#i just know he set something on fire once

[sqgeism]

ive been reading too many domestic fics lately

sage...*gets on knees and bows head in utmost reverence*

domesticity with the amphoreus men. A NORMAL DAY IN THE LIFE. THERE'S TOO MUCH ANGST. MAKE THE PAIN GO AWAY I BEG OF THEE.

lots of love,

ri.

𐙚 𓏵𓏵𓏵 𐙚 i don't wanna be the owner of your fantasy | amphoreus men x gender neutral reader

🍒 — ᥫ᭡ i just wanna be a part of your family . the world is kinder when i close my eyes and pretend all of it isn't on fire.

love mail — ⨾ hiii ri anaxa's #1 dove fr 👰‍♂️ i stopped writing vamp anaxa to LOCK IN. no more angst for oomfs.. only happiness 🧘‍♀️🧘‍♀️ (lying) rly quick sorry ri ily 🥀

anaxagoras isn't domestic.

he isn't domestic when he wakes up a little earlier than you, making sure to kiss your forehead before getting out of bed, moving the alarm you set to five more minutes since you don't want to get up too early.

surely, it isn't domestic when he makes you your preferred beverage in the morning—or a different breakfast each time for you to try. or when he had brought home your favorite snacks on the way home from the academy for you to eat later when he's gone. not at all, it's just all too sweet for the prickly professor.

and when he serves you breakfast in bed, turning off the alarm he had adjusted to instead wake you with loving kisses to your face, it isn't supposed to be interpreted as an intimate gesture, no way. "morning." anaxa whispers softly, the faintest smile gracing his lips as he watches your eyelids slowly flutter open. titan, your eyes had to be inspired by the finest of jewels when the gods were making you. simply gorgeous.

anaxa tries to make mornings as special as possible, knowing he'll be gone for hours once he walks through that door and comes home late again, to his dismay. he'd take care of you all throughout the day if he could.

don't.. don't call it domestic though.

it isn't.

anaxa will do anything but call it that </3

to say mydei yearned—that he ached and bled for this life—is an understatement.

titan forbid a man wants to scream about how much he loves his partner and the life they have together, that he loves waking up to you playing with his hair or tracing his marks. it's then followed by his home gym routine, and if you choose to join him or not—he hopes you at least stay.

if you do, he likes to talk about health and different routines he wants to try and if you're interested. if not, he likes it if you stick around and do your own thing. maybe read or some work? but stay close by, please, you're his motivation.

all meals are to be cooked by prince of castrum kremnos and prince of castum kremnos only, but if you'd like for takeout or a fancy restaurant (or he made plans), he's happy to do so! but cooking is a biiig love language for him, definitely used it to impress your friends and family. it makes him feel like a little boy getting praised whenever you tell him that your family wants him to cook something for them, he's just the happiest!

and kids, oh they're the dream. but he doesn't mean they have to be human kids, pets work too! they're basically kids, no? he just.. he wants to care for something, someone. he loves you so much but he also has so much love to give to the world too </3 agh hes such a sweetheart im sorry

he loves you because you're his last, he knows it. youre his heart and soul and he's surrendered every part of his being to you. his heartbeat is the same as your laughter and his eyes can only ever reflect you. he hopes he can give back even just a fraction of all the happiness you make him feel.

phainon is so painfully enamored with his domestic life he completely forgets he's supposed to be a warrior sometimes.

he thinks he's the luckiest man in the universe to see you when you just wake up, when you're still drowsy and trying to snuggle into his chest further, not wanting to get up.. an absolute goner. he's a 'weak' man (for you), all he needs is your sweet words to tell him to do something and he's all yours.

he likes it when you take care of him, considering how hard he works. phainon is a provider at heart but to be dote on is very very nice, who says no to kisses and sweet words from their angel anyway? absolutely not phainon. he'll HAPPILY take your attention away from the world, not like it needs it. the world has him, and he has you.

you're the one thing he doesn't have to share, to sacrifice (HOPEFULLY!!!!), and he doesn't ever want to lose sight of that fact. that no matter how much he goes through, he has someone waiting for him back at home. and they'll be expecting his arms around him before they sleep, whispering sweet nothings and look forward to waking up to have it all to themselves all over again.

and maybe that's why you two work so well together, the fact that you'll only ever be selfish with each other.

