadly actions, and for unveiling the reality of bigotry against alien communities." She stresses 'alien' and looks at Kara.

Kara, the one person who somehow broke through all her defenses, her stole away her heart faster than anyone prior. Even with Jack, the love had been a slow build, but with Kara? Lena had fallen for her in that first meeting in her office.

How could she not? Kara's warmth, how she'd admitted to understanding Lena's situation, an understanding Lena thought she'd never have beyond Jack and Sam.

Memories of their times together deluges Lena, and tears escape. She wants it all to be real so badly.

Kara steps forward, hope in her expression, and that tears Lena's heart even more.

With shaking hands she gives the award to Kara. In front of everyone, in front of the cameras, in front of the world watching this very moment, Kara grasps her arms instead.

"Lena," she says, her voice trembling, "Lena, thank you. I -- I couldn't do this without you. I can't do this without you."

The words leap from her lips, unplanned, unscripted. Her heart betraying her yet again. "You will always have me as a friend."

Kara sweeps her into a hug, presses a kiss to Lena's forehead, and she can't help but sink into the warmth.

She wants this to be real.

Oh god, she needs this to be real.

But the pain of the lie overshadows her, and she struggles against tears. Struggles to hold back her grief, her agony.

Her shattered heart cuts her to pieces, her body a betrayal, and yet she doesn't want to let go. Doesn't care who sees her. She wants this to be real.

She needs this to be real. She needs Kara.

And yet, Kara destroyed her. Destroyed her more than the gunshot to Lex's chest.

She pulls back, her body trembling, and she presses a kiss to Kara's cheek. Kara's sharp intake of breath slices deep, coils in Lena's belly. How can she resist Kara?

Why can't this be real?

The universe takes pity on her. An alien bursts into the room through a bubbling silver-blue portal. Energy arcs toward them, and Kara shifts them so it hits her back. They tumble in a heap to the ground, the wind knocked out of Lena's lungs. Her tablet goes skidding into the curtains. She gasps as pain briefly shoots up her back.

Kara sweeps Lena to her feet, and pushes her into the curtains. They stumble out of sight.

Kara rips off her glasses. Nanites ripples over clothes, and the supersuit -- pants edition -- blooms over her body. "I got this. Please, get to safety, Lena."

Alex and J'onn calmly give orders, while Kara -- as Supergirl -- bursts out from the curtains to tackle the other alien.

Lena snags her tablet and stumbles through the backstage, dazed. Her head spins from where she'd hit the floorboards. Her path takes her away from the clamor of fighting, and she tumbles into a side gallery. There a growing crowd, guided by Alex and several security guards, stream toward an exit sign.

Kelly reaches her side before Sam. "Are you all right?" Kelly looks her over with the practiced eye of a medic.

Lena nods, but when Sam wraps an arm around her as if sensing her unsteadiness. She lets herself lean against Sam. Lets her and Kelly guide her to safety. Behind her, the crashes shake the floor under them. The walls crack.

Alex orders the guards to continue evacuating, pauses only to kiss Kelly's cheek, and rushes into the other room.

This isn't real.

Whatever she has with Kara, it can't be real.

Kelly turns to her, and her question cuts through Lena's shock. "Where's Kara?"

Lena stares at Kelly.

"Wasn't she with you?" Kelly scans the crowd, worried.

Kelly doesn't know. The truth takes the breath from Lena's lungs. Kelly doesn't know.

Lena isn't the last after all.

Sam puts a hand on Kelly's shoulder. "I'm sure Alex reached her."

Kelly shook her head. "How? She was guiding the others out."

Lena watches herself say, "Kara is safe. She ducked backstage." A lie that protects Kara and only leaves Kelly further in the dark.

"I'll send security her way then. She needs to get out safely." Kelly turns and snags a guard.

Lena watches Kelly say, "Can you look for Kara Danvers? Last seen backstage." Watches and says nothing.

Sam's hand grips her shoulder. "You kept her secret," she whispered.

Sam doesn't know what Lena did with the tablet. Lena looks down at the tablet still in her hand. She could still do it. Andrea waits for her transfer at Catco.

Instead, she slams the tablet against the wall. It cracks the screen. Again and again she shatters it. The pieces tumble to the ground, only stopping when Sam grasps her hand and pulls the wrecked tablet from her grip.

Numerous people have turned to stare at her, but a guard breaks the sudden stillness with a sharp command, "Move now!"

Another boom shakes the side room, and the panicked whispering, the urgent rush begins again.

Sam takes her arm and leads her to the exit.

Kelly follows, and they tumble out of the museum into daylight. The chorus of the city saturates Lena's senses, and the words from Sam and Kelly are drowned in the rumble of engines, calls of birds, panicked cries from the crowd, the yelling of fervent guards.

Lena sees only the look of hope in Kara's eyes. She closes her eyes, sways, and the moment overtakes her. She faints.

***

Sam and Kelly sit on the lip of the ambulance, while Lena endures the examination of a paramedic. She says nothing, doesn't explain her faint, only deals with the tests.

The IV fluids chill her veins, but she doesn't refuse like normal.

Why did she lie to Kelly? Why did she keep Kara's secret?

Andrea will be livid. She has nothing to give Andrea now. The only evidence lay on the destroyed tablet.

Why? She has no answer to her own question.

Someone speaks to her, but the words dance around her. It takes several long minutes before the words collapse into meaning in her brain.

"-- possible shock." The paramedic speaks.

"I know." Sam sounds tired and worried. "But she's very much against hospitals. I can take her to her private doctor for those tests."

"I'm a certified medic," Kelly adds. "I can handle it if she won't go in." She gently puts a hand on Lena's shoulder. "Unless you are all right with --"

"No." The word comes with great difficulty. "I do not need the hospital." She feels as if she watches someone else speak with her lips.

Sam takes control and tucks her into her car.

Kelly rides with them, and they head to Lena's private doctor. Despite her worry for Alex, Kelly stays with Lena. Speaks to her gently. Offers kind words of support. Briefly texts Alex, but Lena sees the text and it contains nothing about Lena's situation.

"Thank you." Lena shivers and wraps the blanket tighter around herself. It's white, the fabric scratchy, but its from the ambulance so she doesn't expect any better. "I --" Lena can't finish the sentence.

She feels caught in a loop.

Why couldn't she do it?

The plan had been flawless. Perfect.

And yet, here she was, keeping Kara's secret. She was now an accomplice, and this time it was Kelly she kept in the dark. Unless Kelly too was an actress. No, she can't let that continue, can she? Can she truly do this to another?

Wouldn't keeping the lie only hurt Kelly like it hurts Lena now? No, she can't do that to Kelly.

She waits until the blood tests are taken, until after her doctor looks her over and orders to take a few days of rest, until Kelly and Sam lead her into her penthouse.

As soon as the door shuts, she turns to Kelly and asks the fateful question. "Did you know Kara is Supergirl?"

Kelly blinks and stares at Lena. "What?"

"Did you know too? Did everyone now but me?" She wants to be angry. To draw forth the pain into a blade of fury, but her words come out broken.

She wanted Kara to bleed and yet she'd failed.

Kelly shakes her head. "Are we talking about Kara Danvers? Her?"

Sam sighs. "I'm making us tea. Rest means laying down, Lena." She points to the sofa.

Lena frowns but dutifully sits down.

Kelly stands in the entryway still. "Alex never said," she says, finally.

"Kara only told me today," Lena admits. For that is the truth. "Right before my speech."

"I see." Kelly meets Lena's gaze. "I had no idea. I'm sorry, Lena. Are you all right? To learn something that jarring about your girlfriend? I -- I know how painful that can be."

Girlfriend? Lena stares at Kelly. Girlfriend?

Kelly thinks Kara and her are dating?

Lena's thoughts screech to a halt. "No," she says and lays down. She rests her arm over her eyes, and shuts out everyone. Whatever Kelly or Sam say, she ignores. She refuses food, refuses everything, and curls up under the shitty blanket.

***

Two days huddled on the sofa, and Lena feels like a truck has driven over her back again and again. Her sofa is perhaps the worst thing in the universe for sleeping, but Lena hadn't felt like getting up.

Sam stayed. Ruby joins them, and between the two of them, they coax Lena into eating and drinking some juice.

Sadly, no scotch. Sam hid it.

At one point, Kara shows up, but Sam turns her away. Alex comes by next, and Sam turns her away too.

"Aunt Lena," Ruby sits next to her as they watch a documentary on the wall television. "Are you feeling sick still?"

Lena looks at the thirteen year old. Is that what Sam told Ruby? In a sense, she feels like death warmed over, even if it's not a physical illness. The anger that had fueled her plan had collapsed into a malaise so deep that Lena wishes she could just cease existing.

"Yes." It's the most she's spoken in two days.

"We can make your favorite soup again. I've gotten better at it. Mom's been teaching me." Ruby attempts a smile. "And I made you something. Maybe it'll help you feel better?" Ruby digs into her backpack, that sits at her feet, and pulls out a framed drawing.

Lena takes it and tears overwhelm her.

It's a drawing of Sam, Ruby, and herself in the L-Corp office. The colors are vibrant, the expressions emotive, and it's beautiful. The last time someone had given her art was Kara.

"What do you think?" Ruby's words hold uncertainty.

Lena grasps Ruby's hand. "It's beautiful," she says, softly. "Thank you." The pre-teen grins, and the pain, for a little while, recedes. She lets Ruby pull her up, plays along with finding a home for the drawing, and together they hand it above the mock fireplace. The same place where her photo her herself and Kara had sat.

