#because B flat is cool

[moodyseal]

Me when having nice hair actually requires effort: 😦

[plexiglassonion]

4 possibly 5 conditional offers for universities #ridemyswaglikeastrap #educationpilled

[iydiamartinx]

THIS MEANS WAR IV

Dick Grayson x Reader x Jason Todd

divider by: @cafekitsune & @thecutestgrotto word count: 4.5k synopsis: Gotham’s youngest neuroscience lecturer never planned to get tangled up with two of its most eligible bachelors. Both are determined to win her over—without revealing they know each other… or that they’re vigilantes. But when the Joker takes an interest in her, things get a whole lot more complicated. a/n: Y'all do you know how hard it was to flirt using science and the topic of joker toxin?! I think I rewrote this chapter over ten times. I hope the subtext makes sense because I think my brain melted during this process. Also I'm still fairly new to posting on tumblr so I hope I'm doing the taglist correctly :) warnings: sexual innuendos, Jason being a low key stalker

BAT CAVE

Jason stepped deeper into the cave, the heavy echo of his boots bouncing off the stone walls. The cavern smelled faintly of earth, cleaning supplies, and the ever-present sting of coffee left too long to cool—unsurprising, given the miniature landfill of empty cups piled near Tim’s workstation.

“Jesus, Tim,” he muttered, eyeing the carnage. “Have you gotten any sleep?”

Tim didn’t look up. His voice was flat, gravel-edged with exhaustion. “I’ll sleep when I find our ghost.”

Jason arched a brow. “I’m pretty sure you said that yesterday.”

“And the day before that,” Tim murmured, squinting at lines of code bleeding across the massive screen. “I’m aware.”

Jason crossed his arms, stepping closer, gaze flicking over the data. “Any updates?”

Tim let out a hard sigh, slumping back in his chair. He dragged both hands down his face as if trying to wipe away the frustration before answering. “Just dead ends. No facial matches. No fingerprints. No aliases that last longer than a day. Whoever this guy is, he’s good. Really good.”

“Something doesn’t add up,” Jason said quietly. “No usual runner is this off the grid.”

“Exactly. And get this—Gordon pulled a small vial off Mancini and handed it off to B.” Tim’s brows furrowed. “Mancini was right. It’s a hybrid. Joker’s original strain—but there’s chemical coding in it that matches Scarecrow’s second-gen fear compound. It’s clean work. Scarily precise. Way beyond Joker’s usual brand of chaos. Even Crane’s compounds weren’t this sophisticated.”

Jason frowned, unease tightening in his gut. “So, what are you saying? That the bastard we’re chasing didn’t just steal the formula…”

Tim looked up, expression grim. “He probably helped make it.”

The words landed with a sickening weight.

Jason exhaled, low and sharp. “Shit.”

Tim turned back to the monitor, fingers already flying across the keyboard. “And Joker’s tearing through the underworld trying to find him. That’s why it’s gone quiet—people are either hiding… or dying. Fast.”

Jason exhaled slowly. “Then we need to move. Fast. If Joker gets his hands on the formula—”

“We’ll have a city-wide crisis on our hands,” Tim finished for him.

Jason’s jaw clenched. “Then we need an antidote. Even if it’s just a prototype.”

Tim shook his head. “We don’t have enough of the compound. No base, no ratios, no synthesis pattern. Without the exact formula, we’d be guessing in the dark.”

Jason slammed a fist lightly against the desk. “Then how the hell did a rat like Mancini get his hands on it?”

Tim shrugged. “Best guess? He stole it from Sionis. Would explain why he was looking over his shoulder every five seconds.”

“Idiot,” Jason muttered. His anger began to cool as he glanced over, noticing the dark circles etched beneath Tim’s eyes. The kid looked wired and worn thin. His voice softened. “You need sleep.”

“I can’t,” Tim’s fingers resumed their frantic pace across the keyboard. “What if I miss something? What if that formula shows up and we’re not ready?”

Jason stepped closer, lowering his voice. “Tim. You’ll miss something anyway if your brain crashes mid-keystroke. You’ve been staring at code for three days straight. You’re running on caffeine and spite.”

Tim didn’t stop typing. “It’s worked so far.”

Jason reached out pulled Tim away from the bat computer and forcing Tim to turn around and meet his eyes. “You’re not gonna outsmart this thing if you’re fried. You’ll be sharper after a break. Babs is still digging on her end. We’ve got the patrols. Get four hours. Hell, even two.”

Tim slumped in defeat, rubbing at his eyes as the tension finally bled from his shoulders. “Fine. A nap. But if I wake up and Gotham’s on fire—”

“Then it’s a normal day in this shit hole city,” Jason deadpanned.

A faint smile tugged at Tim’s lips, and he stood with a stretch that earned several cracks from his spine.

“I’ll keep digging until you’re up.” Jason promised, clapping a hand to Tim’s shoulder. “Go.”

Tim didn’t argue. He staggered toward the elevator, muttering about caffeine withdrawal and setting six alarms.

Jason waited until the lift closed behind him before turning back to the monitor. He should’ve jumped straight into the search—he’d been the loudest about stopping Joker’s next move— instead, his mind drifted. Not to Gotham. Not to toxins or their ghost. But to you.

It had been days since the bookstore, and he still couldn’t stop thinking about you.

“God, I can’t believe I’m actually becoming a stalker,” he muttered, dragging a hand down his face.

Seeing you at the bookstore had been pure coincidence. But now? he could feel his curiosity getting the better of him, he wanted to see you again and with that the thought there, it was too tempting to ignore the resources at his disposal. 

A quick cross-reference of the store’s invoice system, and he’d found the record of your purchase. From there, it wasn’t hard to trace it to a name. A professional profile. A series of academic papers and lecture videos.

Doctor Y/N L/N. Neuroscientist. Lecturer and researcher at Gotham U.

He skimmed your credentials, the corner of his mouth twitching. You were sharp. Accomplished. Brilliant, even. Probably the kind of person who would’ve been Tim’s rival if he ever left the cave long enough to interact with actual humans.

“Damn,” Jason whistled low, scrolling through your faculty page. “You’re not just a pretty face.”

“Who is this?”

Jason nearly leapt out of the chair. “Jesus, Damian!”

Damian raised a brow, unimpressed, before glancing at the glowing monitor, gaze narrowing at the screen. “Who is she?”

Jason shifted awkwardly. “She’s, uh… potential lead. On the toxin thing.” Total lie. No way in hell he was confessing to stalking his own crush to demon spawn.

Damian frowned, clearly unconvinced. He glanced back at the screen. “She doesn’t look like an evil mastermind.”

Jason snorted. “Trust me. She’s smart enough to become one if she wanted.”

He clicked out of the window, not willing to risk further questions, and turned to face the youngest Wayne fully. “Shouldn’t you be at school?”

“I finished this week’s syllabus yesterday,” Damian said with a dismissive wave. “To make me attend that pit of idiocy is a waste of my time.”

Jason raised a brow. “Pretty sure Bruce expects you to show up regardless.”

“Father expects results, not attendance,” Damian replied coolly.

Jason leaned back in the chair, folding his arms. “If I call him right now and tell him his little prodigy’s playing hooky and creeping around the Batcave instead of sitting through trig, how fast do you think he’d be down here?”

Damian’s eyes narrowed into slits. “You wouldn’t dare.”

“Oh, I would love to,” Jason said, smirking as he slowly pulled his comm from his belt. “And I’ll tell Alfred to lock up your katanas until your attendance record’s squeaky clean.”

Damian looked murderous. “You are insufferable.”

“And you’re going to be late.”

With a muttered curse in Arabic, Damian spun on his heel and stormed toward the elevator like a tiny, furious emperor exiled from his marble court.

“This is why no one respects you,” he tossed over his shoulder.

Jason just smirked. “You’ll thank me one day.”

“I sincerely doubt it.”

Jason chuckled as the elevator doors closed. The cave was quiet again but this time, he left the file closed. He wasn’t risking another one of his siblings catching him mid-obsession.

But even as the lines of data loaded, he couldn’t stop the image of your smirk from flashing in his mind.

Damn it.

He was so screwed.

GOTHAM UNIVERSITY 

The weekend had vanished in a blink—gone before you had the chance to properly catch some rest. And now it was Tuesday morning, and you were once again standing in front of your lecture hall with a marker in one hand and a cup of coffee in the other—woefully undersized for the hour.

You weren’t even sure how you’d survived Monday. And Tuesday? Tuesday was dragging its feet like a teenager being forced out of bed.

Maybe it was the sleep deprivation. Maybe the mounting stack of papers needed to be graded. Or maybe—just maybe—it had something to do with the fact that Dick hadn’t texted since the weekend.

Aside from one polite message—Had a great time, can’t wait to see you again—there had been radio silence.

Maybe he was busy.

Maybe he was being polite.

Maybe he decided that he wasn’t actually interested.

You bit back a sigh and turned back to the board, scrawling across the surface with just a touch more pressure than necessary. Whatever.  Who needed a man when you had a lecture hall full of sleep deprived students a terminal caffeine addiction, and a job that kept your brain so busy it barely had time to spiral?

Still… you checked your phone. Just once. Just in case.

Nothing.

Figures.

You exhaled through your nose, smoothed down your blouse, and turned back toward your students with the kind of smile worn only by women who had absolutely chosen the strong, independent path at seven in the godforsaken morning.

Because, despite everything—despite the early hours, the endless grading, and the fact that your bloodstream was 80% espresso—you loved this.

You loved teaching.

You loved the subject. The research and chaos. The spark that came when something clicked in a student’s eyes.

Teaching neuroscience was more than a paycheck; it was a passion. You just wished passion came with later start times. And a universally accepted pyjama policy.

You took a long sip of coffee, rolled your shoulders back, and turned toward your students, who were only just starting to blink the sleep from their eyes.

“Alright,” you said, clicking the projector to life. “Let’s talk about chemical warfare. And clowns.”

That earned a few raised brows of interest and handful of tired chuckles.

“True to my word,” you went on, as the screen behind you flickered to life, “we’re diving into Joker venom today. Specifically, the various known strains, their molecular architecture, and the neurological impacts they cause upon exposure.”

The first image flickered onscreen: a chart showing the original base compound. Beside it was a grainy field photo of a bright green liquid. The photo looked like it had been pulled from the bottom of a GCPD evidence locker.

“This,” you said, pointing with your marker, “was the earliest recorded version—crude, volatile, and grotesquely effective. Victims experienced intense euphoria, followed by uncontrollable laughter, vivid hallucinations, progressive paralysis, and ultimately… cardiac arrest.”

You paused, letting the weight of that settle in.

“But here’s where it gets interesting,” you said, clicking to the next slide. “The formula has evolved. It’s gotten cleaner. More efficient. Some of the newer strains show a disturbing level of sophistication. Less residue. More targeted dopamine flooding. In a few cases—nearly undetectable until it’s too late.”

A hand went up from the front row.

“Is there any known antidote?” the student asked.

You hesitated—just for a beat. “There are a few neutralizing agents that can be effective if administered immediately,” you said. “But a true, universal antidote? Not yet. Especially not for the more recent iterations. Most of our current strategies are reactive, not preventative.”

You paused.

“In short?” Your lips quirked in something that wasn’t quite a smile. “Don’t get exposed.”

A ripple of nervous laughter followed.

And then—

A new voice spoke up.

“Is it the toxin that kills them… or the effects it triggers first?”

You froze for half a second—not enough for anyone else to notice.