© sqgeism or wtv (^_^;)

[kxsagi]

just so you know I'm down the bada lee rabbit hole again.

hear me out, professional dancer reader with bf bllk men going to her studio during off season, live streaming bc his visit was supposed to be a surprise only to open the door and see the most jaw dropping, pants bulging, down bad sexy dance known to mankind and their reaction was like "is the floor pregnant? Chat, are WE pregnant?" or or or "I have nothing appropriate to say"

(have you seen take me down by bada lee? oh god, I'm combusting. yeah, it's definitely inspired by that😩)

“𝐦𝐞𝐧 𝐰𝐡𝐨 𝐲𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐧 𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐧”

a/n: i don't know bada lee but i love the prompt 😩

suggestive content inside! 

ft. isagi yoichi, itoshi rin, itoshi sae, shidou ryusei, kaiser michael, kunigami rensuke, nagi seishiro, mikage reo, bachira meguru, karasu tabito, ness alexis

isagi yoichi

he thought he was slick. thought he was clever. he’s grinning all proud, walking up to your studio with his livestream on, whispering to the chat like “she has no idea i’m here, i’m gonna surprise her, she’s gonna freak out.” 

and she does, but not in the way he’s expecting because when he opens the door… it’s over. 

you’re mid-routine, hips rolling to the beat in a red cutout set that looks like it was made for war. thighs clenching around the floor, lips parted, sweat glistening, hands everywhere on your body as you arch and twist like a siren conjuring sinful thoughts from hell. 

isagi freezes in the doorway like he’s been sniped. his jaw unhinges. the phone almost slips from his hand. chat is already going crazy with: “bro blink once if you’re alive” “ISAGI?? EARTH TO ISAGI.” “GET HER OFF THE FLOOR YOICHI BEFORE IT’S TOO LATE.” 

“chat i-i have nothing appropriate to say.” he sounds like he’s been run over by a freight train and revived solely to yearn. 

he turns off the live with trembling fingers and just stares. you pause, breathless, giving him a sheepish smile. “surprise?” 

he deadass just whispers “i need to sit down.” 

he never fully recovers. your dance becomes his villain origin story and the sole reason he wakes up every morning now. 

itoshi rin

he doesn’t do livestreams. he thinks they’re dumb. he also thinks surprises are lame. 

but he likes you, and unfortunately, that means he ends up walking into your studio mid-livestream because you forced him to use your account to “say hi to fans.” 

he was going to make a snarky comment, something like “this is stupid,” but the second the door opens and he sees you? he dies. 

you’re dancing like the song is inside you. your waist is so hypnotic, it’s spiritual. the way you bend over and spread your legs like the floor owed you money is– he almost drops your phone. chat immediately combusts. “IS HE FROZEN OR HARD.” “not him clutching his own chest” “rin.exe has stopped responding.” 

“… chat, is the floor pregnant?” he mutters. “are WE pregnant???” 

he shuts the stream off immediately. stands there with both hands over his face. you blink at him. 

“hi?” 

“what the fuck,” he breathes, “what the fuck was that. where did you learn that. why did you learn that. why are your hips doing that. is this even allowed. you’re going to jail.” 

he says all that while silently begging god to give him strength because he cannot unsee what he just saw. 

itoshi sae

sae is calm. smug. practically cocky. he agreed to do a livestream surprise visit purely because his fans begged. 

he does his little bored intro: “yo. she doesn’t know i’m coming. let’s get this over with.” 

he opens the door. walks in… and is immediately hit with something he was NOT spiritually prepared for. 

you’re performing a slow, seductive floor piece that’s basically the visual embodiment of “i can take your man.” your body moves like honey on fire. every grind, every roll, every moan-like breath into the music is pure lust incarnate. 

he stops. phone still recording. expression completely neutral. but the eye twitch gives him away. 

chat is LOSING IT. “HE’S IN SHOCK.” “sae.exe is buffering.” “he’s at 1% battery rn.” 

he slowly turns the camera to himself and deadpans, “chat, i… genuinely have no appropriate words. the things i’m thinking are illegal in most countries.” 