She doesn't deserve this kindness.

That evening, Sam convinces her to finally go to bed. "Your back will thank you."

Lena gifts her a faint smile. "Fine."

"And I'll handle L-Corp. Don't worry about a thing, okay?" Sam shakes a finger at her. "You need to rest. Doctor's orders you know."

Normally she'd scoff and dismiss it. Normally, she'd buckle up and go in anyway. Normally, she'd push aside her emotions and work herself to the bone.

But the malaise has sunk its fingers deep. Lena only nods, and slips under the covers to hide once more. For the rest of that day, she reviews events. Reviews emotions. Reviews what she can recall.

What is real?

Can she ever trust Kara again?

She loves her still, and it hurts so much. Hurts more than even her brother's death.

She's stained, her heart fractured, and she doesn't know what to do next.

If only she could cut the pain out of herself, to stop the dishonesty so no one else will suffer.

For the first time in days, she leaves her room and takes out her laptop. She types up a tentative plan, works out a simulation, and sends it to Hope, her AI.

Sam finds her deep in coding at the dining table. It's late, the sun long set, and shadows etch across her walls. The television hums with a game as Ruby plays in the other room.

The soup Sam sets down smells delicious, but Lena only glances at it.

"What are you working on?" Sam pulls up a chair.

"What if I could code a way to end suffering?" Lena asks. Her fingers dance across the keys as she looks over Hope's simulation data. It didn't go as she hoped, so she's altering the algorithms. "To make it so no one lies, no one hurts another."

"A code to end suffering," Sam repeats. "Lena, are you suggesting mind control?"

"As if." Lena frowns and glances at Sam. "People can still do what they want. This would just prevent them from hurting anyone."

"That's still mind control."

Frustrated, Lena slaps her laptop shut. "Then what do suggest I should do to end suffering?"

"I think you're asking the wrong question," Sam says gently.

"Oh?" Lena crosses her arms and glares at Sam. "And what should I be asking?"

"I don't know." Sam stirs the soup and pushes it toward Lena. "You should eat. Ruby says you haven't touched any food today."

"I'm fine, Sam."

"Are you? It's okay to not be okay, Lena. You don't have to be strong for this. That's why we're here. You can lean on us. You can be honest with us. We're not going anywhere."

Sam's earnest words sear into her, and Lena looks away, unable to bear the sincerity, the kindness.

"I'm a murderer, Sam," Lena murmurs. "And I'm running simulations that you claim is mind control. I think we should be honest. I'm a villain after all."

"No, you're hurting, and you being, well, you, you're trying to science your way out of the pain. But that's not how it works." Sam gently pushes a lock of hair from Lena's face. "How about this. Let's brainstorm new projects. The more ridiculous the higher the score. I bet I can beat you." She smiles. "I'll even wager money on this."

Lena stares at Sam. "Wagering money that you can beat me on generating ideas? Sam, you'll lose. I'm the queen of ideas."

"Oh? Then prove it." Sam stands and snags several pads of paper. She shoves one at Lena with a violet pen. "Get generating, Lena. Because you're about to be out..." Sam pauses then grins, "... out a hundred dollars."

"Two hundred that I'll leave you in the dust," Lena snaps, unable to resist the competition. She's the one with the two degrees, while Sam only had an accounting degree. How dare Sam claim she can generate better ideas than Lena herself.

"Two hundred and fifty I'll beat you in volume."

Lena growls and furiously starts to write. For the next four hours, she and Sam pit their wits against each other. Papers get taped to the wall, doors, and windows. Ruby cheers them on and makes popcorn as Sam and her shout more and more unhinged ideas.

When Lena suggests nanite-made clothes that instantly clean when dirtied, Sam shoots back an idea of nanite cloth competitions for the most dazzling display of fashion prowess.

Lena tacks to the wall an idea to build a massive portal to send ships to Mars or the moon for colonies and lessen the stress of overpopulation on the ecological systems of Earth.

Sam ups her with portals to other solar systems and documentaries to showcase the work of the mechanics and scientists.

Lena throws the suggestion of science competitions amongst other planets, and the winner gets a grant to build whatever they desire.

Sam suggests competitions to build the biggest train in the solar system, one so big that it fits the moon inside.

Lena counters with an engine that could power such a massive train.

Sam slaps onto the wall her idea of a massive party on such a train, to bring the wonders of pop and rock music to the corners of the galaxy.

By this point, Lena is laughing and tempted to tape her Sam's mouth shut. They've reached an impasse, for each idea Lena generates, Sam twists it to something silly, and even Ruby struggles to decide who wins the round.

"Fine!" Lena throws the last of her pad into the air. "We're tied."

"Are we?" Sam turns to her daughter. "Ruby, as our judge, what is your assessment?"

Ruby spends several minutes tapping her lip as if deep in thought. "I declare...." She pauses for dramatic effect, "A tie. Both your list of ideas are fantastic, and I kind of hope you do some of them Aunt Lena."

Lena looks at the mess that is now her penthouse, how so many unhinged schematics adorn the walls, the lines of ideas that overlap each other, and it's so against her Luthor upbringing that she laughs. Laughs and laughs at the absurdity of her situation.

She decides to keep the ideas where they are.

To remind herself that even in moments of great pain, nuggets of joy can still be found.

Though she will not be building a massive space train big enough for moons, just for all the celebrity popstars to host concerts for other solar systems. No matter how much Ruby and Sam beg.

She has some pride, thank you very much.

[slayfics]

so uhmm what if like muichiro x reader and like the reader keeps getting like hit on and like the reader is uncomfortable and muichiro like conforts the person who is hitting on the reader and drags her away?

Muichiro becomes upset when other Demon Slayers hit on you.

"Come on, just give me a chance," The demon slayer pressed further. A fellow demon slayer was pressing you to go out on a date with him.

“I'm flattered really, but I'm sorry I have to decline," You stated for the second time, beginning to feel uncomfortable now.

"I'll take you anywhere you want though!" He pleaded.

"She said no," an icy voice came from the distance as another approached. "Do you really need to hear it for the third time?" it asked.

You turned to see Muichiro who was now beside you staring daggers at the other demon slayer. If looks could kill this demon slayer would definitely be dead.

"I-I m-my ap-apologies!" The demon slayer yelped and quickly turned to run away knowing better than to quarrel with a Hashira. 

Muichiro let out a big sigh, "That's the second time this week a corp member has taken interest in you."

Your cheeks flushed at the Hashira's observation, "I suppose it is." 

"Why can't they just focus on their missions," Muichrio expressed with a flash of anger in his eyes.

"I'm sorry I don't mean to create complications on our missions," You said looking down at the floor.

"You don't need to apologize! It's them that need to keep focused on battling demons. I just wish there was a way I could help. I know how uncomfortable it makes you," Muichiro said, tilting your head to look up at him. "Please don't stare at the ground, you deserve to hold your head up high always."

"I suppose they would leave me alone if they thought I already had a boyfriend," you mused.

"Tell them that then."

"I'm a terrible liar though," you said, laughing nervously.

"So then don't lie," Muichiro said and turned his gaze to look past you, nervous to take in your expression.

"I'm sorry I don't understand?" You said tilting your head to the side and studying Muichiro’s expression. He suddenly had a nervousness to him that you hadn't seen before. It was a vast contrast to his usual stoic expression.

"Well, just don't lie when you say it... if you want.." He said, still looking past you, refusing to make eye contact. 

"Tokito- are you... asking to be my boyfriend?" You said fumbling the words on the way out. You must have been misunderstanding. There was no way the Hashira could be asking what you thought. 

Muichiro responded by nodding his head swiftly, too nervous to speak.

Overwhelmed by emotion you wrapped your arms around the Hashira, "Do you really mean that?" You asked, face buried in the warmth of his chest.

Muichiro wrapped his arms around you, squeezing you tight, "Yes, I would be honored." He spoke and you felt the words rumble in his chest. 

"The honor is mine," you said, barely fighting back tears of happiness. "Muichiro Tokito, my boyfriend... this doesn't feel real."

Muichiro gently kissed the top of your head, "Mhm, and you make sure to tell anyone who gives you a hard time again." 

Thank you for the request! I loved this idea! I hope you enjoy it~

Tags~

@aeolia18 @yandere-kou @sakurasunkiss @hashiroses @plvuii @snowmist-hashira

[abbysimsfun]

Sims In Bloom: Generation 2 Pt. 32 (A Handsome Detective Investigates the Hack)

Detective Conrad Gordon stood in Heather's front yard with his canine partner, Bernese mountain dog Gord.

She'd never seen him before, but Heather knew why he was here. She raced to put her son in his crib and get dressed.

Holding out his badge, he offered a respectful nod and a charming smile that made her nervous. "Detective Conrad Gordon, ma'am. Are you Heather Nesbitt?" She nodded, holding her breath. Just her luck; the hottest man she'd ever seen had come to arrest her. "I'm here to look into a recent hack of Landgraab Systems. Did you know anything about that?"

"I mean, I read about it in the news like everybody else," she said. Her voice wavered. She was a very bad liar.

He clipped his badge back to his belt. "Do you mind if I take a look around your computer? A tip to San Myshuno PD said you might know something more."

"That's silly."

She laughed with an anxious breath, letting him in to search her PC. She hoped she’d covered her tracks, but the detective had been a geek since he learned how to type. Just like Heather.

He knew where to look and exactly what he was looking for. She could tell, and she tried to look busy. Flustered, she put a pot of soup on the grill in the backyard (why Heather why?!), but this was exactly the sort of strange behaviour that made a guilty person look it.