Your eyes scanned the lecture hall—and there he was. In the back row, half-slouched like the seat belonged to him. Leather jacket. Boots kicked up against the chair in front. Arms folded, expression far too smug for someone who had no damn business being here.

The last thing you’d expected was to see him here.

“Interesting point,” you replied, crisp and professional, like he was another one of your students. You refused to give him the satisfaction of seeing you flustered. “The toxin is the cause, yes—but it’s the chain reaction that actually kills. The laughter, the convulsions, the paralysis… the body shuts down before most people even realize what’s happening.”

Jason tilted his head slightly. “So the damage isn’t in the delivery. It’s in what it sets off.”

You clicked to the next slide. “Exactly. The moment it hits, your body stops being yours. It rewires everything—how you feel, how you think. You can’t reason your way out of it.”

He nodded slowly, like he already knew that and just wanted to hear you say it. “Some people get hit harder than others, though, right?”

You arched a brow. “Depends on the target.”

“Some look fine. At first,” he said. “They act normal. But the toxin’s already working underneath.”

The look he gave you made the implication clear.

You smiled tightly. “Some strains are less effective than they look. Easy to handle if caught early.”

“Wait—” a girl near the middle row piped up, frowning. “I thought there was no cure for Joker venom?”

You cleared your throat, ignoring the flush creeping along your neck. “For the newer variants, yes. They’re more chemically advanced and difficult to reverse. But with some of the older versions—If the symptoms are identified early enough—intervention is possible.”

Jason leaned forward in his seat, resting his chin on his hand, grin playing at the corners of his mouth. “But what if someone lets it run its course anyway?”

You didn’t look at him.

You just smiled for the class. “Then some people are clearly very stupid.”

A few students laughed in confusion, but no one actually picked up on the double meaning of the conversation. You turned back toward the board.

“Now then,” you said briskly, “back to the chemistry before anyone else gets the idea this is interactive.”

You didn’t even make it halfway through the next slide before his voice cut in again—calm, amused, and very much on purpose.

“So how much exposure does it take before the effects become permanent?”

You inhaled through your nose and closed your eyes for half a beat.

Some of the students nodded—taking the bait. A girl in the second row had already scribbled the question into her notes.

But you knew exactly what he was doing.

You turned, voice level, gaze sharper. “Depends on the dosage. And the subject. Repeated exposure can cause cumulative neurological damage, but again—some people are more susceptible than others.”

Jason stood. Hands in his jacket pockets, he walked down the aisle like he had all the time in the world. Like none of this was strange or inappropriate.

“Say someone’s exposed to a small dose,” he went on, “but it happens a few times. Do they build immunity? Or will the damage be done?”

He stopped just short of the first row—just shy of your space. Close enough that your skin prickled with heat. You were painfully aware of the eyes of your students on you now.

Your jaw clenched.

“Well,” you said, eyes narrowed, “whoever’s insane enough to try that should probably check themselves into Arkham.”

He stepped closer, just slightly. Just enough that only you could hear him when he murmured, low and maddening:

“Why do that… when there’s a cure standing right here?”

“Funny,” you said, lips curling into something that might’ve passed for a smile if not for the fire in your eyes. “Because the only thing I see right now is a recurring symptom.”

Behind him, someone cleared their throat—a student, probably wondering whether they were still attending a lecture or some avant-garde performance piece. 

You exhaled sharply and stepped toward him, your expression still pleasant for the room, but your voice dropped to a hiss meant for his ears alone.

“What the hell are you doing? This is a lecture. You’re not cute.”

He smirked, unbothered. “Didn’t say I was. Just here to learn about toxins… and their reactions.” 

You gritted your teeth. “You’re disrupting my job.”

“I’ll stop if you go out with me.”

“Not a damn chance.” You scoff.

Then, as if this was his stage now, he turned slightly toward the class, raising his voice with faux curiosity. “Actually, that reminds me. Has anyone considered how different outcomes might vary depending on emotional state during exposure? Say, for example, if someone was already—”

“I swear to God—”

“Look,” he said, still in that maddeningly calm tone as he turned back to her, “one hour. That’s all I’m asking. If it sucks, you can forget I exist.”

You narrowed your eyes. “If I still say no?”

Jason shrugged, entirely too relaxed. “I’ll keep showing up. Keep asking questions. Might even bring snacks next time. We’ll see how interactive this gets.”

You stared at him. He stared right back.

God, he was smug.

God, he was gorgeous.

God, you hated this.

“…Fine,” you muttered. “One hour,” you said through gritted teeth. “And if you speak once during the rest of this lecture, I will report you for harassment and ban you from this campus.”

His grin was shameless. “Understood, Professor.”

He backed up, hands raised, retreating like the smug menace he was—but this time with a victory in his step.

He turned and walked back up the aisle, dropping back into his seat like this was the plan all along.

You turned back to the board, face burning, students utterly unaware that their professor had just been emotionallystrong-armed into a date by a six-foot leather-wrapped problem with a smirk. 

Jason, to his credit, didn’t speak again. Not once.

But he didn’t need to.

Because for the next forty-five minutes, you couldn’t stop thinking about him.

Surprisingly, Jason actually found himself listening as you spoke. He learned what actually happened inside someone exposed to Joker venom—what went wrong in their brain. He’d never thought to ask before. That was always Bruce’s domain, or Tim’s. The analysis. The endless case files with chemical structures and psych profiles and margin notes scribbled in too-small handwriting. Jason had always preferred the fighting portion of vigilantism. 

But hearing it from you…

Maybe it was the way your voice shifted—calm but impassioned—or how you didn’t shy away from the brutality of it. You didn’t sensationalize it, either. You explained it like a surgeon would describe an autopsy—clinical, controlled, but with a quiet thread of empathy running through every word.

Jason had seen what Joker venom did to people.

He’d dealt the aftermath.

He’d watched the light go out in someone’s eyes while they laughed themselves into oblivion.

But he’d never truly understood it. Not like this.

The way you spoke about neurotransmitter chaos—how dopamine floods rewired fear into joy, how serotonin short-circuited pain into pleasure, how laughter wasn’t just a reaction, but a seizure disguised as euphoria. The complete collapse of inhibition, followed by motor control, then respiratory function—it was horrifying. And fascinating.

You made him want to know more.

And then, in a moment that startled him, he wondered what you’d make of him.

Of the Lazarus Pit. Of what it did to the brain when it brought someone back from the dead. Of the rage. The episodes. The memory gaps. Of the madness that still affected him.

Would you call it neurological trauma? A chemical imbalance? Would you look at him like a subject—or something broken to fix?

He leaned back in his chair, arms loose, fingers tapping idly against his knee. You were pacing now, marker in hand, drawing a new diagram with quick, practiced ease. Sharp lines, fluid motion. You were alive up there—animated and fierce in your element. And he couldn’t help but watch. Not just your words. But you.

The way your voice sharpened when a student asked a half-formed question. The gleam in your eye when someone got it. The small, unconscious smile when the pieces clicked.

You cared. Genuinely.

About the material. About the kids in this room. About what this information could mean outside of it.

“Alright,” you said finally, capping the marker with a soft snap and stepping back. “That’s it for today. You’re free to go—unless you’re dying to ask more questions about the joys of chemically induced insanity.”

Laughter stirred through the room. Chairs scraped back. A few students filtered out with lingering glances and whispered praise. Others loitered to gather notes or quietly debate the finer points of dopamine regulation.

Jason didn’t move.He waited—calm, steady—watching you sort your materials, stack your folders, and close your laptop shut.

When you finally turned toward him, arms crossing over your chest and one brow raised in challenge, he rose from his seat like a man who had all the time in the world and nothing to prove.

“Ready, Professor?” he asked, voice low, smug as ever.

You rolled your eyes, gathering your bag. “You’re lucky I’m a woman of my word.”

Jason smirked. “Some might say that’s an admirable quality.”

You shot him a look over your shoulder. “Some might say it’s a flaw.”

THE GOLDEN CUP

Jason—as you’d recently learned his name was—took you to The Golden Cup, one of Gotham’s most aggressively popular coffee chains.

On the walk over, you’d checked your phone—more out of habit than hope—and found, unsurprisingly, that there was still no message from Dick.

And that was when you decided.

You weren’t going to wait up for him. You’d had one date. No promises. No exclusivity. Just a good night that clearly hadn’t meant the same thing to both of you.

So fine.

You were going to give Jason a chance.

No matter how infuriating, arrogant, or absolutely insufferable he was—he was persistent. And maybe, just maybe, that counted for something.

Even if he made you want to strangle him half the time.

Especially then.

You forced a polite smile as he held the door open for you. The place had a sleek, modern interior, all brushed steel and pale wood, the kind of aesthetic that screamed corporate chic. Chalkboards lined the walls, scrawled with endless customizable drink options in cheery handwriting, as if sugar and soy milk could compensate for the fact that the coffee tasted like watered-down burnt beans. 

You bit back a grimace. The air buzzed with the frantic energy of sleep-deprived students and frazzled office workers. 

“The Golden Cup?” you asked, more out of disbelief than curiosity.

Jason shrugged, as if the choice had been perfectly logical. “Figured this was your kind of place.”

You mirrored the gesture, masking your annoyance. After how hard he’d worked to get this hour with you, the last thing you wanted was to admit you actually despised it here. “The girls on my gymnastics team used to love this place,” you offered instead.

That made him pause. “Wait—you did gymnastics?”

You nodded. “Bars. Tumbling. The works.”

“Huh.” He tilted his head slightly, eyes skimming over you like he was trying to reconcile that image with the one in front of him.

Your eyes narrowed. “What?”

“Nothing,” he said quickly, a little too quickly. “You just don’t seem like the type.”

You stiffened. “And what type is that?”

“I didn’t mean it like that,” he chuckled, the sound light but strained.

But the damage was done. The words echoed louder than they should have—because you wanted this to go well. You’d told yourself you were being open, trying not to let old scars taint something new. Like Milo kept encouraging. But there it was again—another man slotting you into a tidy box. 

Jake used to do the same thing.

“So how did you mean it?” you asked, voice calm but tight.

Jason looked like he wished he’d said nothing at all. “I just meant… never mind, okay?”

The line moved forward. He stepped up to the counter, clearly flustered, and ordered without turning to you. Two hot coffees. Black.

You stared at the back of his head in disbelief. He didn’t even ask.

When he reached for his wallet, you turned on your heel and walked out.

The bell above the door jingled as you stepped into the Gotham air, crisp and biting against your cheeks. You exhaled hard, realizing only then how tense your jaw had become.

You didn’t make it far before the door slammed open again. Footsteps pounded after you.

“Hey! Wait up!” Jason called.

You kept walking until his hand lightly caught your arm.

“Where are you going?”

You turned, met his eyes. “I just don’t think this is going to work.”

Confusion flashed across his face. “What? It’s barely been ten minutes.”

“And that’s all I needed.”

He stared at you, disbelief written in every line of his face. “Come on, that’s not fair.”

“Ever since we met,” you said, keeping your tone level, “you’ve done nothing but make assumptions. You act as if you know me based on a glance and a guess.”

“That’s not true,” he snapped. “I—what assumptions?”

“The book recommendation, the coffee shop itself. You didn’t even ask what I wanted to drink,” you pointed out. “You just ordered hot coffee.”

“Everyone loves hot coffee!”

“I don’t.”

His mouth opened, then closed.

“And then there was the gymnastics thing.”

He winced. “Okay, maybe that came out wrong—”

“It’s not just that. It’s how you said it. Like I didn’t look the part. What—because I’m a doctor?”