the stream explodes. 

you glance at him, raising an eyebrow. “hey.” 

he clicks off the live mid-greeting. doesn’t speak. doesn’t blink. just drags a hand down his face, walks up to you, and mumbles “you’re really trying to test my patience, huh?” 

you giggle and wrap your arms around him. he hugs you back stiffly. 

and then whispers, “get in the car. i’m buying you a cage. we’re gonna have to lock you up.” 

shidou ryusei

he’s the one who planned the livestream. he’s the one who planned the surprise. he’s the one who made sure your fans were watching. he was ready to make it a moment. 

but he was not ready for you. 

you’re moving like a goddess of lust summoned by the devil himself. hair sticking to your skin, tongue poking out, ass clapping back with godlike rhythm as you dip and grind and body roll to a beat that’s clearly trying to destroy him personally. 

he drops the phone. it lands face up, still streaming. 

chat gets a full view of shidou on his knees with his hands in his hair muttering “bro. bro. bro. bro.” “BRO YOU PLANNED THIS LMAOOO” “why are we on our knees” “i fear this is the end of ryusei shidou” 

he scrambles toward you like he’s being drawn by a tractor beam. “babe. babe. what the fuck is this choreography. you tryna give me a nosebleed?? who let you cook??? i feel like i’ve been assaulted, in a hot way.” 

you smirk. “you like it?” 

“i’d pay to be the floor,” he deadpans. “hell, i’d kill the floor. just to be under you like that.” 

he turns back to the phone and tells the chat “alright stream’s over, i’m about to risk it all.” and he means it. 

kaiser michael

you know how confident this man is. how cocky. how absolutely sure he has control over every situation. 

so when he walks into your studio mid-livestream with a dumb smirk and that trademark “guess who’s here, shatz” attitude, and then sees you dancing like the dictionary definition of wet dream, he crumbles. 

you’re giving a lapdance to empty air. you’re moaning with the music. your whole body is sin incarnate. 

chat immediately goes feral. “BRO THE KING HAS BEEN DEPOSED.” “kaiser rn: 🧍” “someone get this man CPR.” 

he stares for a solid minute before slowly raising the phone and muttering, “chat i think i’m in heat.” 

you pause the music. smirk. “enjoying the view?” 

“enjoying???” he laughs, chokes, then says: “liebe, i’m about to write a thesis about your hips. i’m about to drop out of football and dedicate my life to being your personal hype man. i am now YOUR fan.” 

and then he immediately ends the stream and walks straight to you with one goal: suffer. 

kunigami rensuke

kunigami isn’t a social media guy. the livestream was your idea and he only agreed because he missed you. 

but when he steps into your studio and sees you doing a routine that could make a priest reconsider his life choices, he’s done. 

you’re in fishnets. leather. there’s a chair involved. you’re gripping it with both hands, dropping into a split, and grinding like you’re trying to break the laws of physics. 

chat goes silent at first. then explodes: “YOOOOO????” “MY EYES. MY SOUL. MY LOINS.” “sir pls take your jaw off the floor” 

kunigami’s entire soul leaves his body. he turns the phone to his face and just stares into the camera like he’s seen god and god had thighs and a crop top. “uh… chat? i think i need to… lie down. or pray. or both.” 

he turns back to you, slack-jawed. “is that how you normally dance?” 

“mhm. you like it?” 

“… is liking it considered a sin?” 

he hasn’t blinked once. he’s stuck between respectfully worshipping you and full caveman mode. 

nagi seishiro

he didn’t even want to leave the house. you literally had to bribe him with snacks to get him to your studio. he shows up in sweats, phone in one hand, yawning into the livestream. 

“yo… surprise visit to my girlfriend’s studio. pretty boring but i was promised mochi…” 

and then the door opens. brain: gone. body: gone. peace: gone. 

he sees you on your knees, head thrown back, arching and rolling your body like you’re trying to audition for a music video that will get banned from the internet. 

and the worst part? you're not even trying. you're just moving naturally, hypnotic, seductive, everything nagi never thought he could be so down bad for. 

he drops his phone like it bit him. chat gets a full view of his shocked face tilted sideways on the ground. “WAIT PICK THE CAMERA UP” “HELLO??? IS THAT HIS GF???” “nagi you okay blink twice” 

he doesn't say a word. just stands there with his mouth open like someone rewired his brain with lust. 

you stop and wave, smiling all innocent. “hi baby!” 

nagi just lets out a choked noise. “... you didn’t tell me you were doing that.” 