He joined her outside with a sympathetic frown. "You're really savvy with computers," he observed. "A vet who's also an app developer who got her start as the best online Incredible Sports player the game's ever seen."

She blushed. "You know about that?"

"I did a bit of research before the drive out here, but I didn't need to be reminded of all the times ButtercupNesbeets and your Henford Hens All-Stars kicked my butt online in high school."

"You played?"

"Not as well as you. But why the jump from gaming to hacking?"

The truth flooded out of her. "Malcolm Landgraab stole my app code, but I use those royalties to raise our son. And if Landgraab Corp's nothing but shady deals and bad business, I'm worried for my clinic. Besides, the news report said it barely cost the Landgraabs a thing!"

"It's still illegal, Miss Nesbitt."

"Mama mama!" Ash called for her from beyond the patio door, interrupting her rambling explanation. She pulled the pot of soup from the stove and shut off the grill, heading inside to lift her son from his crib.

"Cute kid," said the detective. Ash wriggled from his mother's anxious grasp and Conrad reached out to steady him. "Is the second one Malcolm Landgraab's, too?"

"No, thank the Watcher. I'm a surrogate for my best friends, and I guess I've been a bit hormonal. I was frustrated, but I didn't do it to steal a bunch of data and I don't plan to do it again. I just wanted to get back at my ex. It was stupid."

Heavily pregnant with a child for friends who couldn’t expand their family without her help, Conrad could sympathize with Heather's motives. Everyone in Simlandia knew the Landgraabs only cared about enriching themselves, but Heather was a single mom who saved the lives of helpless animals.

His dog took a liking to her instantly. Gord always knew a bad egg when he saw one, and Conrad could usually trust his canine's instincts better than his own.

"Is this the part where I'm supposed to get arrested? Should I call my parents to come get my son?"

The handsome young detective didn’t have the heart to bring her in. "I didn't record your confession because you said you've felt emotional lately. I don't like to take a confession under duress, so I guess the investigation has to continue. If the Landgraabs insist on pressing charges, you'll probably hear from me again. For now, I should head back, file a report, and let you get back to your son."

He didn't have a plan, but rather than stop by the station when he returned to the city, Conrad turned onto the overpass over the bridge and parked his cruiser Uptown... ->

<- Previous Chapter | Gen 2 Start | Gen 1 Summary | Gen 1 Start

WCIF Conrad Gordon? I used this sim by lemariiia from the Sims 4 Gallery, and changed his hair and beard to be a little less old fashioned. I changed his last name because I felt like it (it was Sampson IIRC), but otherwise everything else is the same. The dog I gave him myself because I love this breed.

Also we totally don't have to play coy and act like that's not the sim in my userpic! 😂 After I called time on the Everett/Heather flirtation because I fell too hard for Spencer and didn't want to do that to her anymore, I needed to pivot because there's still no gen 3 heir! I also need to make Heather do programming things to keep the Techie lifestyle (even though she decided years ago she doesn't even like the skill), so I planned the hack and the investigation, searched the gallery for five 'detective' sims, and then my friend Kenzie picked Conrad based on looks and traits.

Spoiler alert but I hope you guys love him because Kenzie picked so well!

[hangesdarling]

sharpen your knife — h. zoë

PAIRING. Hange Zoë x fem!reader

SYNOPSIS. The Survey Corps Squad Leader needs information from you.

CONTENT. 18+, MDNI, knife play, make-out session, mild choking, finger sucking, fingering

WORD COUNT. 1.1k

A/N. I don't have a knife kink, and yes, I'm a liar.

With the curtains drawn, the morning light spilled over to where you lay down, warming up the sheets from a previously frosty night. You rolled into your stomach, rubbing your eyes to get a good look at the figure on the edge of the bed. Hange. At least they have the courtesy to say their name before having you raw in their bed. 

Hange was focused on sharpening their knife with much precision and efficiency, you couldn't help but admire how their brows scrunched up as they did so. You reached for their blouse crumpled near the bed and fitted it to your body, buttoning the top so it wouldn't drape over you that much. Hange's back remained turned as they sharpened their knife but, of course, they noticed you crawling on the bed to reach them. They didn't expect a hug from behind, however. Maybe a blunt object would be much more reasonable since they abducted you for information, after all. 

Your hands traced tiny hearts on their chest before pulling away and laying your head on their lap. One finger hooked over the bridge of their glasses as you tugged it off their face. 

"Your glasses are filthy," you muttered as you wiped the lenses on your blouse. 

Hange eyed you with a hint of curiosity, even disbelief. You pushed their glasses back to their nose as they spoke, "How are you taking this lightly? I almost tortured you for information."

"Oh, but you didn't, Squad Leader..." you teased them, climbing on their lap. "You did something else entirely and managed to make me talk..."

Your lips hovered over their neck. "You're so clever... It makes you so attractive."

"You can't be seducing me like that if you're not going to give me more information," they whispered, lips teasing your ear. 

You found their hand holding the knife and gently took it between your hands, you kissed their fingers holding the knife and said, "That can be negotiated. After all, I still  have plenty to tell you."

You caught the smirk on their lips to which you responded, "But I want you to use your knife on me again. Alright, Squad Leader?"

Hange was quick to push you back to the bed, the cold blade of their knife pressed against your throat. They planted their lips on yours, moving in a way that leaves you wanting more. 

"I think you better start talking now." It sounded like a command but the lust on their eyes took you in, their mind wandering to every inch of you they could kiss. Their blade traced over your stomach, upwards until the sharp tip grazed to the single button holding your blouse. In one swift moment, their blade went past the stitch, popping the button off your blouse. Their actions did nothing but keep you in a constant state of arousal, their finger gently squeezing the side of your neck as their other hand guided the knife on your inner thighs. It didn't take long to get you to talk, you spilled the information they needed with a blade pressed on your throat, their fingers edging you— urging you to beg.

Your legs wrapped around Hange's waist pulling them close despite the peril of a sharp blade against you.

"Hange, I already told you everything. Please touch me now..." You whined, clinging onto them, kissing the tip of their fingers.

"Hmm, really...?" A hint of suspicion rose in their voice as they teased you. 

"Mhm... maybe not everything yet but I'm willing to..." Your hand traveled over their pants, the only piece of clothing they put on after what you did last night. 

"You're such a tease for a sheltered girl," their voice was husky as they pinned down your hands to prevent you from teasing them any further. "You must be repressed, hm?"

Hange smirked as you nodded a hand lifting your chin so your eyes met theirs. Their finger teased your lower lip, spreading the slick over. They sensed how needy you had become as your mouth teased their fingers, sucking on the length. 

"That's good, get it wet for me," they breathed, pushing their digits to the hilt so you could suck them better. You squeezed their fingers on your mouth, letting it slide over to the length of your tongue. 

"Good girl," Hange praised you, pulling their slick fingers off your mouth, and replacing it with their lips. They pressed a deep lustful kiss and didn't break off until their fingers found a steady rhythm on your insides. Hange found pleasure in how much you managed to suppress your moans, even biting on them whenever you had to. Their knife gently pricked your skin as they were careful not to make you bleed too much which they found difficult as your body was eagerly leaning onto them. Hange pumped into you faster, the wet sounds of your cunt reaching your ears. Hange's pace was relentless, eager to make you fall apart by their touch, and left the sheets soaked beneath you. 

The way they pressed your inner thighs for further access made you inhale sharply, the coil in your stomach tightening, and every thought that ran through your head screamed how much you wanted this.

"Shhh..." Hange let go of their knife and clamped a hand over your mouth. The footsteps outside the door grew, and a hesitant voice resounded from the other side. It was one of the recruits, and she told Hange that what their order had been delivered was right outside the door. It was then followed by a soft thud from outside the door, maybe the sound of a box. Hange thanked the cadet and asked her to go in such a gentle voice as if you weren't coming on their fingers around that minute. 

Hange kissed down your thighs, easing you from your orgasm. They peppered you with kisses, easing and rubbing on your body as they let you cling to them. "There, there, sweetheart. You did so good."

You didn't know if it was the sexual experience between the both of you or how much information you told them during your time, but you happily accepted their kisses anyway. Your forehead rested against theirs, breathing heavily against their body. 

"What was outside the door, though? The cadet left something, right?" you suddenly mused over, your body still pressed onto Hange as you sat up.

"Oh yeah, right. Before I forgot," Hange then got up and opened the door, pulling a box after them. They then shoved it at the foot of the bed and said, "Just some torture devices. In case you refused to talk."

That only made you laugh as they added,  But thank heavens, you folded easily. In both ways, should I say?"

You peeked over the box and glimpsed a whip and pair of handcuffs which you took in your hands before turning to them, "Seriously?" 

Hange chuckled as they grabbed your waist before pulling you back to bed again. This time around, they're willing to hear different information from you. 

likes, reblogs, and comments are appreciated, sweethearts <3

[justinspoliticalcorner]

Brian Beutler at OffMessage:

Six years ago, White House Press Secretary Sarah Huckabee Sanders attended a dinner at a Virginia restaurant called the Red Hen. By 2018 Sanders had established herself in politics as an accomplished liar and an accomplice to an administration that was in the midst of orphaning migrant children, using cruelty as a deterrent. Her presence perturbed the staff, who alerted the owner, who in turn politely asked Sanders to leave and comped her companions for the food and drink they’d already been served.  Nobody heaped abuse on Sanders. So far as we know, nobody filmed the confrontation, and if anyone did, it never found its way to the internet, which would’ve compounded Sanders’s embarrassment. Democratic leaders in Congress did not applaud the Red Hen. Neither did Barack Obama or Joe Biden. It’s likely that the whole episode would’ve been forgotten quietly, lost to the mists of time, had Sanders not exploited it herself to whip up right-wing outrage and get revenge.  [...]