“What? No!” he said quickly, like the idea shocked him. “That’s not what I meant at all!”

“You don’t know me, and you clearly don’t care to.” you said, stepping back. “You saw me in the bookstore and figured I looked easy. The kind of girl you could charm in five minutes with a smirk and some half-assed lines.”

He opened his mouth, but you cut him off before he could try to spin it.

“I said no,” you reminded him. “So now I’m a challenge. That’s all this is to you—a game you don’t want to lose.”

His expression shifted. Defensive. 

“But let’s get one thing straight,” you continued, voice like ice. “Whatever bad boy charm you think you’ve got going for you? It doesn’t work on me. I’ve seen it before. You’re not new.”

Jason scoffed, tension bleeding into sarcasm. “Guess I should’ve worn a suit and talked about Nietzsche.”

You shook your head, a hollow laugh escaping. “God, this is exactly why I’m walking away.”

“Oh, right,” he said, stepping forward. “Because you’re uptight and judgmental? Hate to break it to you, sweetheart, but you’re not exactly a ray of sunshine either.”

You stiffened, heat rising in your chest. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me.” His voice was sharp now, stripped of its earlier charm. “You walked in here with your mind already made up. You want to lecture me on assumptions? Take a good look in the mirror. You’re no better, Princess.”

The words hit like a slap— For a second, neither of you said anything. You just stared at him, breathing hard, your pride wounded, your heart thudding against your ribs with something that felt too much like anger… and something else you didn’t want to name.

You were done. Whatever thread of tolerance you’d held onto had snapped clean through. “You know what? I’m not doing this. Let’s just call it a night.”

“Oh, can we?” he muttered, hands flung out to the side. “Please.”

“Good night,” you snapped, already turning.

“Sayonara.”

“Have fun with yourself.”

“Ciao, sweetheart. Tell the HOA at Pretentious Pointe I said hi.”

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[skipper1331]

Art // Leah Williamson

You loved playing football yet drawing and painting was your silent passion. A passion nobody really knew about.

It all started when you were a kid. After a bad day, lost match you would be so angry and disappointed that you would draw your anger away. It didn‘t matter if it was with pencils, crayons or acrylic, you didn‘t care if it was on paper or on a canvas. You just had to draw/paint.

Slowly, it not only started to reduce your anger but to become a daily thing. Over the years you got better and better and even sold some paintings.

When you moved to London, transfered to Arsenal from the german league you took your painting utils with you.

In your new apartment was an extra room which used to be a guest room - you didn't need it, so you set it up as a painting room. The floor was covered with foil as were parts of the wall while many canvases and tubes of paint stood on the newly built shelves. Your desk was full of paper, sketchbooks, pens, erasers, etc. everything an artist needed. It was your favorite room in your apartment.

As the weeks went on, you drew everything interesting. Such as the training facility, jerseys, the stadium and much more.

But If someone would have looked through your sketchbook they would‘ve noticed that there was one thing or rather one person which was drawn very often. Arsenals number 6. Leah Williamson. You couldn‘t explain why but she was incredible. Everything about her was perfect; her talent, her personality, her smile. You just could not not draw her. Often you only realized that you had drawn her after your drawing was already finished and when drawing number 12 of Leah was finished you knew you had a crush on her. What you didn‘t realize though was a) she also developed a crush on you and b) your face and hands covered in paint and pencil has not gone unnoticed. To find out why that was the team formed an alliance. When Rosa questioned why they simply didn‘t ask you her head was smacked from Kyra, Alessia and Vic. "It‘s much more exciting this way" Kyra replied mischievously.

Mission Colour had officially started.

On bus rides, plane flights, away games you would always have your 'away sketchbook' and one pencil with you just to calm down or to stay calm. Most of the time you sat next to Manu, your national teammate. She was like big sister to you and of course she knew about your drawing talent but what she didn‘t know was that a few teammates wanted to find out. As well Manu knew about your little crush, not because you told her but because she saw your sketch of Leah and connected the dots.

It was the next day when you came to training with a blue stripe on you forehead and hands covered with many shades of blue. This morning you worked on your current project (a painting of the ocean) and lost track of time. You hadn‘t had the chance to look in the mirror again after you rushed out of your flat to the car.

Fast forward, here you were in the training facility in bright red clothes while your skin was covered in blue.

"Looking like Papa smurf" Katie laughed, gently shoving you towards the mirror in the changing room.

Your eyes widened in horror, "Shit" aggressively you started to rub at the stripe of paint but it was too late. The stripe was already dry. Making your way to the bathroom, you wet the paper towel, not much hope about cleaning your face.

"Hey" you heard a voice beside you, your eyes locking with the blonde defenders through the mirror, "do you need some help?" Leah asked, already concerned by the way you aggressively rubbed your forehead, "hey, lemme-" the girl gently tugged at your wrist as she turned you to face her. She grabbed another paper towel, putting a tiny bit of soap on it before she put it under water. In silence, the taller girl started to clean your face. Her movements were slow and tender as she tried to stay cool while she was so close to you. In the meantime, you admired the blonde, scanned every feature of her face.

"Secretly a Chelsea fan, huh?" the gunner asked, trying to ease the obvious tension in the room.

"Gosh no," you chuckled, "I was working on my new proctect this morning and lost track of time" you admitted, Leah raising a brow in return.

"You must think I’m pretty unorganized, hm?"

"of course not!" She replied immediately, "i was just wondering, project? What project?"

"It‘s nothing much, just a painting project" you shrugged your shoulders, "the ocean."

"I didn‘t know you could paint" she stated, the dots connecting with all the paint stains that covered your clothes and body since you had arrived in London.

"Maybe you‘d like to see some of my works?" your voice was quiet, shy as you nervously scratched your neck.

"It‘s a date" the same moment, Leah dropped the comment, you heard Kim call, "training starts" which let Leah hurry out of the room, leaving you completely shocked and with a mix of nervousness and excitement alone. Was she serious?

-

"Leah, wait!"

Training had finished half an hour ago, the girls, including you, doing their usual routines, some had physio, some went straight to the showers or others that just changed their clothes happy to finally go home - Leah, one of the girls who preferred to shower at home after a particularly long cardio session.

"Were you serious about the date? Because if not that would be totally fine, but if so, I’d really like to go on a date with you" you rambled, "we could go out for dinner or i could cook for you or not, because I’m not the greatest cook, but maybe take out would be fine too?! whatever you like works for me!"

"Take a deep breath, love" she smiled, squeezing your hand, "i was serious" her cheeks slowly turning red, "sorry, could‘ve been a bit more romantic, i admit, but indeed, I’d be very happy to go on a date with you"

"Oh, really!" you were so surprised, shocked even that the Leah Williamson wanted to go on a date with you.

"Yes, really. What about this: I’ll go home for a shower and at-" she looked at her watch, "at 7, I’ll be at your front door with some food in my hands. Neither of us has to cook and we can have a nice and relaxed evening, how does that sound?"

"That sounds perfect, thank you"

"See you soon" she smiled, pressing a kiss to your cheek as she felt brave enough to do so in that moment.

Like in trance, you watched her walk away while your fingers touched the spot were lips had been a few seconds ago. Wow.

On the other hand as soon as Leah sat in her car, she did a little happy dance, finally getting the chance to spend some time with you alone and even better, being able to call it a date.

-

5 minutes early the defender stood in front of your door, two bags of food in one hand while the other hand held a bouquet of flowers.

With confidence Leah rang the door bell, she felt untouchable. She had a date with the prettiest girl and nothing would stop her from trying to be the best version of herself for you. She really wanted this to work out.

In all honesty, Leah had been crushing on you for quite a while. It all started with an international friendly where you both were captaining your nations. You fell in conversation easily, the blonde friends with some of your national teammates.

Since then the Lioness followed you on your socials, also enjoying watching you play football - something about your technic and brain for the game made her fall in love with football all over again.

When the announcement was made that you‘d join Arsenal, she was excited, overly so. She wanted to talk to you again, be your friend. But soon the thought of just being friends combined with her little crush on you that was getting bigger and bigger day by day was long forgotten. She wanted to get to know you, on a deeper level than just the typical friendly one.

"Hey! Welcome in" you said with a wide smile, stepping aside.

"Hi, these are for you" the defenders cheeks turned slightly pink as yours did too.

"These are beautiful, thank you so much" the bouquet was big mix of multiple flowers in multiple colours, "i didn‘t know what your favorite flower was, so i bought one of each they had"

"I love it and I really appreciate it" shy smiles were exchanged before your attention was brought back, "follow me. So this is my living room and as you can see, there‘s my kitchen. I hope you like wine? I found this one in my cupboard" you pointed at the bottle on your coffee table. "Here let me plate the food, make yourself a home" as you wandered off to the kitchen, Leah admired your home. It was tidy yet looked very cozy. Then her gaze fell to various of pictures and paintings you had in your living room. One in particular caught her attention, it reminded her of something that she couldn’t form in words, an familiar warm feeling filled her chest as she looked at it closely - something about this painting was special.

-

The night went on with an ease, everything felt so natural. Dinner was great, the conversation flowing, the tv long forgotten as both of your attentions were on each other. Throughout the night the two of you had moved closer, knees already touching as you shared jokes and stories about everything and nothing.

"I must say, i really like the paintings in here. This one especially" she pointed at your favorite.

"Thank you, that‘s very nice of you to say"

"How much did they cost you? They look so expensive!" she admired, quickly realizing what an rude question she asked, "oh I’m so sorry, that‘s not something I should be asking"

"No, don’t worry, you’re good" you assured her, "they didn‘t cost me anything, i did them myself" you said, "well, that‘s a lie, i had to buy the canvas and the paint but other than that i didn‘t cost me anything."

"No way! You really did these? Are you joking?"

You shook your head.

"Wow! These are amazing. Like seriously, you’ve got some serious talent!"

Soon you furiously started to blush, getting all shy as you looked away from the gunner.

"Can i see the ocean painting which you talked earlier about?" she remembered, hoping to get see more of your work.

"Sure, but it‘s not finished yet"

"That‘s fine. I‘d see anything you painted, really, this is so impressive"

"Stop" you buried your face in your hands, your cheeks as hot as ever, the tip of your ears a deep shade of red, "hey, no. Don’t hide that pretty face of yours" taking your hands out of your face, you stared at each other as everything around you fell silent. Both of you were so close, if you would just lean forward-

"Here follow me" you broke the silence, grabbing the lioness’ hand and dragging her to your art room, "don’t mind the mess" you said as you opened the door, showing Leah the inside of your heart.

For once, the defender didn‘t know what to say. Everywhere she looked where painting, sketches and drawings. It was like she not only stepped into your heart but also your brain.

"Wow" she whispered, in utter disbelief at what she saw. You did this. All of this!

Walking around the room Leah felt like she was at an art gallery, heavily impressed about the beauty she got to see in each painting.

"May i look in these too?" she asked once she was at your desk, sketchbooks across the table.

Slowly, you nodded. In that moment, you didn’t even think about the fact that you had sketched Leah too, and that more than once.

Every now and then, compliments slipped out while her fingers traced the lines and shapes of your art.

Then she stopped, silence deafening, "is that me?" she whispered, looking at more pages of herself.

"What? Shit, no, no, no." With a few quick steps, you slammed the book shut. Too embarrassed to even look at her, "you weren‘t supposed to see those" you muttered.

"So it was me?" she asked again, even though it was quite obvious that it was her indeed.

"Yes, I’m sorry. I‘m not a creep i promise! You‘re just- just so-" your brain went blank.

"yeah?"

"you‘re… you‘re just so amazing and i- I really like you. And i only realized that i sketched you once it was too late. I‘m really sorry! You weren‘t even supposed to see them. I‘m not a creep, I’m just in love with you and i never thought you‘d like me back and now you‘re here with me on date. Well at least that‘s what you said it was. But it‘s totally fine, if you don’t want it to be a date anymore or if you want leave now or-" in the middle of your ramble, Leah cut you off, with her lips gently pressing against your own, a perfect way to shut you up. Your body relaxed immediately as your lips responded to the new sensation. Leah’s hands fell to your hips while yours laid on her stomach, your brain not knowing where else to put them as it was completely consumed by Leah kissing you.

Here you were in the heart of your art with Leah, the most beautiful girl, who was kissing you, the artist.

And even though, most artist are only known for their work by everyone after their death, you weren‘t most and Leah surely wasn‘t everyone. She was the one.

"Wow"

"Indeed wow"

You both stared at each other in silence, loving the tranquil atmosphere you had created.

"So what should i call you now? Picasso? Van Gogh? Michelangelo? Da Vinci?"

You laughed at her comment, playfully hitting her chest while she pulled you even closer in return.

"While i did like Papa smurf, I’d eventually prefer my girlfriend" she smiled, leaning in once again.

[wileycap]

So, uh, Netflix Avatar, huh? Yeah. I guess I'll make a really long post about it because ATLA brainrot has is a cornerstone of my personality at this point.

So.

It's okay. B, maybe a C+.

That's it.

Now for the spoilers:

The biggest issue with the Netflix version is the pacing. Scenes come out of nowhere and many of the episodes are disjointed. Example: Aang escaping from Zuko's ship. We see him getting the key and going "aha!", and in the next scene he's in Zuko's room. And then he just runs out, no fun acrobatics or fights, and immediately they go to the Southern Air Temple where he sees Gyatso's corpse, goes into the Avatar state, and then sees Gyatso being really cheesy, comes out of it, and resolves that conflict. Nothing seems to lead into anything. The characters don't get to breathe.

The show's worst mistake (aside from Iroh fucking murdering Zhao) is its' first one: they start in the past. Instead of immediately introducing us to our main characters and dropping us into a world where we have a perfect dynamic where Aang doesn't know the current state of the world and Katara and Sokka don't know about the past, thus allowing for seamless and organic worldbuilding and exposition, they just... tell us. "Hey, this is what happened, ok, time for Aang!" There's no mystery, no intrigue, just a stream of information being shoved down the audience's throats and then onto the next set piece.

The visuals are for the most part great, but like with most Netflix productions, they just don't have great art direction. It feels like a video game cinematic, where everything is meant to be Maximum Cool - and none of the environments get to breathe. It's like they have tight indoor sets (with some great set design) and then they have a bunch of trailer shots. It's oozing with a kind of very superficial love.

Netflix still doesn't know how to do lighting, and with how disjointed the scenes are, the locations end up feeling like a parade of sets rather than actual cities or forests or temples. As for the costumes, Netflix still doesn't know how to do costumes that look like they're meant to be actually worn, so many of the characters seem weirdly uncomfortable, like they're afraid of creasing their pristine costumes.

The acting is decent to good, for the most part. I can't tell if the weaker moments come down to the actors or the direction and editing, but if I had to guess, I'd say the latter. Iroh and Katara are the weakest, Sokka is the most consistent, Zuko hits the mark most of the time, and Aang is okay. I liked Suki (though... she was weirdly horny? Like?) but Yue just fell kind of flat.

The tight fight choreography of the original is replaced with a bunch of spinny moves and Marvel fighting, though there are some moments of good choreography, like the Agni Kai between Ozai and Zuko (there's a million things I could say about how bad it was thematically, but this post is overly long already.) There's an actually hilarious moment in the first episode when Zuko is shooting down Aang, and he does jazz hands to charge up his attack.

Then there's the characters. Everybody feels very static - Zuko especially gets to have very little agency. A great example of that is the scene in which Iroh tells Lieutenant Jee the story of Zuko's scar.

In the original, it's a very intimate affair, and he doesn't lead the crew into any conclusions. Here, Iroh straight up tells the crew "you are the 41st, he saved your lives" and then the crew shows Zuko some love. A nice moment, but it feels unearned, when contrasted with the perfection of The Storm. In The Storm, Zuko's words and actions directly contradict each other, and Iroh's story gives the crew (and the audience) context as to why, which makes Zuko a compelling character. We get to piece it out along with them. Here - Iroh just flat out says it. He just says it, multiple times, to hammer in the point that hey, Zuko is Good Actually.

And then there's Iroh. You remember the kindly but powerful man who you can see gently nudging Zuko to his own conclusions? No, he's a pretty insecure dude who just tells Zuko that his daddy doesn't love him a lot and then he kills Zhao. Yeah. Iroh just plain kills Zhao dead. Why?

Iroh's characterization also makes Zuko come off as dumb - not just clueless and deluded, no, actually stupid. He constantly gets told that Iroh loves him and his dad doesn't, and he doesn't have any good answers for that, so he just... keeps on keeping on, I guess? This version of Zuko isn't conflicted and willfully ignorant like the OG, he's just... kind of stupid. He's not very compelling.

In the original, Zuko is well aware of Azula's status as the golden child. It motivates him - he twists it around to mean that he, through constant struggle, can become even stronger than her, than anyone. Here, Zhao tells him that "no, ur dad likes her better tee hee" and it's presented as some kind of a revelation. And then Iroh kills Zhao. I'm sorry I keep bringing that up, but it's just such an unforgiveable thematic fuckup that I have to. In the original, Zhao falls victim to his hubris, and Zuko gets to demonstrate his underlying compassion and nobility when he offers his hand to Zhao. Then we get some ambiguity in Zhao: does he refuse Zuko's hand because of his pride, or is it his final honorable action to not drag Zuko down with him? A mix of both? It's a great ending to his character. Here, he tries to backstab Zuko and then Iroh, who just sort of stood off to the side for five minutes, goes "oh well, it's murderin' time :)"

They mess with the worldbuilding in ways that didn't really need to be messed with. The Ice Moon "brings the spirit world and the mortal world closer together"? Give me a break. That's something you made up, as opposed to the millenia of cultural relevance that the Solstice has. That's bad, guys. You replaced something real with something you just hastily made up. There's a lot of that. We DID NOT need any backstory for Koh, for one. And Katara and Sokka certainly didn't need to be captured by Koh. I could go on and on, but again, this post is already way too long.

It's, um, very disappointing. A lot of telling and not very much showing, and I feel like all of the characters just... sort of end up in the same place they started out in. I feel like we don't see any of the characters grow: they're just told over and over again how they need to grow and what they need to do.

To sum it up: Netflix Avatar is a mile wide, but an inch deep.

[ditzyrafe]

— dom!rafe spanks you

warnings — spanking, dom!rafe who is also a softy, petnames (reader calls rafe ‘daddy’), lewd language

a/n — this is a part two of this story

(inspo p!link)

the air in the living room crackles with tension thick enough to taste. rafe stands before you, arms crossed, his expression full of displeasure. you'd deliberately ignored his instructions — touching yourself without permission. now, the weight of his gaze pins you down as you lay on all fours for him.

"i gave you a simple instruction," rafe says, his voice dangerously quiet, the deepness of it sending shivers down your spine. "and you chose not to listen, didn't you?"

"m’ sorry, daddy," you mumble, looking down at his feet, not daring to look at his face. shame prickles at you, but beneath it, something else stirs — a familiar, treacherous flicker of heat low in your belly. you know this look, this tone. you know what comes next.

"look at me when i'm speaking to you," he commands softly, but with an edge of steel that makes you lift your chin immediately. his eyes are dark, unwavering. "disobedience has consequences. you know that, don’t you?"

"i do," you whisper, the words catching slightly in your throat.

he nods slowly, his gaze sweeping over your form on the floor before settling back to your face. "get up and wait for me by the bed."

your heart hammers against your ribs as you obey, the short walk feeling like miles. the anticipation is a confusing mix of dread and excitement. you stand beside the bed, hands clasped nervously in front of you, waiting. when rafe enters the room a moment later, closing the door behind him with a quiet click, the atmosphere becomes even more charged.

he doesn't rush. he simply observes you for a moment, letting the silence stretch. then, he gestures towards the edge of the mattress. "bend over. hands on the bed."

your breath hitches, but you comply, the movement feeling both humiliating and strangely thrilling. you place your palms flat on the cool duvet cover, arching your back slightly, presenting yourself. you feel wetness begin to pool between your legs.

the bed creaks softly as his weight settles next to you. your eyes cling to the headboard, refusing to turn, every nerve ending alive to his proximity. then, you feel the definite hook of his fingers beneath the elastic waistband of your panties, his knuckles grazing the sensitive skin of your hips as he begins to tug them downwards, letting the soft cotton pool loosely around your knees.

then you feel it as the first impact lands — sharp, stinging, right across the curve of your backside. you gasp, flinching automatically. "count," he orders, his voice calm, steady.

"one," you choke out, the sound muffled.

the second smack follows quickly, just as hard. the sting layers over the first, radiating heat across your skin. "t-two."

with each impact, the initial shock gives way to a deeper, throbbing ache. but beneath the pain, the forbidden excitement coils tighter. your breathing grows shallow, your core clenches involuntarily.

smack. "fuck- ten." the sting is significant now, your skin undoubtedly flushed bright red from his touch. tears prickle at the corners of your eyes, but it's hard to tell if it's from pain or the sheer intensity of the moment.

rafe pauses, letting the silence hang, broken only by your shaky breaths. his hand rests heavy on the small of your back, a grounding weight that somehow feels both possessive and comforting. "do you understand why you're being punished?" he asks, his voice low, close to your ear now.

"b-because i've been a naughty girl," you manage to say. the heat between your legs is undeniable now, a slick heat that betrays just how much this forbidden punishment affects you.

"glad you realise it, baby," he murmurs. his hand doesn't move away immediately. instead, his fingers trace the inflamed skin where he struck you, a touch that is no longer punishing, but possessive, knowing. "let this be a reminder to listen next time, got it?"

you nod your head in understanding. "yes, daddy." the lingering touch, combined with the throbbing ache and the memory of his controlled anger, sends another wave of illicit pleasure washing through you, leaving you trembling and wanting more, even as the sting begins to fade.

"good. now let me fuck my baby to make up for it, yeah?"

taglist ; @13hischiers @rafesprecious @mayanqueenxx @bbshann @zoenighshade555 @feverg1rl @rafesgreasycurtainbangs @onxlyemery @yncoded @millie--billie @laniirackssss @slut4you @g3t2kn0w @kravitzwhore @dollyfiles @kild4re @zzhenyac @sparklyananas @dsfault @athaliahxoxo @allislths @nonbeliever1 @drewsephrry @soft-starr @k4yr14 @babydollll-bunny @leleasalwaysblog (join here) | divider creds ; @/anitalenia @/fairytopea

© written by ditzyrafe — do not steal or claim as ur own, stealing will result in me blocking u, any resemblance to any other story is simply coincidental!

[eccentricallygothic]

Coy

Pairing: Daddy!Steve Rogers | Shy Gf!You.

Description: Steve makes his shy girl call him Daddy <3

Warning(s): Stevie is lowkey a lil mean, m!dom, f!sub, size kink, unprotected p-in-v, missionary, doggy style, dick riding towards the end, spanking, hair pulling, age gap bc it's me, slight bondage idk, choking, humiliation, dumbification, dirty talk. MDNI.