Some people no doubt heard about the story from Sanders’ feed directly, and from Trump-loyal Twitter users who passed along her recounting. But that’s not the only conceivable way people with light or non-existent media footprints might have learned about what happened at the restaurant. If influential mainstream news figures treat something as important, others follow. Their individual audiences may be modest, but they are quite large in aggregate, and their cultural influence is vast. What a political media herd decides to pursue will diffuse through society, becoming received knowledge even of people who don’t take much interest in politics. What goes viral on social media or YouTube or around the water cooler is not in any way disconnected from what people in the journalism industry focus on as real news. Likewise, the front page of the New York Times is not hermetically sealed from non-traditional media.  How did low-information swing-voters who never read the New York Times learn about Hillary Clinton’s emails? About Hunter Biden’s laptop? It’s clearly not all coming from right-wing content creators.  [...]

Consider an analogy to the differences between progressive political media and right-wing political media. The latter is much larger, and more consolidated. There are outlets and creators of all shapes and sizes on the right, but there’s also Fox News. A single email from the News Corp C-suite can change the message blaring into millions of households, gyms, and offices that have televisions tuned to Fox News. And from there, it will be amplified further by lawmakers, pro-Trump influencers, talk radio hosts, the hosts other right-wing cable news channels, and maybe, eventually, more mainstream sources. 

Progressive media has no mechanism like this. It is highly fractured and balkanized by issue-area. Even if the audiences for progressive and right-wing media were of similar size, it would be difficult if not impossible for anyone to feed the progressive audience talking points or marching orders a small handful of ideas to focus on.  Directly influencing the vibe on social media, where millions of users compete for eyeballs and ear canals, is similarly daunting. Even the social media companies that aren’t run by right-wing fanatics have throttled professional political news, and the political news that does break through is almost all framed to get people’s hackles up. Tens of thousands of atomized liberals can not counteract these effects. The Biden campaign could in theory stand up a troll army to post on-message content all day, but there’s likely a reason it has not. By contrast, influencing the handful of people who control the editorial consensus in the news industry is much simpler. Democrats don’t have a Fox News, at least not yet, and they don’t control the New York Times. But they can exert influence over mainstream news, and thus what diffuses through the culture, in two ways: 1) by mounting sustained media criticism; 2) by getting a handle on the kinds of things elite journalists understand to be newsworthy—novelty, conflict, scandal—and making or uncovering more of those things. 

Brian Beutler’s Off Message Substack hits at the mainstream media’s role in amplifying bad-faith right-wing outrage-bait.

The conservative media apparatus is highly organized, while the progressive media apparatus is much more balkanized, explained by this quote: “Progressive media has no mechanism like this. It is highly fractured and balkanized by issue-area.”

[agentbilliard]

saint senyoyi, better known as agent biliard has been with cerberus corp as an eo since 2023 and is LEVEL III. BEING CRUSHED BY A VENDING MACHINE has gifted them telekinesis, though PHYSICAL INFLUENCE WEAKENING WITH DISTANCE, DISTRACTIONS, AND LARGER WEIGHTS has also been noted. when they aren’t protecting the tri-state area, they are fond of playing rounds of fischer random by his lonesome and are never seen without A LEATHERBOUND JOURNAL. civilians think they are meticulous & benevolent, but some of the other agents see them as NEUROTIC & COWARDLY. cerberus corp should consider the fact that their last mission status was successful, although unsuccessfully cleaning up local garbage might have been more impressive when giving out the next one.

001.  GENERAL

name  saint senyoyi

nicknames  agent billiard, vender bender, any saint under the canonized sun courtesy of agent jester

age  thirty-four

date of birth  march 9, 1989

zodiac  answer

place of birth  harefield, hillingdon, london

current residence  brooklyn, new york city, new york

gender  cis man

pronouns  he/him

orientation  bisexual, biromantic

occupations  level iii agent at cerberus corp, mathematics teacher and head custodian at brooklyn academy of ostentatiously pubescent pricks

faceclaim  daniel kaluuya

height  5’8

tattoos  none (he does, however, have the divine patience and dearth of dignity required to doodle and calculate all over his forearms daily)

piercings  none (he does, however, have a fake nose ring from his stint in a school-sponsored production of annie wherein mr warbucks and his servants made liberal yet incorrect use of african-american vernacular english to teach middle schoolers about the cold war)

distinguishing features  there are few features of saint’s corporeal form that function as evidence of him being a good person, but at a minimum he has good grooming. his collars are pressed to perfection, his trousers are steamed to sublimity, his hair both facial and scalp-al is combed and clipped as much as possible. nonetheless, a good portion of his shirts are stained with presumably non-toxic paint or crumbs of a graphite muffin. the backs of his blazers are often adorned with sticky notes with adorable titles such as ‘YOUNGEST SENIOR CITIZEN’ and ‘NOBODY LIKES MATH’ and ‘MY FAVE FUNCTION IS =3’ from his students. what can he say? he’s sentimental to a fault. and far too broke to go to the laundromat every week.

positive traits  altruistic, diligent, humble, observant, organized, polite, pragmatic

negative traits  craven, cynical, deceitful, insecure, perfectionistic, pessimistic, unyielding

labels / tropes  absent-minded professor, bad liar, beware the quiet ones, stern teacher, the fettered

likes  alphabetical lists, dish washing, libraries, origami (he cannot do it whatsoever), pranks (if they’re done right), summer, students at brooklyn academy of ostentatiously pubescent pricks (at least they’re funny pricks)

dislikes  art museums, astronomy girlies (if he learns that he has pisces energy one more time he will lose it), drinking (hypocritical), level iii agents, living conditions in nyc (no relation to previous item), rollercoasters, the subway

fears  blood, cockroaches, crowds, death, disappointing his family, his family period, smooth peanut butter, snakes, spiders, vending machines

hobbies  assigning homework, billiards (surprising who?), playing chess, solving crosswords, scrabble, sudoku — only the coolest activities for him, obviously

habits  bites pencils when deep in thought, cracks back against chairs, gestures to whiteboards that simply don’t exist, writes with said pencils on imaginary paper

002.  EXTRA ORDINARY

near death experience…  

“you two! i swear on my non-denominational god that i am not forcing you to believe in, if i see you trying to axe deodorant the animals into making a little baby leopard in front of you, i’m calling your mums and telling them to pick you up this instant.”

the two snicker in response. saint isn’t sure how to respond if not with a wave of his hand, a pinch of his brow, a tour-guide-induced plug of his ear for when half his salary goes to dealing with the legal repercussions of incident number graham. this is his first field trip sitting in as a supervisor, and between the bloody boring itinerary his class has been breaking for the past few million hours and the boorish colleague he’s been paired up with he reckons that it will be his last. good riddance, he will say. good riddance, the class will say. really, the people of new york pay high enough taxes for their final destination to be more than a borough away. yet, here he stands in the densest stench he’s known since ap calculus was moved to seventh period.

this is not what he signed up for. you know what he said, when teachers asked what superpower he wanted to have? his voice would crack and his face would be lightning-split open into a barely-toothed grin and he would say he wanted to be a teacher because wow! they did so much for so little! and the teacher’s voice would crack and their face would be thundering with the truth and they would move on with their days because saint senyoyi had parents who hated him and peers who tolerated him and the guidance counsellor could deal with all that when she got back from happy hour.

he knows what he wants. something cold to drink. stupid brooklyn uniforms have gotten dark enough to hide period stains but continue displaying the effects axe deodorant has on his physiology with pure crystal. he excuses himself temporarily, tells the tour guide he’s off to the bathroom and that all the kids have do not resuscitates somewhere between their baggy pockets and knockoff gucci fanny packs, and gets to a vending machine. it’s bad, he knows, to continue to support capitalism and pollution after all the public service announcements from the lions of lying-about-admissions-policies colleges but it’s all he can afford and all that he wants and you know what superpower he did not wish for? guilt tripping. it’s a part of the faculty welcome package, but he’s never liked gifts.

no diet options. not like he cares. he hasn’t had much time to go to the gym lately. he just needs energy. a temporary fix.

the vending machine, he finds on a note far too small to be in compliance with the the occupational safety and health administration’s latest spicy issue, is temporarily unserviceable. not like he cares. he’s already annihilated the rules by leaving his class to their own devices, shiny and beepy and blackmail-filled as they are. this is just the narcotizing nightcap on the mushroom cloud. he slips a coin through the slot and waits.

and waits.

and waits.

and waits.

bloody hell. tommy j’s probably got his arse stuck between an alligator and a hard place by now, assuming sophie m’s greasy ipad hasn’t liquidated underneath the september sun. and assuming they haven’t broken up again, which is a flimsy variable by itself considering the seating arrangement’s got tommy j next to jason m and in front of jayson w and the three of them were exchanging notes yesterday like their lives depended on it. saint knocks on the glass. his parents never bothered to knock, but his sister had in the tune of an old ugandan choir song about welcoming and stars, so he does the same. welcome, cold coca-cola into his hands. welcome, please.

next he’s seeing stars. this is getting ridiculous. the machine is burping, whirring, choking, doing what saint should be doing as he details how the penguin populace has plummeted because of plastic straws and whatnot. he groans. only one thing left to do. he shakes.

and shakes.

and shakes.

and shakes.

next he’s seeing stars and blood and bone and you’re going to be a star saint because sophie m is taking a video of the entire ordeal as russell p drops his forged permission slip between sobs call 911 what’s the british version of 911 he’s english jayson same thing crapface pay attention in geology that’s geography jayson CALL 911 SCREAM CRY IS IT LUNCH IS HE DEAD SCREAM CRY I’M GETTING A REFUND CALL 911. there is glass everywhere. the ringing in his head is louder than the cries, the screams. pain is piercing yet heavy, paperwork that acts like a cactus to his poor eyes. that’s what he’s going to die as? the idiot who got crushed under a vending machine? no. he just needs to move. get out of the geysers and into a hospital that won’t charge him several billion dollars to get in.

he just needs to move.

he is not going to die before getting his one dollar bonus from the state exams.