Type: Request for my lovely @chxrryhansen, here. 

MASTERLIST

❤️

“C'mon, just say it, baby” Steve wasn't sure if the annoyance in his voice was unclear or if you were just that stupid. 

“Nooo, Stevie!” You giggled even though you had been whining just a few seconds ago because of how much strength he had had to use and the endurance that had been required of you to withstand the entering of his monstrous cock in your tight little pussy. Yes, Steve had indeed fingered you before that. And yes, it still hadn't been enough to open up your tiny hole. 

Not for Steve, anyway.

“Oh—” he stopped to keep himself from saying something hurtful because you were too sensitive for your own good. “Just… fuck!” He abruptly cursed as your pussy responded to the twitching of his dick by clenching around it just when he was balls deep inside you. “Just say it for me, yeah, baby?” You were choking his dick out and his dick was in pain too. 

Only, your tightness and his girth made up a pain too nice for either of you to want to stop. 

Your face was flush and your heavy breaths were labored, the weight of his massive body pressing yours down into the mattress. “B- But it's wrong, S- Stevie…” It took him all his strength to not scoff at your words so he took his ire out on your poor little nipple that was trapped between his cruel fingertips. 

“Why?” Steve's hips nearly collided with yours when he gave you yet another heavy but speedy thrust. 

“B- Because you're not actually my Daddy, S- Steve— hnng!” Your eyes rolled to the back of your head when you felt his breach intensify, the pangs that were being caused by the vicious jabbing of his hard, thick tip against your innermost spot on the brink of reaching your cervix. 

Steve's nose flared and his blue eyes suddenly flashed you an icy look. “Yeah?” His eyebrows went flat but the violent rocking of his body against yours didn't. The room was full of the gut-wrenchingly obscene sounds of skin slapping against flesh. “Who do you think I am, then?” 

It was getting harder to form proper words the more his cock caused for the burning knot to tighten between your hips. “Y- You… You're… AH!” Your arms that were coiled around his broad shoulders tightened against his neck to withstand how his huge hand rudely was squeezing your boob. “You're… b- bofi…” Steve's strength was no joke.

“And who says bofis can't be Daddies?” The golden haired man expectantly peered down at you for an answer but you were too busy moaning and rocking yourself against his cock as much as his heavy body allowed you to do so. 

“B- But…” Your small protest told him all he needed to know.

Steve didn't have time for this nonsense. 

A loud plop! sounded in the air and you blushed a deep shade of red despite your worked up state. Before you could word your complaint about why Steve had suddenly pulled out of your weepy cunt, the older flipped you onto your chest and roughly pushed what remained of your shirt -the beast had a thing for ripping your clothes off, good thing he made up for it by buying you prettier compensations- up your arms and around your wrists until they were bound above your head. 

New slick bubbled out of your opening as you whimpered and felt your hole blink in sensitive realization of the fact that now he wanted you to lay your face down and keep your ass up. Fuck. When he took you like that, there was absolutely nothing he couldn't make you do or say. 

After that, Steve had your throat in one hand and your boobs in the other, his muscular thighs fished their way under your trembling legs to collect them out of his way. His tip that had cooled down a bit made you jump when he entered you again and though the penetration was somewhat easier this time around, you couldn't help but whine from the stretch again. 

And then, Steve went into a crazed jackhammer mode. Your throat tickled and ached from the deep groans that crawled up your vocal cavity, ones that your position was forcing you to stifle into the mattress. The temperature of his cock easily returned back to its previous warmth. 

“Say it” he demanded as he squeezed your windpipe. 

All you could let out was a humiliating, breathless and incoherent guttural ‘aaaaah~’ as your body began to slide off his due to the force of his brutal fucking. The tip of your nose hurt from how it rubbed up and down the bedding.

“Tsk, messy little kiddie brat” his hand abandoned your boob to firmly claw around one of your thighs to hold you in place to ensure a smooth pounding. “Needs Daddy for everything but acts like she doesn't” you could deny it to your heart's content and be as shy and ‘innocent’ as you pleased, but the way you moaned, messed yourself up and clenched when he said the dirtiest things was not lost on him.

Steve knew you liked it all just as much as he did. 

“Oh, my God—!” Steve squeezed your throat again because he did not like what he was hearing. Your lungs ached from the strain he was putting them under.

“Now that's a bit far, baby” before he shook in mirth and the vibration of his body shook your squishy walls, the sensation causing your eyes to roll until their undersides burnt. “But I guess that's okay too” your fucked out mind felt somewhat relieved. Maybe this would satiate him and you would not have to— “But that's not what I want to hear you call me tonight” your chest ached from the wheeze you let out when he finally let your throat go to smack your ass and you could breathe again. “Come on, now. Chop, chop” you cried out from the frustration. 

He was so mean.

“After all, Daddies take care of their kids. And I take care of you, don't I?” There was something in the way he worded it. You moaned out loud. His balls began to penetrate your stubborn opening. 

And then he crept his fingers between your legs and against your cunt. The grainy digits stroked your hardened flesh. And you knew at once, you had lost. 

It was impossible to hold back now. The taut dam of your building orgasm came undone and your toes curled as bittersweet relief exploded between your hips and down your legs.

“DADDY! OH, DADDY! OH!” You began to chant uncontrollably, feeling your knees shake as cold sweat trickled down the back of your thighs. 

“Now that's more like the dirty little slut that I've raised on this cock” when Steve really got into chasing his own orgasm, and he always did that after yours, the most obscene and sodomous things came out of his mouth. “Tell me, brat” since you were going through a mind melt, Steve smacked your ass to redirect your attention to him. “Will you ever try to deny your Daddy again?” His hand wrapped your hair around it and your body curved in a humiliating angle as he pulled you up to bounce on his cock now.

“N- No, no, Daddy, no! Never!” Your orgasm was turning into overstimulation and there was not a damn thing you could do about it.  

“Really?” You broke into a fit of cries when Steve began to pat-slap your clit. “Doesn't sound very convincing to me…”

“No! No, Daddy! I promise! I promise! I promise I won't, Daddy!” You were curved so far out that your head collapsed on one of his hard shoulders. Your chest ached from how violently your tits bounced up and down.

“That's my girl” The baritone of Steve's voice drilled into your mind as he looked down at you before capturing your lips in a hungry kiss, one tyrannical paw settling on your chest to keep you from falling down, hips springing you up and down like a mindless little toy.

❤️

Everything tag 🩷: @rosecentury

I know it sucks, I am sorry. I have a very bad creative block these days but I am trying my best to clear out all requests <3 

[newboros]

I love the mutually agreed upon headcanon that Bond shows up in Q’s flat, bypassing all this miscellaneous traps, and sits there after missions. Just in the dark. And that each time Bond arrives he brings a little treat for Q:

Like he’s got some dead guy’s laptop, or his hard drive. Maybe brought back some blood-crusty glasses he think Q might like. Sometimes it’s just like half of a keyboard that seemed Kinda Cool. Mugs. Someone dead guy’s phone.

And each time Q is like. So thrilled. He takes apart all the technology Bond leaves him, cleans up and uses the new glasses, decorates the apartment.

But I like this universal headcanon because it’s so [pet of your choice here]!Bond to me - he’s just bringing Q whatever shit he found or thought Q might like and dropping it at his feet like “hello.” And at first Q indulged it from a patronising standpoint – “that’s very sweet, Bond,” comically placing the flash drive on top of the pile of flash drives from Bond – but now he just genuinely enjoys knowing that A) bond thinks of him in the field. And B) he could maybe actually build a franken-puter with all this gear.

I also think Q makes a big show of looking it over in his hands, brows furrowed, lips pursed, glasses on his head, really deciding if it’s worth keeping (he’d never throw anything out from Bond. EVER.) and then nodding in approval. And then Bond trying not to look incredibly pleased with himself, under the impression he’s aiding Q’s research or work. (He is decidedly not. He’s dropping various dead birds at Q’s feet.)

[suzukiblu]

WIP excerpt for Jan behind the cut; "the one where Kon's soulmark isn't fake". (( chrono || non-chrono ))

“Just fine, Kid,” Lane says darkly, still glaring daggers at the WGBS guys. Like, if she had heat vision . . . oof. There would not even be a stain left to clean up. There would not even be a smudge left to clean up. 

“We’ll fucking sue your–!” the TV reporter starts to yell, and wow does Lane project when she’s pissed-off. Like, she doesn’t even yell back at him; she just gives him a look and the dude snaps his mouth back shut so fast Superboy hears his teeth hit. 

“You’ll what, Nate?” she asks dryly. “Start another fight you can’t finish? Or just get put on probation for plagiarizing an intern again?” 

The TV reporter blanches, then tries to get himself together enough to brush the grass off and glare back at her. It is not effective. Like. At all. She just folds her arms and gives him this absolutely flat look like she’s just, like, bored. 

Yeah: major “oof”. 

Maaaaajor. 

Fuck, Lane is just so fucking cool. If Superboy was, like, a normie civilian type or whatever and not gonna grow up and be Superman, he’d wanna grow up and be her. Like, you know, except for the part where you probably have to go to college and shit for doing shit like being a reporter or whatever. So not, like, specifically growing up to be a reporter or whatever, just like . . . the vibes, whatever, he doesn’t know. 

Also like, who even reads the newspaper anymore anyway? Definitely not a solid career prospect to grow up and be. 

He's not really the college type anyway.

“Well, need anybody dropped on any of the rent-a-cops, then?” Superboy asks her, mostly because he’s already blown his cover so he feels like he should do something. “Or, like, does your buddy down there need dropped at the first aid station, whichever.” 

“I’m fine, Superboy, thank you,” Kent says, straightening his glasses awkwardly as he makes an even more awkward attempt at getting himself up off the grass. Superboy pretends not to remember meeting him after that embarrassment of a bank robbery in the vague hope he’ll be less fucking mortified about having met him at that embarrassment of a bank robbery, though his success is maybe kinda limited there. “Um–Lois, are you–?” 

“The only thing I ‘hurt’ was my knuckles,” Lane snorts, rolling her eyes. 

“Oh right, guess yours aren’t invulnerable, huh,” Superboy realizes, then ducks down and grabs Kent by the back of his jacket to pull the guy up to his feet. Usually he’d just let a dude handle himself, but this dude is just so awkward, he kinda feels bad for him. Like, might as well leave a three-legged puppy trying to climb the stairs solo, geez.

Kent makes a mildly startled noise and nearly overbalances in the process of getting his feet under him. Superboy is actually low-key embarrassed for him. Like–god, what, does the guy try to be this awkward? Superboy really, really feels like somebody should have to be trying, to be this awkward.

Lane has the weirdest taste in soul-dudes, seriously. Like, the literal actual weirdest. Superboy just genuinely cannot believe a badass like her has a soulmate with a glass jaw who, again, tripped his way into a microphone. 

Actually, he can’t believe Superman has a soulmate like that. Like–talk about fucking weird. 

Yeah, Superboy definitely doesn’t get it. If he had a soulmate like that–like, a weird awkward dude who literally couldn’t even take a punch from some rando TV reporter, seriously–like, what would that even be like? 

. . . like. What would that even . . . be like. 

Superboy thinks, like–he thinks: if his soulmark was real, if his soulmark matched somebody else’s, if there was actually somebody else on the end of it and it was weird awkward Clark Kent or professional badass Lois Lane or even Su–

“Like maybe your jaw’s fine but you should probably take up yoga or something, man, you gotta work on that center of balance,” Superboy informs Kent, because that’s all stupid fucking shit to be thinking about anyway. His soulmark’s fake, so it doesn’t matter anyway. Like–just, it’s fake. Obviously. 

It’s fake, so it was never gonna be fucking anybody. 

So he doesn’t think about it. 

“You should be taking this bitch to security!” the WGBS guy snaps, and Lane just arches an eyebrow and continues to look entirely unimpressed with him. 

“Sorry, who?” Superboy asks, cocking his own eyebrow at the dude. That . . . sure is a choice that this dude is choice-ing right now. Like . . . wow, definitely a choice. Like all these choices that he has been choice-ing. “The pretty lady in heels who I just watched your sleazy ass chuck a microphone at and then throw a whole-ass haymaker at? And like, not even competently? Like you’re lucky you didn’t bust up your wrist, man, your form’s total fucking shit.” 

Admittedly his general form is kinda iffy because his TTK reinforces all his bones and muscles and ligaments and everything else he’s got anyway, but he at least knows how to throw a basic-bitch punch, alright? Like, he can pumpkin spice his way through a street fight. He can in fact very much pumpkin spice his way through a street fight. 

“She started it!” the guy sputters indignantly. Superboy just pushes up his sunglasses and cocks his head to squint at the dude. 

“By what metric, man?” he asks, wrinkling his nose. 

[earthsparked]

hello earthsparked!! it is Hot As Balls where I am (damn you global warming, making the highs higher and the lows lower), but it made me think about Sweat and how bots may react to it.

we already know of some bots who Don't Like Organics/Humans, which is Kind of Fair we are Icky and Sticky, yet it's really interesting to imagine how a species that cools itself using integrated vent systems would Think of Sweat. I mean, we are made of Mostly Fluids, most of which are constantly moving, but we LOSE some of it to cool ourselves!! that's kind of crazy because we also NEED that fluid to Hydrate!!

using Prime bots as examples, I think that the most grossed out of them are: Knock Out (obviously), Starscream (also obviously), Ratchet (he's half worried and half grossed out), Ultra Magnus (he's mostly worried + kind of grossed out), and Megatron, but only partially (he just doesn't care).

the ones that are Interested in Sweat (not like that) are: Shockwave (he needs to know How and Why we developed to sweat), Optimus (who appreciates that humans are a product of our environment), Airachnid (she likes that we sweat b/c of Fear), and Bumblebee/Smokescreen (Bee is worried but grateful that we have a way to cool ourselves off) (while Smokescreen is like "woah???? what that's so weird!!!)

anyways sorry for Long Ask! sorry if there's any typos or mistakes, making an ask on mobile kind of sucks :(

You're always good, don't ever apologize for long messages! <3 I'm happy for the interaction and always glad to see people having a good time and theorizing about things!

You know, I think they would almost certainly manufacture far more heat than our bodies do. Only, they have a system of actual coolant lines and fans, probably heat sinks where needed. Meanwhile we're stuck being little half-assed swamp coolers. (I joke but it's a really cool system. Pun intended.)

I think what would really upset some of them is how, when you get above a certain humidity level, our natural cooling systems just don't work anymore. When you're largely relying on evaporative cooling for internal temperature regulation, and nothing is evaporating, you're pretty much screwed unless you can change something about your environment. Add in higher-than-normal nighttime temperatures that don't drop enough to allow for temporary cooling, and it gets REAL bad. Been there, on my way there again this summer, so you have my sympathy.

You're absolutely right to mention it: this is a serious concern IRL with climate change. You can reach a point where if you don't have a way of cooling your surroundings, it's flat-out unsurvivable.

I think they'd understand the dangers of overheating pretty well, since that's something that could happen to them, too, if their systems fail or experience damage. But of course, they can just replace anything that melts. It's harder for us to replace damaged internal organs, which is what can happen with severe heat stroke.

What would be even worse than you being all sweaty? The moment when they realize you've stopped sweating. When you tip over the line from "sit in the shade and have some cool water" to "hopital."

The good news is: if mechs don't like you being sweaty, all they have to do is let you in their alt mode and crank the air conditioning. I bet they can blast you straight to frosty in ten seconds with their cooling systems. (Seriously that is a LOT of heat they must be putting out. They gotta have the sort of heat dispersal ability that you usually wouldn't find outside of a nuclear reactor. But that's just fun conjecture.)

They would at least make real nice shady areas. Park themselves somewhere real sunny with no shade, and quickly have a bunch of humans lounging in their shadow. Like a sunbeam for cats in reverse.

[raekensluver]

sfw alphabet - chris dixon

masterlist | main masterlist

a = affection (how affectionate are they? how do they show affection?)

chris isn’t outwardly affectionate all the time, but when he is, it’s genuine and quietly intense. he shows affection in small, consistent ways - resting his hand on your knee when you sit together, brushing your hair behind your ear absentmindedly, texting you to come downstairs because he made your tea exactly the way you like it. he’s the type to kiss the top of your head and not say anything after, like the gesture itself already said enough.

b = best friend (what would they be like as a best friend? how would the friendship start?)

he’s a little awkward when you first meet, but once the friendship clicks, he’s all in. loyal, hilarious, and always willing to call you out if you’re being ridiculous - but in a way that makes you laugh until you cry. the friendship probably starts online or through mutual friends, where banter leads to late-night calls and inside jokes that only make sense to the two of you.

c = cuddles (do they like to cuddle? how would they cuddle?)

he won’t ask for cuddles - but if you start it, he’s not letting go. he’s surprisingly clingy when he’s tired, arms around your waist, face pressed to your shoulder, legs tangled like he’s afraid you’ll disappear. late-night cuddles while watching something dumb on youtube? his favorite.

d = domestic (do they want to settle down? how are they at cooking and cleaning?)

he likes the idea of settling down, even if it takes him a while to admit it out loud. he’s tidy in bursts - he’ll deep clean the whole flat at 2am on a random thursday and then leave his socks on the kitchen chair the next day. cooking is functional, not fancy, but he always makes sure you eat - even if it’s just ordering your favorite takeaway before you ask.

e = ending (if they had to break up with their partner, how would they do it?)

it would take everything out of him. he’s not good at expressing his feelings when they’re messy, so he’d probably rehearse it a hundred times, pacing the room before finally sitting down with you. it’d be quiet, heartfelt, and sincere - no blame, just honesty and a sadness he won’t be able to hide.

f = fiancé(e) (how do they feel about commitment? how quick would they want to get married?)

he’s not rushing - but once he’s sure, he’s sure. commitment doesn’t scare him when it’s with the right person. the proposal would be quiet and deeply personal - no flash or performance. just a moment where you’re both laughing, or sitting in your favorite spot, and he pulls out a ring with a soft, nervous smile and eyes that are absolutely certain.

g = gentle (how gentle are they, both physically and emotionally?)

he’s emotionally cautious but physically very gentle. the kind of guy who touches you like you might break, even if you’re stronger than him. emotionally, he struggles to be vulnerable at first, but once the walls come down, he handles your feelings like they matter deeply - because they do.

h = hugs (do they like hugs? how often do they do it? what are their hugs like?)

he does like hugs, even if he pretends otherwise. his hugs are grounding - arms wrapped tightly, head tucked against your shoulder like he’s anchoring himself. when he initiates, it means he really needs it. he hugs best in the middle of chaos, or when words just don’t cut it.

i = i love you (how fast do they say the l-word?)

he says it late - terrified to say it first, convinced you’ll pull away. but when it comes out, it’s raw and shaky, like it’s been building for months. maybe it slips out when you’re half asleep, or after a long day, when he looks at you like he can’t believe you’re real and just breathes, “i love you,” like it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

j = jealousy (how jealous do they get? what do they do when they’re jealous?)

he tries to play it cool - but he’s absolutely the jealous type. he won’t start drama, but his expression gives him away. arms crossed, jaw clenched, giving one-word answers while staring a hole into the wall. later, he’ll casually pull you into his side like, “you’re mine, right?” with a weak laugh and eyes that are dead serious.

k = kisses (what are their kisses like? where do they like to kiss you? where do they like to be kissed?)

his kisses are warm, a little slow, like he’s memorizing you. he likes kissing you on the cheek when he walks by, or on the shoulder when you’re doing something else - just soft reminders that he’s there. he melts when you kiss his temple or the corner of his mouth, like it short-circuits him completely.

l = little ones (how are they around children?)

a bit awkward at first, but so soft once he relaxes. he’ll be the guy making weird voices during storytime, letting a toddler style his hair, or nervously holding a baby like it’s made of glass. kids like him because he doesn’t try too hard - he just listens, and that’s all they really want anyway.

m = morning (how are mornings spent with them?)

he’s groggy and quiet, hair a mess, t-shirt wrinkled. mornings are slow - grumbling over who makes the coffee, standing in the kitchen barefoot while scrolling on his phone. but if you wrap your arms around him from behind, he always leans back into you without a word.

n = night (how are nights spent with them?)

his favorite time. lights low, some dumb video playing, your feet resting on his lap. he’s more talkative at night - more honest too. you’ll fall asleep to him muttering about some half-formed idea or asking you random “would you rather” questions while tracing circles on your back.

o = open (when would they start revealing things about themselves? do they say everything all at once or wait a while to reveal things slowly?)

he keeps things close to the chest for a while. he needs to feel safe before he starts talking about the harder stuff. once that switch flips, though, it’s like a dam breaking - stories from his past, his insecurities, all of it laid out quietly, like he’s saying, “here i am - please don’t run.”

p = patience (how easily angered are they?)

he doesn’t get angry easily - frustrated, yes, especially at himself. but he’s never one to lash out. with you, he’s even more patient than usual. if you’re upset or overwhelmed, he’ll just sit nearby, letting you take the time you need until you’re ready to let him in.

q = quizzes (how much would they remember about you? do they remember every little detail you mention in passing, or do they kind of forget everything?)

he remembers way more than you expect. the kind of guy who buys you that random snack you said you liked once six months ago. he won’t say anything about it, either - just casually drops it on your desk like it’s nothing. but it’s everything.

r = remember (what is their favorite moment in your relationship?)

the first time you really laughed together - like, really laughed. he’ll never forget it. something about that moment settled into his bones and told him, “this is what it’s supposed to feel like.” he brings it up sometimes with a tiny smile like he still can’t believe it was real.

s = security (how protective are they? how would they protect you? how would they like to be protected?)

he’s quietly protective. he won’t start fights or make a scene, but he’ll stand between you and anything that feels even a little unsafe. he notices everything - the way someone talks to you, the look in your eyes when something’s wrong - and acts accordingly. and when he needs protecting? all it takes is your hand in his and he settles instantly.

t = try (how much effort would they put into dates, anniversaries, gifts, everyday tasks?)

he might act casual, but he cares. he’ll spend hours making sure your birthday gift is perfect, plan a full day out for your anniversary, and show up at your door with flowers just because he had a good day and wanted to share it with you. it’s never showy, just intentional.

u = ugly (what would be some bad habits of theirs?)

he overthinks everything. like, spirals over the smallest things. also: leaves his hoodies everywhere, forgets to text back mid-conversation, and absolutely has a “snack drawer” that’s half crumbs. but he owns it, and if you tease him, he’ll just grin and offer you one.

v = vanity (how concerned are they with their looks?)

he pretends he’s not - but he 100% checks his hair before you hang out. he likes to look nice, mostly for you, but gets all flustered if you call him out for it. “what? i just- i dunno, i had time to fix it.”

w = whole (would they feel incomplete without you?)

he wouldn’t say it out loud, but yes. once he lets you in, you stay there. you become part of his routine, his thoughts, his plans. if you left, there’d be an ache in everything, a silence he wouldn’t know how to fill.

x = xtra (a random headcanon for them.)

he has a private playlist titled after your name. it’s a mix of songs that remind him of you, songs you’ve sent him, and ones he’d never admit he listens to when he misses you. if you ever found it, he’d pretend it was “just a joke,” but his face would go bright red.

y = yuck (what are some things they wouldn’t like, either in general or in a partner?)

he can’t stand dishonesty or game-playing. if you’re upset, he’d rather you tell him straight than pretend everything’s fine. he’s also not a fan of performative affection - he wants real, quiet, steady love, not curated for instagram.

z = zzz (what is a sleep habit of theirs?)

he sleeps curled toward you, one hand tucked under his pillow, breathing soft and even. if you shift away, even in your sleep, he instinctively reaches out - just needing that contact. he’s not a light sleeper, but somehow always wakes up if you do.

taglist: @themdera @beanhardy

[aradassbadass]

bad | d. dennis

duke isnt who everyone thinks he is & the only person that sees the real him is you and well lets just say its bad.

you couldnt stop the moans that erupted from your mouth as he gripped the front of your neck pulling it up to look at yourself in the mirror. eyes low, you couldnt help but gasp at the sight. you looked so used and almost unrecognizable from how you did just half an hour prior.