SAINTS DO NOT DIE where did you come from father ABSOLUTE DISSOLUTION an inch towards the snake enclosure could save me SAVE YOURSELF swimming around nana’s lake house i wonder if i would taste good right now i wonder if a hot emt will try and save me SAVE YOURSELF you taught me how to swim by throwing me in the lake SAVE YOURSELF

he comes back with a massive headache, three exams to grade, and the power to move things with his mind. and a viral remix of his death, but he still hasn’t watched that in full. he’s told the chorus is incredibly vulgar.

power…  

“i wasn’t cheating!”

saint is making a scene for the first time since the tender age of five years old for bragging rights and a lukewarm beer. he hasn’t been accused of cheating since his preliminary foray into the cutthroat world of primary school mathletes, and that situation had the excuse of being started by a bespectacled potato sack no older than five years old herself. he’s kicked out for a myriad of reasons, none of which he believes are based on truth: he had fixed the game, he had fixed the bets, he had fixed his life and therefore had no business being with his friends. honestly? he thinks they just can’t look at him the same after seeing his broken body in a bed of glass, and he can’t blame them for that. he blames them for what happens, next, though.

he retreats to his apartment in shame, exile. daedalus has lost his son, he has lost his place on the top ten trivia masters. then he learns that he can fix everything in his apartment with nothing more than a mathematical buttload of attention and his mind. which, yeah, sounds boring when he puts it like that, but it’s telekinesis. objects already within arm’s reach require little to no effort to move towards him, while materials any farther than that require great concentration and a clear view to be moved. saint and telekinesis have a relationship comparable to a coparenting strategy on the verge of collapse, and none of it is particularly empowering. if he desires to take control of a stack of papers he has to focus on those papers, get an unobstructed path to those papers, stare at those papers for a solid few seconds wherein a hostile could stab him in the back. if he decides that he does not want to touch those papers, they have about a 50-50 chance of coming at him in an effortless tornado anyhow. it makes thinking inconvenient, which makes his life inconvenient. still, they’re something. he can lift roughly as much as he can with his arms, which is around the hundred-fifty pound mark with oscar-worthy thanks to a premium gym membership he passive-aggressively received from his mother some years back, although he has limits. many of them, in fact.

drawbacks / vulnerabilities…  

“shitterdoodle cookies.”

saint is on the same ground level of pathetic as his choice in curse words, for someone who has access to the school twitter account and all the bots that spam it for engagement. the heavier the object, the harder it is to move in manners that do not sound like nails on a chalkboard. the more he uses his ability, the more he is exhausted, liable to ramble about sensitive industry secrets or his feelings. neither will stop, neither will leave the conversational partner with any semblance of sanity. he has to be careful with how long he spends looking at anything, too, lest he drag some family heirloom other than his own through new york mud. also, everything he moves seems to really like his face. his pockets are nothing but bandaid collections by now.

cerberus corp…  

“and i am auditioning for the part of…”

that’s not quite right, is it? he clears his throat. a decade of teaching under his overly tight belt and there persists a lump in his throat whenever it must open. saint’s feelings on cerberus corp are complicated in the way that proving 1 + 1 = 2 is complicated. it’s a fact of life to most, easy to accept for some, but it’s also something that gets the smart alecks of the yearbook salivating and thus something he does not want to be involved in. well, strike that out and rewrite it in the past tense, his teachers would demand, for he now desires a status in american society that does not amount to school/fast food slander scene packs or graves with no return policy. his audition video was enough to get him invited for an in-person appointment, but he suspects that the possibility of him using lights and strings to get the effect of telekinesis pulled along a hundred-pound weight in comparison to his ounce of charisma.

he gets accepted, anyways, by some miracle. maybe it’s merely a seasonal investment in the marketability of a man who can soon hurl snowballs at unprecedented heights and velocities if he manages to concentrate. concentration is harder these days, however, and that descriptor of his career prospects comes with a near-overdose of pressure. he’s been with cerberus for roughly a month now, though the days blur with the hustle and bustle of extraordinarily tedious tasks assigned by the big bosses. saint is a worker bee to his core, though, and understands ranks, roles, and professional hierarchies better than breathing, so he questions nothing. as long as management of his powers is a possibility, the probability of him becoming a manger who has to do zero practical saving is above zero.

saint isn’t the best partner to have around, per se. his abilities are useful, but his personality isn’t much of an asset unless the mission involves stationary store espionage, and his desperation for a guide to everything is everlasting. nonetheless, he is nothing if not nice and accommodating to those he respects (ie everyone except agent jester. dishes can only go unwashed for so many days before his conscience is wiped clean of sanitary scruples) and aims for perfection. which isn’t the best philosophy to have around, per se, but at least he’ll do all the paperwork for you with zero prompting.

codename…  

“vender bender? i would rather die again than be called that for the rest of my life.”

it’s a joke, but saint’s never been proficient with making those. his comedy is a dependent variable, a misshapen animal lump coagulating to the back of circumstances that prove truth is stranger than fiction. proof: here, now, as his branding is being discussed in a manner far too formal for the setting they find themselves in. he has no idea how he got here, honestly. how he got with cerberus, how his card didn’t turn red at the door of the bar. he supposes it’s something like the pythagorean theorem, if the hypotenuse was meant to be the shortest side. he’s not the shortest level iii agent, thank the non-denominational god that he is not forcing anyone to believe in, but there is a nagging feeling that he does not belong, that however many lives he saves he will always be the guy stuck under the vending machine traumatising upwards of infinity children.

he’ll stick with something short and sweet, thank you very much. occam’s razor has never cut murphy’s law while shaving at three in the morning. it is time to show the party how real english billiards is played. he’s set up his own cushions at the left and right ends, shown off his custom snooker spectacles, let everyone know what a genius he is. this is his element, the art of arithmetic gambling. one shot and he’s set for the night, getting his drinks paid by everyone in a fifteen foot radius.

he takes the shot and gets his nose broken by the ball going straight to the hard, wooden edge and bouncing straight to his hard, idiotic face.

agent billiard. that’s a joke for the ages. it’s short, sweet, and a math pun. saint hates puns. cerberus loves the name. saint then decides he loves it, too, changing his social media handles accordingly.

(this is me begging for someone to have their agent suggest billiard after seeing saint smack himself in the face with a cue stick pls and thank you)

003.  EXTRA

tl;dr of backstory while i make it all nice and fancy: the middling middle child of a blackjack dealer for one of the most corrupt casinos in london and a professional sports gambler, saint has always wanted to help people. he’s just never liked people. he’s always liked math, though, and upon moving to the us of a for the sake of his older sister’s career in medicine, he made sure that, if he was to be ignored by his beloved parents, he would be ignored and rich. flash forward to getting his first job at his alma mater which has improved in much the same way that milk improves by growing curds and the lowest college admissions rate in the city, getting crushed by a vending machine, getting kicked out of his favourite bar for cheating at billiards with superpowers, and getting his cool agent nickname his cool agent roomie and his uncool first few missions; if you need a reluctant ass-kicker/incredible ass-kisser/high school math tutor, this is your guy. his mission suit is 100% an actual suit. it doesn’t look cool whatsoever tho it’s the same getup he got into for seventh grade winter formal <3 also he's a faithful reddit user. thats his biggest character flaw i think but he's addicted to r/billiards and does not intend on quitting ever

wanted connections page here!!

[disco-elysium-via-polls]

2. "I walked the land telling whores and liars of the End to come. There are 9,855 days remaining."

KIM KITSURAGI - "Cool. I'm glad you joined us. Not a lot of money in doomcrying... Let's move on, shall we?"

This next row -- the one that wraps all the way around -- is your number of closed cases. *Closed* is good. It means finished. You've got, let's see…"

"Wow, more than 200!"

"Is that a lot?"

"I would have thought there'd be more."

KIM KITSURAGI - "It's *quite* a lot, even for someone who's been on the force for nearly two decades. Usually clearing more than 10 cases a year puts you in the 90th percentile of *all* RCM officers..."

"See, Kim? I *told* you I was a superstar cop!"

"I used to be good. That's some solace I guess. What's the last number?"

"I don't think I can ever *re-become* this person... What's the last number?"

KIM KITSURAGI - "Call it what you want. You were a valuable member of your precinct. Now, let's look at the last row..."

"Right. Those are your confirmed kills. You've got precisely *three* perforations there."

"So I'm a killer..."

"I was expecting a higher number, honestly."

"That's not... too many."

KIM KITSURAGI - "For an RCM officer -- especially Precinct 41, which is in the Jamrock Quarter -- it's rather... tame. I mean that in a good way."

ESPRIT DE CORPS [Challenging: Success] - "What's it feel like to kill a man, Mr. McCoy?" a young woman asks the man across the desk from her...