“ you see that slut,” he grunts in your ear and he continues to slam into your abused hole. “you see how you look for daddy.” you shudder at his words eyes clenching shut.

“open em” he almost growls hands clenching around your neck. your eyes snap open and you see him biting his lips as he looks at your body beneath his.

“daddy please.” you cry as he grabs a handful of your hair with his free hand, the other leaving your throat and traveling you your breast as they bounced with each thrust.

“what you want daddy to do? use your fucking words.” he says hips slamming harder into you as he pinches your nipple causing a loud cry to come from your lips.

“i wanna cum, please let me cum daddy.” you plead.

his assault halts and you feel his length slip out of you and you are then almost immediately turned lifted onto the cool counter. your back is now pressed againt the cool mirror and your legs spread as he drops his head and burrys it into your wetness.

“fuck.” you cry hands tangling themselves into his locks as you feel his tongue pressed flat onto your clit. he begins to lightly suck on it causing your toes to curl.

“yes daddy please.” you beg as his fingers come up and begin to tease your entrance before going in and massaging it.

“yes yes yes!” you encourage him feeling that familiar feeling in your stomach.

he continues to suck at your clit and you see his other hand go down to stroke himself. it all becomes too much when you pull his head away and a line of spit and your wetness is connecting your pussy and lips as one as he continues to twist his fingers within you.

you clench your eyes shut as you gush out on his fingers hand still gripping his hair.

“fuck” you hear he say as he stands your hand falling to the countertop beside you. another gasp leaves your lips as you feel him bury his dick back inside of you.

he pulls your body into his and buries his head into your neck as he strokes, breath heavy in your ear. you feel him jump inside of you and warmth floods your insides. he keeps in you through his release hands gripping your neck and waist hard enough to know that there will be bruises within the next few days.

when he finally stills and regains his breath his body leaves yours immediately and you wince at the sudden loss. you open your eyes hoping to find his but to no avail he is already slipping his boxers back on and reality sets in-you are just pussy to him.

you sigh and drop your head sadness, embarrassment and frustration all clouding your mind. he always did this, and you always let him.

“ ill send you some money for a plan b, but ima catch you later.” he says sliding his hoodie back on.

“k.” you mutter eye still averted from his and wordlessly he leaves just as he had came.

everyone saw duke as a loyal, kind, respectful gentleman, but they only saw that because you were the one who took all the anger, frustration, and punishment that he felt that everyone else deserved. he wasnt a bad man, just a shielded one and you wanted oh so badly to see the real him and now you had, but at what cost?

[housemdork]

house md rewatch: 1x19, "kids"

or the one where cameron's absence is so obvious that it causes a meningitis outbreak.

i'm qualifying this one as another stepping-stone episode for me, personally. i liked a lot of pieces of it, and obviously we get some major plot movement with cameron and house at the end, but i think we've entered Full Speed Ahead to the finale atp.

we open and close 1x19 with house and cameron, offering us a framed narrative that gets punched straight through at the end when cameron makes her shocking demand: a date! that's what it will take to get her back into PPTH. even without any foreknowledge, we can safely assume it's a loaded request with some pretty disastrous results incoming. but still, i have to say - i really hated this.

i see the plot and character resonance here. if i'm pretending like i haven't seen the resulting date (which i don't hate, despite disagreeing with the initial premise here), i still understand that a "date" will function more like a forced confrontation/dissection between 2 characters who have been struggling against the social norms of Having A Crush. it's not a role that either performs well, so good for cameron for trying to find a middle-ground, i suppose, but i sincerely can't get past the 2000s tv of it all. surely there could have been a more interesting way to do it. it's one house md's most daring attempts at breaking and/or redefining a trope, and i think this time it just falls flat.

i wish we didn't get to know cameron through this season-long dynamic with house, and i cannot wait for the deeper forays we get next season. i apologize for that negativity lol i just had to come clean about it. my patience has all but worn thin for this saga between them.

though i did like the visual representation of cameron being unable to progress forward by running in place on a treadmill to open the episode. she wasn't really going anywhere, was she?

as well as how house's acquiescence (HEAVY on the acquiescence) to her demands to come back mirrored how he asked her why she liked him. there are always bits and pieces to be appreciated, even amidst what i'd call rubble lol.

BUT! cameron's absence from this episode was very impactful in a way that i really enjoyed. after flubbing another attempt at soothing things between them, house is confronted with his worst nightmare: a clinic full of people who genuinely need his attention. watching chase and foreman fumble around, lacking the sensitivity that cameron carries so naturally in her practice, was an odd moment of solidarity between them, especially when they were so thrilled when house relieved them.

no such solidarity exists long term, however, since house dials his beef with chase up to 11. to me, it felt as if he was preaching cameron's noble high-road tendencies to chase, but vindictively, thus missing the point, when he forces chase to go through a medical glossary throughout the episode. of course it doesn't take - nobody can be like cameron, despite house's greatest wishes. house even dismisses the ingenuity of one of chase's ideas, which gets him the most upset, in the same way that cameron's ideas were often dismissed.

overall, he's clearly goading chase to crack and lash out in anger, like he's been so quick to do lately, and though chase gets increasingly aggravated, he maintains his cool.

i also really enjoyed the subtle callback to chase being raised catholic. he's replaced a bible for a medical textbook, replaced a stringent teacher and/or father with his surrogate father figure, who so happens to be the figurehead of chase's career in medicine, analogous to a church. good stuff.

it's wilson's preaching that breaks through to house on 2 fronts, both of which implicate cameron in the scene i've already mentioned. during fruitless interviews, it's very clear that house is looking for nobody but cameron, a way that he can a) preserve his normal and b) be around cameron, ofc, because he likes/cares for her. superficially, wilson is motivating house to be honest with cameron for once so he can stop indulging his habit of pushing people away.

but wilson also makes the point to broaden the conversational horizons (love you and your moralizing platitudes, honey). he clarifies that house has "a history" of pushing people away and that he's talking about "every woman you've ever given a damn about!" in the face of house's jabs over perfection, he warns that "you're gonna wind up alone, house."*

this speech doesn't solve the problem entirely, ofc, but it points house in the right direction, and he finds solace/confirmation of his next steps in the patient, mary. mary is steeling herself in the face of horrifying circumstances - being traumatically pregnant at 12 years old - and insists that her parents, her team, don't need to know what she's going through. house preserves her privacy, but sees her give in to her parents just before he goes back to cameron's house:

house sees the strength in mary and, due to this show's hilarious habit of equating life-altering medical trauma to petty interpersonal issues, is inspired to be honest and "ask for help" in his own way. with that in mind, i like what house brings to the table when he returns to cameron. he's reflected and grown and saved a kid's life along the way. the understanding that, though he may technically be strong enough to subsist alone, he doesn't always have to, is pretty profound. too bad he won't hang onto it lol.

i need to shout out cuddy, like always, for 1) managing this absolute hellacious situation in her hospital; 2) putting up with house and wilson's shit the entire time; and 3) immediately understanding the urgency when house explains that the patient is bleeding into her brain and forcing open an operating room for her. i love that cuddy's strong instincts are such an integral part of her character, such that i find myself taking them for granted sometimes.

overall? neat episode. again i apologize for the splurge of negativity in there. i like what the house/cameron arc says for them by its end, but it is Taking Too Long for me.

major hilson posting below (i would put another 'read more' section break if i could!):

*okay so what's crazy about the "you're gonna wind up alone, house" exchange is not that it ends up being just NEARLY true, but wilson's emphasis on women. idc if i'm grasping at straws that haven't even been manufactured yet because it's still season 1. in the conversation, they're talking around each other; wilson is trying to pin house down amidst all his attempts at obfuscating, but wilson is physically moving through the scene, working, driving the dialogue:

i have made MANY posts (lots during my live blogging era) of how house and wilson often invert visual shot compositions/dynamics. in their case, usually whoever is seated and looking up is in charge of the conversation, and the person trailing behind is usually the subject of the conversation (think 4x14). and here's how the conversation plays out (with some omissions for brevity):

"you always find some tiny little flaw to push people away."

"...when i do decide to push you away, i hope there's a small person kneeling behind you so you fall down and hit your head." this is crazy btw. think of all the people house subsumes in wilson's life.

"you had the perfect person. and you blew it."

"cameron is so not perfect."

"well nobody's perfect."

wilson being house's imperfect "good side" holds weight here. nobody is perfect, admitted by the faulty personification of that perfection meant to contrast house at every turn but, again, forever failing in that regard. even visually the roles have been assigned - wilson's prestine white coat vs. house's sloppy black coat.

we have also now firmly established that these 2 have seen each other thru many failed relationships, and in an episode defined by the loss of one (house's relationship to cameron), i think this is relevant. in a conversation about house's tendency to remove people from his life, the audience has a subtle laugh about how these 2 seem to be eternal friends despite that tendency, and it's wilson who genders things. wilson introduces the subject of women, even though they interviewed a male candidate earlier.

what i'm getting at is that wilson is house's perfect person, of course. i think 1x19 builds a funny, unimportant setup for this subtextual joke really well, actually, but if i break my own rules and invite outside context into this post, this joke stands the test of time.

[kiefbowl]

What about amateur porn or drawn erotica?

"amateur porn" is mostly a marketing term. it's meant to convey an idea that the porn is "homemade." but what stops people from just producing and marketing content that looks like that? especially since the idea has been pushed successfully that this is "more ethical porn." That is capitalism 101 - find a market you aren't capturing, make them a product they'll buy.