Honestly, babe," says John McCoy, crossing his ankles over said desk, "I don't feel anything anymore. It's just like brushing my teeth -- I do it once or twice a week and don't really think about it." There's no trace of guilt in his voice.

KIM KITSURAGI - "There are certain officers who treat their kills like some kind of ghoulish game. If they do happen to *solve* a case it's usually by accident." It's obvious the lieutenant doesn't think very highly of these officers...

"But it seems as though you are, or at least *were*, one of the good ones. So we have that to be thankful for."

"Have you ever killed anyone, Kim?"

"How do you handle the strain?"

"Thanks for this." (Conclude.)

KIM KITSURAGI - "Yes," he says, declining to elaborate.

EMPATHY [Medium: Success] - It's not a problem for him to state it, however.

2. "How do you handle the strain?"

KIM KITSURAGI - "Everyone has their own method of coping, some more effective, or self-destructive, than others..." He gives you a meaningful look.

"Personally, I find it helps to keep up a few hobbies."

"Like what?"

"Maybe I should find a hobby?"

"Hobbies are lame."

KIM KITSURAGI - "Oh, this and that. Let's not get into it now."

"Maybe I should find a hobby?"

KIM KITSURAGI - Why not gardening? You've already got the gloves..." He points to your yellow gardening gloves.

Oh yeah, we're still wearing those.

ESPRIT DE CORPS [Medium: Success] - It's meant in earnest. Please don't mistake it for a jab.

3. "Thanks for this." (Conclude.)

KIM KITSURAGI - The lieutenant nods.

3. "Okay, let's go." [Put the ledger away.]

KIM KITSURAGI - "Right. I'll go turn off the lights..." He presses a remote control on the key.

Task complete: Read the watermarks

+10 XP

TUTORIAL AGENT - You can now see your statistics on your JOURNAL page -- to the right of the task description.

Here are our statistics:

Superstar Cop - 4 Apocalypse Cop - 1 Sorry Cop - 6 Boring Cop - 0

Communism - 13 Fascist - 2 Ultraliberal - 0 Moralist - 1

Good cop/Bad cop - 6 Honour - 1

People killed - 3 Cases solved - 216 Years in Service - 18

[mitchipedia]

The rise and fall of the personal jetpack

Jetpacks were ubiquitous in midcentury pop culture, including James Bond, the Jetsons and Gilligan’s Island. “… it felt like a matter of time before people could ride a jetpack to work.” But we never got personal jetpacks. This delightful episode of the 99% Invisible podcast looks at the history of the jetpack—how it came to be developed after World War II, how it became a pop culture phenom, and why it flopped. As always, the website has great images to accompany the podcast. 99percentinvisible.org

Also: Cory Doctorow—You were promised a jetpack by liars. pluralistic.net

The jetpack—technically a rocket belt—was developed by Wendell Moore at Bell Aircraft Corp. in the 1960s.

Moore was a consummate showman, which is to say, a bullshitter. He was forever telling the press that his jetpacks would be on everyone’s back in one to two years, and he got an impressionable young man, Bill Suitor, to stage showy public demonstrations of the rocket belt. If you ever saw a video of a brave rocketeer piloting a jetpack, it was almost certainly Suitor. Suitor was Connery’s stunt-double in Thunderball, and it was he who flew the rocket belt around Sleeping Beauty castle.

Suitor’s interview … for the podcast is delightful. Suitor is a hilarious, profane old airman who led an extraordinary life and tells stories with expert timing, busting out great phrases like “a surprise is a fart with a lump in it.”

But what’s most striking about the tale of the Bell rocket belt is the shape of the deception that Moore and Bell pulled off. By conspicuously failing to mention the rocket belt’s limitations, and by callously risking Suitor’s life over and over again, they were able to create the impression that jetpacks were everywhere, and that they were trembling on the verge of widespread, popular adoption.

What’s more, they played a double game: all the public enthusiasm they manufactured with their carefully stage-managed, canned demos was designed to help them win more defense contracts to keep their dream alive. Ultimately, Uncle Sucker declined to continue funding their boondoggle, and the demos petered out, and the “promise” of a jetpack was broken.

As I listened to the 99 Percent Invisible episode, I was struck by the familiarity of this shuck: this is exactly what the self-driving car bros did over the past decade to convince us all that the human driver was already obsolete. The playbook was nearly identical, right down to the shameless huckster insisting that “full self-driving is one to two years away” every year for a decade:

Cory also sees similar scams in hype about robots and AI.

I’m far less skeptical about AI than Cory is. Generative AI in particular. I use GenAI several times a week, and find it helpful. Still, I wave off claims that GenAI is on the verge of superhuman intelligence. Lesser claims, that GenAI will be as transformative as the smartphone or Internet, are more credible. But I’ll believe that when I see it.

I asked ChatGPT to summarize the 99% Invisible podcast episode about jetpacks, and it summarized the wrong episode. When I pointed it to the right episode, the summary it delivered was bland and useless. ChatGPT gets it spectacularly wrong like that nearly as often as it gets it right.

[beardedmrbean]

I was told early in my career that lying to reporters was the unforgivable sin. Spin was accepted and expected, but lying was a career ender. Lie to a reporter and not only would that reporter never trust you again but would ensure his fellow scribes knew of the transgression and would avoid you as a source.

Case in point: As director of Public Affairs at the U.S. Department of Justice in February 2004, I was routinely asked by reporters if the department had opened an investigation into the leak of CIA agent Valerie Plame’s identity. On Friday, Feb. 6, I informed them that no investigation was open, only to learn the criminal division had opened one late that night without notifying anyone. Even the attorney general’s office was caught unaware.

When the story about the investigation was leaked and broke Tuesday morning, I arrived at my office to a crowd of angry reporters led by USA Today’s Toni Loci, who berated me with a barrage of four-letter words which were enthusiastically endorsed by her colleagues. And then she branded me a bleeping liar.

When she finished and the grumbling subsided, I explained the timeline and that I hadn’t lied, and the career attorney who launched the investigation vouched for me. I was forgiven, but it’s not an experience anyone on either end of the government-media relationship wants to experience. At least that’s what I thought.

I have defended reporters my entire career because I believed an adversarial press was important to accountability and transparency – that an adversarial press was this republic’s last line of defense against government tyranny. I’d always considered myself a middleman, the conduit of information from the people’s government to the free press who deliver it to the American people – the rightful owners of that information. I’ve even filed amicus briefs in federal court defending the right of reporters to protect their sources.

A lot about journalism has changed in 20 years, and perhaps I was naïve, but what should not have changed is the fundamental principle that reporters should expect sources to tell the truth and should impose severe penalties when sources violate that principle. And yet here we are.

How else can the press explain their ongoing relationships and use of intelligence officials as named sources in their reporting who flat out lied about Hunter Biden’s laptop bearing the “classic hallmarks” of a Russian disinformation campaign? Former CIA Director Michael Morel lied. Former CIA Director James Brennan lied. Former Director of National Intelligence James Clapper lied.

These liars lied to the press to prop up the political campaign of Joe Biden. These former intelligence chiefs lied to the press fully expecting reporters would lie to the American people. Yet these liars still hold lucrative gigs on the cable networks as expert commentators, are regularly used as on-the-record, and no doubt off-the-record, sources to the entire cadre of Beltway journalists. These liars will frequent the White House Correspondents Dinner and all the exclusive cocktail parties this weekend hosted by news organizations.

They are liars, the reporters know that they were deceived by them and … nothing has changed.  

How has this happened that the national press corps is now slavishly willing to share misinformation and false information? It’s not the first time or perhaps even the worst example. After all, almost a century later, the New York Times still has not fully rejected its relationship with Walter Duranty, the Pulitzer Prize-winning Moscow correspondent whose stories in the Times covered up the great Russian famine and propped up Josef Stalin and his slaughter of millions of his citizens.

Yet, even today, as new revelations about the Biden laptop and efforts to mislead the media and the public continue to arise, the same news outlets burned in 2020 betray whatever “journalistic ethics” they still possess by failing their fellow citizens and not presenting unvarnished facts about their elected, appointed, and career government officials.

Perhaps just a decade ago, the Hunter Biden laptop story and the role of foreign money and foreign influence-peddling would have been a journalist’s or TV news operation’s ticket to stardom and public appreciation. But for some reason, the national media now looks the other way, fearful of being the dog that catches up to the car it is chasing.

According to a 2022 Gallup poll, the media’s credibility with the public is at an all-time low, with only 34% of Americans having even a fair amount of trust in journalists. This isn’t because of a Russian or Chinese disinformation campaign – though much of American media was happy to participate in those efforts as well. No, this low bar of trust is the fault of the reporters, editors, and bureau chiefs who continue to allow their sources to lie to them and amplify those lies in an all-out, ends-justify-the-means political battle.

“But Trump!” is not a legitimate excuse to be complicit in lies and disinformation to the public. If in your arrogance you believe we, the people, will make the wrong decision if we have the full set of accurate facts, then you are the problem and have rightly earned our scorn and with it, your eventual obsolescence. _______________

Link submitted anonymously

I suppose the question now is, do the press even care if we believe them or not anymore, so many people out there willing to push whatever narrative they want and so long as someone with a long enough reach says it, they feel fine in spreading lies and half truths because it serves them.

Wonder how many of the people rooting for the demise of the US realize that it's taking them with it if it happens. On a global scale

[dontmeantobepoliticalbut]

George Santos has already hit a dead end on his first day in Congress.

While the admitted liar—who’s now under federal and local investigation—squeaked out a 10-point win in New York’s third congressional district in November, the Republican’s first day of work suggests the next two years might be an uphill battle for him.

Santos arrived at the U.S. Capitol without his husband—and his wedding band—despite many members bringing along their spouses as they’re sworn in for the 118th Congress.

Speed walking ahead of the press corps, Santos dodged questions about his plethora of lies—which spanned from where he worked, his religion, and his race, to name just a few—before finding himself backed into a corner in the basement of the Longworth House Office Building. He was awkwardly forced to turn around.

“Tell us if you plan to serve both years of your term Mr. Santos,” one reporter asked, as the gaggle of journalists hounded him with questions for several minutes.

As the House Republican circus runs wild with several GOP members refusing to back Kevin McCarthy for House Speaker, Santos took a seat in the back of the chamber all by himself, looking grim-faced.

The New York Republican voted for McCarthy to hold the House’s highest spot, as more than a dozen members, including Matt Gaetz (R-FL) and Lauren Boebert (R-CO), voted against McCarthy.

Santos has faced significant backlash—even within his own party—for the major fabrications in his resume and biography, losing his endorsement from the Republican Jewish Coalition and facing calls for a probe from fellow newly elected New York Republican Nick NaLota.

With added attention on him, Santos also faces renewed fraud charges from Brazil over allegedly buying $700 worth of merchandise with a stolen checkbook and fake name in 2008.

[johnbleepingzoidberg]

4 for Gabe (hwehwe sad cuz he's died, rip)

LIA COME OFF ANON SO I CAN FIGHT YOU

4. When you were a kid, what did you want to be when you grew up?

(he's supposed to be a ghost bc yeah gabe's dead lmao but for this purpose let's pretend he's back as a ghost. specifically for this interview)

Writing below the cut!

(context: that's craig in the background! yes, the robot! the one that is my pfp! in order to save craig's life, his consciousness is transferred into gabe the human's body, who is also dying! it was a terrible decision gabe's friends had to make! do they save gabe? or do they save craig the robot? spoiler-- gabe's too far gone and so they end up saving craig and he now has to navigate life with a human body! and theo is part of the group that did the procedure. theo and craig hate each other and annoy each other like siblings. their conflict comes from the fact that craig is now in place of gabe-- theo unfairly hates craig for "replacing" his good-natured, sweet friend; craig hates theo right back because of how unfairly he's treating him-- it's not like craig asked them to save his life.)

--

"I think I might've wanted to be a race car driver when I was a kid," Gabe says, crossing his legs at the ankles. He smiles pleasantly as he recalls the fond memory. "Yeah... I grew up watching a lot of F1, thought it'd be cool to have my own car, have a team. That was when I was really little. As I grew up I realized I didn't want to be the racer at all-- I wanted to be the one maintaining and building the cars!"

He turns solemn, and he looks down at his hands that he's twiddling in his lap.

"That is, until the Wipeout."

The room's atmosphere grows heavy.

After a moment, Gabe looks back up at you, smiling again, as though his gleeful demeanor never left. "Once the Wipeout hit, I realized I wanted to do more than just work on cars. I wanted to help people. Save lives. So I enlisted in the Rule's--" He bites his tongue. You lean forward, pressing him to continue the sentence.

"Um... The Rule's Medical Corps. Yep. To help save robots and humans alike after the Wipeout." He starts to pick at the skin around his nails-- a nervous tick you can't help but notice. He's not a very good liar.

"Anyway... Yeah... I wanted to be an F1 driver when I was a kid."

--

(gabe became part of a secret science org under this world's government that was shady af. im still not entirely sure what the true purpose of it is yet, but he was tricked (along with theo, aysha, and jackie) into joining under the false pretense of being able to save human lives with robot parts and vice versa. hence how they're able to shove craig's idiot robot self into gabes human body!)

[association-of-freed-people]

The guy is a serial liar and plagiarizer. “Shaved the edges off facts” when he falsely claimed for decades that his first wife and daughter were killed by a drunk driver.

NYT showing us it has no shame whatsoever and what peak shilling looks like.

If we had a healthy press corps the headline would read:

“Can’t Stop, Won’t Stop: Joe Biden Is, and Always Has Been, A Habitual Liar”

[thealtoduck]

Being the Nova and being frienemies with Peter Parker…

Peter Parker x Male!Nova Reader

Warnings: superhero violence, daddy issues, mention of bullying…

Summary: Y/n has a helmet from space and Spider-Man finds him annoying…

(A/n: I’m lazy so you have the same origin as the actuall Nova)

——

Okay so to keep the origin story short as possible, you dad is a fucking liar!

Or well so you thought. Growing up he told you stories about being part of the Nova Corp an intergalactic space military. But growing up you realised it was just a bunch of crap and your dad is actually a high school janitor and as an added bonus had a drinking problem.

But were you bitter about it?….. Yes, yes you were, mostly cause he was the janitor at the school you went to and you got teased by some of the other kids for it.

So after having to drag your drunk father on to a couch in the garage one to many times to sober up, you had finally had enough and stormed in to the garage to yell at him but he was gone leaving a huge hole in the wall. So you grab your skateboard to go look for him. But while doing so you fall and hit your head ending up in the hospital.

One night in the hospital you get visited by a raccoon with anger problems and a cool green lady with a sword, who gave you a helmet they said belonged to your father who had from what they told you died in battle.

By putting on the helmet you gained a suit and cool powers, the green lady named Gamora and Rocket gave you a quick lesson in how to work your powers before they left on their space ship again, leaving behind a young superhero.

You went on to start helping out all over the place under the name Nova. Which is when you’d first cross paths with Spider-Man. While Spider-Man was chasing a getaway car of criminals who had robbed a bank.

Spider-Man had been hot on their trail when suddenly a blue blur quickly passed him like a rocket. He saw someone with a helmet that in his opinion looked like a bucket fly in front of the car.

You took the car by the front and pressed against it using as much force as possible to bring it to a complete stop.

”Hey, that was my save” Spider-Man complained as you had left the criminals to the police cars that now surrounded them. ”Actually do the save next time then” you said sassily and flew away. This would become a thing between the two of you to compete about who was the better hero.

You even gave each-other nicknames, you call him web-head and he calls you bucket-head.

Shortly after one day when you arrived home from school you were shocked to see THE Tony Stark having coffee with your mom and younger sister. He turned to you when you walked in and said ”Oh look, the boy of the hour has arrived”. ”What the fuck?” you whispered to yourself.

He then went on to explain that has his eye on you so that maybe one day you can join the Avengers or what’s left of it at least. He told you to just keep doing what you’re doing and unless he says otherwise. To which you just said ”Yes, sir” and continued with your business.

When you returned to school people were excitedly talking about both Spider-Man and Nova, and were picking sides of who they thought were the coolest.

You went up to your friend Mj and the two of you went about your day. During lunch you met up with you sort of friends Peter and Ned and the four of you sat and talked about the new heroes of the city.

You and Peter ended up arguing about who was better between Spider-Man and Nova. With you representing team Nova and him team Spidey.

(A/n: I kinda wanna make this a little miniseries)

[gothchickwriting]

Would you write for Kamado Tanjiro a fluff imagine where he and the reader made a deal that if one of them has a nightmare, the other can come to them so he sneaks into her room one night and they just have some cute fluffy pillow talk? Bonus if they end up cuddling and you can decide if they’re dating or not. I just loved your latest Tanjiro piece and it made me think how the reader and Tanjiro are protective over each other/helping each other with their burden without diminishing the others ability.

This was so cute! I hope you can read this and sleep easier, Babes. ❤️

Tanjiro x GN! Reader: Late Night Promises

He creeps into your room quietly so as not to disturb those in the Estate. You looked so peaceful and you stir as the blanket is lifted from you. “It’s me.” Those are all the words he needs to say to have you scoot over and give him room. He snuggles up beneath the blanket with you.

You groggily bring him closer. Your smell envelopes him and distracts how his eyes stung from his earlier tears. “‘m here. Just give me a second.”

You stretch and the cracking of your joints stunned him. You squeeze his arm and interrupt the mental note of taking you to the hot springs later that afternoon. Your eyes are tired, looking as if you’ll drift off again at any moment. “What was it about?” You continue to squeeze up his arm until you’re kneading the tension from his shoulder.

“It wasn’t terrible.” He attempts to deny it. You huff as a lazy smile graces your lips.

“You’re a terrible liar.”

He chuckled and grew quiet. “I was burning...” He finally admitted. Tanjiro peeked up at you. “Do you… Do you think I’m going to Hell? When I die?” He can barely squeak out the last part as you sit up, wide awake. The hand that was so lovingly working his shoulder grips his cheeks.

You were more rational than he was, but to see you be emotional took his breath away. “Don’t you ever say that again. Ever.” His eyes were wide as he felt the brunt of your bottled up passion that was typically masked by your stoic face.

You let his face go and press a kiss against his scar. “None of it was your fault. If you had been with your family-“

“I wouldn’t be here.” He finished. You both had gone over this so many times, but it never took the hurt away from either of you. That you were here, making a difference and living when that was the hardest thing to do.

He melted when you pressed another kiss against his marred skin. “What do you want to do after this?” He asked with such hope. If Tanjiro had asked you this months ago, you would have told him that such a feat would be impossible within your lifetimes, but his optimism rubbed off on you.

“I want to be an accountant.” You laid back down with a nod, and he couldn’t quite stifle a laugh into his hand. “We live in an era of change and industrialization.” You said matter of factly. It silenced his chuckle but didn’t wipe the smile from his face. “… And I never want to swing a sword again in my life once this is over.”