Even in the event it's not actually a production by a studio, you cannot verify that the porn you're watching is not a woman in an abusive relationship with a pimp. Boyfriends become pimps all the time. I think people have this idea that pimps are caricatures that pop out of the ground organically and fully formed, like some sort of mythological "bad guy." They don't stop to think that any opportunistic man (or woman) can become a pimp easily by just having access to a vulnerable woman. If someone enjoys porn, I think it's easy and worthwhile for them to have a disconnect between what "real abusers" do and what happens in a mythical porn setting that's more convenient to imagine. Yet do you need to look far to find examples of couples either A) joking how much money they could make if the wife would get on OF B) fighting because the husband wants the wife to get on OF to increase their revenue and she doesn't or C) just flat out admitting the wife is on OF and how much money it brings to the table? Besides the fact that in any one of these situations, this could be a covert marketing tactic by OF working with a couple, but even if it's not...why believe in scenario C that the husband is just some good guy and this is just some normal situation they fell into? The difference between scenario C and a pimp is what? They're being public about it by framing it a certain way? Well if that makes the public normalize it, why wouldn't "real" pimps just take that lead and do the same? My point is that there is no distinction: a man (whether it's a stranger, a friend, a dad, a husband, a boyfriend) exerting control over a woman by making her perform sexual acts for his own profit is a pimp, and I don't see why we should trust the way he frames it publicly, even if he says "I'm just a progressive husband who isn't jealous and loves that my wife shakes ass online for our family" or whatever gets people to go "cool! I will not questions this."

I'm sure you're asking in good faith anon, so this isn't directed specifically at you, but often when porn watchers are engaging in debate about porn, they'll start bringing up things like 'drawn erotica' as if it's some sort of gotcha. To me, it's so revealing how little they care about the arguments presented about the harms of the porn industry because yes, obviously drawn erotica is different than filming real humans having sex. It also reveals some sort of assumed bias that the person presenting objections to porn without appealing to religious morality or puritanical ideas about sex are somehow being deceitful. As if once "victimless porn" is brought up, they'll be unable to lie and their true nature will be revealed because they'll have some thinly veiled excuses about how drawn porn is obviously just as bad, because it's so sexy!

Drawings of people having sex or being naked and sexual are not above criticism in how they replicate harmful ideas about sex, sexuality, and gender - but they also aren't literal forms of violence against real people. So, it's irrelevant to the discussion of vulnerable people being pushed into porn to perform sexual acts against their will to a point of ruination. If someone feels comfortable continuing to watch and masturbate to porn after this has been explained to them, I don't see why any thoughts I have on erotica written or drawn or otherwise really matters. They can't be convinced through that avenue, clearly. They're probably willing to take whatever thread they can pull on to justify their consumption and to assuage their conscience over watching porn. That to me signifies a porn addiction, because even a casual viewer of porn who's never come across any anti-porn arguments knows they can live without porn, knows they don't need to defend it tooth and nail, and will not play stupid about comparisons to real people having sex on film/enacting violence on each other to erotic drawings.

At the end of the day, re: erotica, I would need to take each thing of media in it's own right and judge it for itself (like all film, books, and art). If it replicates pornographic images (i.e. the film language of porn that I take issue with vis-a-vis misogyny and violence against women), then yeah I'm going to have a problem with it. Not because it's sexual, but because it's content is disagreeable to me in that it's misogynistic. The scale for that is going to be sliding - the difference between a causal representation of unexamined gender dynamics and extremely violent CSAM is huge. I don't take issues with people finding, say, mild 18th century drawings titillating as much as I take issues with people acting entitled to violent images as if their masturbation depends on it and they're entitled to masturbate to whatever they want. Why? I masturbate to my imagination all the time. It's literally the easiest and most natural thing to do. If someone can't, it's probably because they're addicted to porn. If desperate poor women being pushed into drugs to continue making porn that becomes increasingly violent doesn't stop someone from watching porn, then maybe I should ask them to get angry at porn for altering their brain so badly. That's how desperate people sound when they have to scrape the bottom of the barrel in the face of facts about violence, poverty, suicide, and abuse.

[lsunstreakerl]

i cannot stop thinking about the ear piercings for max in the darkbull verse

this was also sticking in my head a bit, so here's 930 words of Max POV. hi! darkbull :) but tame darkbull, all things considered.

Max leans his face into GP's palm, eyes gently shut as a hand drags softly through his hair. The piercer is holding his ear, gloves cool against Max's skin.

GP is cradling the side of his face, tilting his head carefully so the piercer has a good angle. Max is only a little hazy- GP had passed him a water in the car earlier, and Max had made a face. He didn't particularly want to be fucked up today, but it's not like he can refuse everything from the team, all the time- it's just not realistic.

He wouldn't put it past them to figure out some other way either, and Max enjoys keeping his life as painless as possible, so he'd drank the whole bottle on the way in.

It must be a diluted dose though, because he's not checked out the way he usually is. Instead it's a pleasant buzz, drifting Max away from his body just enough to soothe his nerves, leaning against GP.

He barely feels the sting near the top of his ear, careful fingers adjusting the piercing. They're all small studs at the moment, silver and navy placeholders while it heals before Max can have nicer ones. There's the swift heat of an alcohol wipe, and then the piercer leans back, giving GP a nod.

"That's all of them. It's important that they get cleaned frequently, don't try for anything decorative until they're healed. Keep a close eye on the rook on this side, and once they're healed up I'll do the conch and the daith on the other, sound good?"

Max isn't even sure which ones they've done- he's got quite a few, but he hadn't bothered counting. Apparently there'd been a discussion about trying to get them all in once, or scattering them out, but the team had decided to do as many as possible in one go, so that Max only had to deal with the healing process for a little bit. It would've been much more drawn out if they'd waited- although the piercer had wanted to stagger out the last few.

Max doesn't mind. They'll have to figure something out for his in-ears on race day, but he's sure the engineers are already on it.

GP leans over him to shake the piercers hand.

"Thank you, really. We'll keep in touch about that follow up- and he'll take good care of them, don't worry."

By "he" Max knows they actually mean the team. He doesn't mind it anymore- never has- and it's nice sometimes knowing he doesn't have to worry about anything.

They'd been careful with him when he'd first gotten back and had the tattoo redone- not that he remembers much of it. Brief flashes of large hands gentle against his ribs, warm baths, team dinners. They'd done a good job bringing him back into the fold, even deeper than before, stitching together all the flayed parts of him Charles had left behind and weaving him into the team.

He'd be nothing without them.

He's still leaning against GP as they stand, a steady arm wrapped around his shoulders as GP walks them back to the car, a soft kiss to the top of his head.

"You did a good job, Max."

All he had to do was sit still and let them put a needle in him- Jake does that all the time when he's drunk anyways. It's still nice to hear GP say it, and Max lets the praise settle warm in his chest, humming softly.

He flips the visor down in the car, tilting his head each way to really look.

There's four on the left side, scattered across his ear, and three on the right. The studs are small and flat, mostly silver with some deep navy blue here and there.

Max snorts.

"Mate, I look like a Red Bull can."

GP laughs lightly, one hand snaking across the console to squeeze Max's knee briefly as he reverses out of the lot, eyes on the rear view mirror.

"Was it ever going to be anything else?"

Max flips the visor back up, settling into the seat. He knows the answer already.

It's a bit like his life with Red Bull, when he thinks about it- doing his time with the navy and the silver, belonging to the team entirely before he can have the gleaming gold he knows is coming.

He's sure there's probably all kinds of conversations happening right now about what the team wants the piercing layout to be.

Daniel, Carlos, and Oscar should all have a say in it as well, but Max really doesn't understand the hierarchies there- and it doesn't impact him any, beyond that they probably shouldn't use his mouth for a few days while his ears are still tender. One wrong hand placement could lead to a very painful night.

They'll be dramatically devastated about it until they remember Max has other things to offer.

It might even lead to something creative, depending on how they're feeling.

He leans his head back against the seat, eyes drifting back shut. GP's palm is warm over his knee, and he feels good, just on the edge of hazy.

Sometimes he wonders if he should be horrified, letting the team do whatever they want. Half the time the drugging isn't even subtle anymore, but there's something reassuring about it. The team doesn't need to be secretive about it, Max knows they just want what's best for him- and he clearly doesn't know himself, so it's better to let them handle everything.

All Max has to do is drive and listen.

[kittluzbills]

Hi, I have a request. Can you write about Joe dating other girls and the main character at the same time? But he falls in love with her and wants them to be together formally

hi baby :)

let me know how you feel ab this!! i actually like how it turned out which is very surprising (i did keep it in the chamber for a few hours but ignore that)

--

a change of heart - j. b.

Joe had always been the kind of guy who liked to keep things casual. He dated other girls, had fun, but never committed to anyone. It was easier that way—no expectations, no complications. But everything changed when he met Y/N.

At first, it was just like any other date—lighthearted, full of laughter, and a bit of harmless flirtation. But as the days went on, Joe found himself thinking about her more than anyone else. He couldn’t help it. There was something about her—the way she smiled, the way she made him feel seen, like no one else ever had.

He tried to keep his distance, juggling a few other girls on the side, sticking to the routine that had worked for him in the past. But every time he was with someone else, his mind wandered to her. Every conversation felt flat compared to the ones they had. Every kiss felt empty. He couldn’t stop thinking about how real things felt with Y/N.

One evening, they were sitting on a quiet bench in the park, the evening air cool and crisp around them. Y/N was telling him a funny story about something that happened at work, and Joe found himself smiling, but not just because of the story. He was smiling because he realized just how much he’d come to care about her.

"You're different, you know," Joe said, his voice a little quieter than usual.

Y/N raised an eyebrow. "Different how?"

He hesitated, then laughed nervously. "Just… different. In a good way. It’s hard to explain."

She tilted her head, studying him. "Well, I like to think I’m a pretty good listener. So if you ever want to explain it… you know where to find me."

Joe’s heart raced, his feelings for her suddenly feeling too big to ignore. He took a deep breath, his thoughts swirling. He couldn’t keep up this act anymore.

"Y/N," he started, his tone serious. "I need to tell you something."

She paused, sensing the shift in his mood. "Okay, what's up?"

Joe turned to face her, his eyes locking onto hers, feeling the weight of what he was about to say. "I’ve been dating other people. I won’t lie about that. But… I realized something."

Y/N’s gaze softened. "What did you realize?"

"I realized that none of them feel like you," he confessed, his voice thick with emotion. "And I don't want to keep seeing other people. I don’t want to date anyone else. I just... want you. Only you."

Y/N blinked, caught off guard by his honesty. "Joe… are you saying you want to be serious? With me?"

Joe nodded, his heart pounding in his chest. "Yeah. I know I’ve been a bit of a mess with this whole ‘keeping my options open’ thing, but it’s always been you, Y/N. You make everything else feel... meaningless. I care about you, and I’m not gonna keep pretending I don’t."

She stared at him for a long moment, her heart racing, unsure if this was some kind of joke. But when she saw the sincerity in his eyes, she felt something inside her shift. She’d always known there was something different about him, but hearing him admit it? That was another thing entirely.

"So, what does that mean?" she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

"It means," Joe said, taking a deep breath, "I’m asking you to be with me. For real. No more games. No more dating other people. I want to be with you, Y/N. I’m done messing around."

Y/N’s heart fluttered in her chest. This was the moment. She could feel the weight of it—how everything could change in an instant.

"I thought you didn’t do the whole ‘commitment’ thing," she teased, trying to lighten the mood.

Joe smirked, the corner of his mouth lifting. "Yeah, well… I was wrong."

Her smile softened. "Okay, Joe. I’ll give you a chance. But just know—you’ve got a lot to prove."

He grinned, relief flooding through him. "I’ll spend the rest of my life proving it to you."

And in that moment, Joe knew—he wasn’t letting go of this. Not now. Not ever.

---

requests are open as always. should i start a series based on an album? its such a broad question but it seems fun!

my masterlist :)

xoxo, kitt