He understood. Neither of you had chosen this. You hadn’t been born into a family where the Corps was expected of you. He laid back and rested his eyes. He’s considered it countless times, to go back home and sell coal again. But to live in that house…He rests his head on your shoulder.

Your soft snores helped him doze with better thoughts of possible futures. With you? It didn’t seem impossible at all.

[smallblip]

Forever Fifteen

Levihan | Part I of Good Bones | written for Levihan Week 2021- Memory (day 6)

It’s on Ao3! https://archiveofourown.org/works/33635872

“Hello stranger…”

Hanji doesn’t have to look behind her to know who it is. Already, she’s pulling a cigarette case from the inner pocket of her jacket. She holds one out to her side, and with a brush of cold fingers against hers, it’s gone. Her heart beats out of her chest.

Oh be still! We’ve been through this before! This should be as mundane as- doing the laundry.

She turns to face him, scanning him from his nice dress shoes to the way his hair is slicked back, an exaggerated simper on her face.

“What’s a handsome stranger like you doing in a place like this?”

He scoffs. “The party’s not over yet…”

“I know…” she replies, tilting her head to get a better look at her company. “I’m just watching…”

He follows her gaze to the courtyard below the balconies, to where Jean is sitting with Mikasa. Just- talking.

“Happened right under our noses…” Hanji chuckles. Oh right… she mutters when Levi gestures for the light. There’s a little fumbling because of Hanji’s penchant for pockets, but she finds the box of matches eventually. She strikes one and holds it close to Levi. A bright little light that burns embers into the greys of his eyes. The dark circles under his eyes have made a permanent home under his skin, and there are now lines carved into the shadows. When did those get there?

As always, Levi is the first to look away.

“You wouldn’t happen to have anything to do with that would you?” He raises a brow.

Jean is now laughing at something. Levi clicks his tongue in annoyance. In the many years he has known these damned kids, he hasn’t once laughed at anything Mikasa has to say. Jean must be a fool then. Jean is a fool because he listens too well to Hanji. Listens when she tells him he should go for it if that’s what he wants. Tell her a good pickup line, swap a few jokes, share a little fruitcake. Easy.

Hanji gasps dramatically, “as Commander of the Survey Corps, I would like to remind you that I am well aware of the policy against fraternisation!”

“That never stopped you…” Levi answers. But oh it has. The people who knew them as lovers are now dust. And now the rumours speak for them, past prefixed to lovers as a way to explain the familiarity, as a way to grow the distance.

Oh it has stopped them.

“Never stopped you either… If only they knew the great Captain Levi wrote crazy ol’ Hanji Zoë a love letter in his youth…” Hanji chuckles, a little too brave so it must be the alcohol, because she feels anything but brave lately. Her laughter is a little too bright for the night. A little too beautiful and familiar that it makes Levi smile. There’s a spray of pink on his cheekbones. The thought of people knowing the details is mortifying to say the least. But no one will know. This secret will be buried in a shared grave. A cosy little grave that gets a little damp in the summer. But they’ll brave the heat. Good things happen in the sun. Good for the linens too. Just- not good enough to untether the smell of Hanji’s skin from the fabric of his sheets.

“Do you remember what was in that letter?” She continues.

He doesn’t look at her now. His gaze is fixed on Jean’s fidgeting and he thinks of his own attempts at romance. His own little love story that blossomed beautifully and died tragically as they grew older. When they were put in charge for lives outside their own. When Erwin had named Hanji the next in line for the cursed role of Commander. One last night with her. One kiss and a handshake and a- hello stranger, my name is Hanji Zoë.

Levi. He had replied, just Levi.

He remembers Pyxis’ smug little “maybe your boyfriend can help with the mission” and Hanji’s vacuous, unthinking “oh he’s not my boyfriend anymore…”. The look on Pyxis’ face had been one for the books- a genuine surprise from coming by two pieces of information. So they are exes. The rumours were true. Menacing Levi and Kooky Zoë. Levi had launched a kick at Hanji’s shin under the table. Never in Levi’s life had he wished so much for the earth to swallow him whole.

“No…”

He says. It’s not lying if she knows what he really means. If she can tell, between each drag of her cigarette, what he’s thinking.

And she can. Oh she can.

He lets the memory dance across his eyes. That night at the pub, two kids puffing out their chests so they wouldn’t rouse suspicions (not that people care much in the Underground), listening to the men sing songs about love. Oh what Levi would give be young again. To look at Hanji, really look at her for the first time and have his mind play static on loop. To realise that for the rest of his life he’ll only be mesmerised by her.

She chuckles. Another drag of her cigarette, two taps to watch the ash drip. A wink.

“We must be getting old then, Levi…” She says, “in a few years we’ll be a couple of old prunes, you and I…”

Levi smiles at her. He’s never really thought about the mechanics of growing old. But he thinks the image is nice. Of Hanji tracing pruny fingers along the length of his pruny skin where the crescent scars sit in the leather of his skin. And he’ll remind her of the time when they kids, because that’s what old couples do right? Tease each other endlessly, talk about the ambiguity of the good old days, reminisce over long walks? Levi wants the complete works. He laughs to himself, a private little joke that simmers to a murmur-

Four-eyed prune…

It’s a little later when Hanji decides maybe it’s time to stop eavesdropping and get back to the party. The musicians announce the last dance of the night. The trumpets trail after the saxophone and the sound is something grand. And Hanji asks Levi if he wants to dance, because she’s a sucker for romantics, even though she’ll never admit it. And she knows Levi is too. And Hanji thinks life must still be pretty sweet if she’s dancing with her ex lover with a sea of memories between them and the abject refusal to explicate the boundaries of exes. Because it’s hard to forget. Because it’s hard to wash your lover’s scent from your sheets. No matter how hard you scrub, no matter how much the sunlight eats at the fabric and bleaches it. So much so that Hanji thinks it’s all in her head. The smell of his skin, the taste of cigarettes on his tongue- he only smokes with her, only with her- the ghost of his breath against the shell of her ear.

And Levi’s heart is beating out his chest.

Oh be still! We’ve been through worse! We scrubbed at the sheets until our fingers were raw and pruny, remember?

But with Hanji it’s hard to catch a break. He knows. He’s dealt with this for so long that he doesn’t even flinch when she tells him-

“You’re my best friend, Levi…”

But she recognises all the signs. The slight twitch of the corner of his lips, the creasing of the skin between his brows, the sadness in his eyes so bright that she has to avert her gaze.

“Do you tell all the boys that when you dance with them?”

He answers. And she hears the rhythmic grate of the sheets against the washing board.

Forgetting is hard.

“I don’t dance with other boys…” She replies, channeling Hanji Zoë at fifteen- was it sixteen? Seventeen? Eighteen maybe? Hanji Zoë who would sneak into the boy’s barracks to make out with her boyfriend in the dead of night and scurry back under the sheets before anyone found out. “You know I like you the most…”

“Good…”

He says. And he’s Levi- a few years older than she had been, a little too curt, a little too much misplaced possessiveness, thinking to himself that maybe love isn’t so icky and banal. Thinking maybe this is what his mother had promised him. This is all that’s beautiful.

He leans his chin against her shoulder, wrestling against the caution thrown at his beating heart.

Let them talk. Let them say we were lovers in a past life. Because that’s all we are.

Hanji presses her temple against his. The familiarity is jarring in all the ways a stain is. Bright mustard yellow against white cotton, evidence of a split second stupid decision to eat on the duvet. This is a cumulation of mustard moments then- a stain so big the entire world turns yellow.

“I like you the most too…” Levi says, voice low like this is a secret. Like as if the whole of Paradis Island doesn’t already know.

Hanji chuckles, and the vibration that spreads from her bones to his makes him blush. He knocks his temple against hers. Stupid Hanji. Stupid mustard stain.

“Liar…” she laughs. The word is a breath that caresses his cheek. But she knows him- this boy Erwin collected from the underground city. He got under her skin and she proceeds to make it her job to get under his. She had greeted him with scars on his forearm and in return, she walked away with a bruised eye, a broken nose, and an epiphany. And in the years after- the good years- they do what every teenager would do-

fuck around and fall in love.

Levi pulls apart, and in that moment, his lips brush against her neck- fleeting casualness befitting a hey big idiot. It’s the hottest day in the history of mankind but I’ll brave the stickiness to kiss your sweaty neck. Befitting a lifelong stain of a crush on a stain of a human being that will never quite go away.

It’s hard to forget.

Hanji watches as Jean crosses the hall back to where Connie and Sasha are. A sheepish grin plastered on a bright red face. The two tease him endlessly and as always, Jean swats them away, trying to maintain his cool. Hanji knows nothing really happened, but his reaction can only mean hopeful possibility. She smiles.

“Hey, do you think we would’ve worked out?”

Hanji asks when they’re walking back to the barracks, her jacket concealing a few bottles of alcohol. The other bottles have found their way to Levi’s reluctant hands. They’ve been through this before. It’s okay now. After all, comfort is a stained duvet. Soon, she’ll have to bid him farewell with a goodnight, stranger. But for now, Levi answers without looking at her.

“Yeah…” he replies, matter of fact, “we’ve got good bones…”

Oh be still! Hanji feels betrayed that her heart- a wretched thing so broken- still beats the same for him- this beautiful stain of a human being. This moment is living, breathing nostalgia. What had they been before one another? Menacing Levi and Kooky Zoë. How could anything bad ever happen to them. She grins at him.

“The best…”