“you like it?” 

“i’m gonna die,” he mumbles. “i think you just killed me.” 

mikage reo

oh, reo’s dramatic on purpose. he plans this livestream with lights, captions, music, filters, and everything because he wants it to look polished. 

“yo guys, today’s exclusive content: surprising my gorgeous girlfriend, live from her studio. watch her cry tears of joy when she sees me.” 

spoiler: he’s the one crying. 

because he opens that studio door and immediately regrets every decision that brought him here. 

you are dancing like a walking, talking problem. expensive-looking bodysuit, heels, arching off the floor like you’re performing for the gods. hair whip, thigh slap, booty drop, all of it. 

reo drops the phone like it’s a hot coal. chat gets shaky footage of his hand gripping the wall and him whispering: “chat. i’m weak. this is it. this is how i die. i’m about to pass out in gucci slides.” “SHE’S COOKING. WE’RE STARVING.” “yo someone help this man” “THE RICH BOY CAN’T BREATHE” 

he actually shuts off the stream and just kneels on the floor, dramatically fanning himself. 

you glance over. “too much?” 

“yes,” he hisses. “too much. never stop. marry me again.” 

bachira meguru

he’s just happy to be there. bouncing around, livestreaming, waving at chat like “i missed her soooo much you guys i’m gonna surprise her and squeeze her like a plushie!!!” 

and then. and then. he sees you mid-dance, slow and sensual, rolling your body against a mirror like it owes you money, and he goes from 🥰 to 😵‍💫 in 0.0004 seconds. 

“OH MY GOSH, CHAT, WHAT IS SHE DOING, SHE’S POSSESSED,” he screams. the phone spins like a horror movie scene. “NOT THE PHONE FLIP” “bachira’s in spiritual crisis rn” “he got whiplash just looking at her” 

bachira’s head is in his hands. he’s pacing in a circle, yelling, “WHY DID NO ONE WARN ME. WHY IS SHE ALLOWED TO BE THAT SEXY?? I’M GONNA EXPLODE INTO CONFETTI???” 

you giggle and blow him a kiss. he immediately falls to the ground. 

stream ends when he belly slides across the floor to hug your legs and sob into your thighs. 

karasu tabito

karasu was READY to roast you for taking “so long” at your studio. livestream on. smug face on. all like, “bout to show up and expose how long she takes to get sweaty and look hot–” 

he gets his karma INSTANTLY. 

you are mid-routine, perched on your toes, hands dragging slowly over your waist, eyes half-lidded like you’re on the verge of something illegal. 

karasu chokes. not like a soft cough either. full gasp-for-air sound while chat goes nuclear. “HE SAW A GHOST LMFAO” “this is the horniest man alive now.” “SHE DID THAT FOR HIM. LOOK AT HIM.” 

“is the room spinning???” he mutters. “i feel like i’ve been smacked with sex appeal. i need to… hydrate.” 

his phone is still on but tilted sideways on the bench, catching him muttering to himself. 

you wink. he full-on drops to his knees. “nah, you’re done. the world ain’t ready for that body. i’m not ready. this dance? banned. chat, i’m confiscating her immediately.” 

ness alexis

alexis ness is not built for this. he was just going to drop off lunch. maybe record a cute “boyfriend surprise” moment for his story. he even picked the right lighting and angle for maximum aesthetic. 

and then. you. mid-performance. on the floor. heels on. legs spread. doing things to the mirror that would make a saint faint. 

ness claps a hand over his mouth like he just witnessed a murder. the bag of lunch he brought hits the floor like it died, too. 

he’s STUNNED. FROZEN. experiencing his own personal scandal. “what… what is she doing? why are her hips doing that? how is she– oh my gosh. oh my gosh.” 

he instinctively flips his phone camera away from you and towards his face, as if protecting the world from your insane levels of sex appeal. 

chat is FLOODING with: “why is he breathing like that 😭” “ness is SWEATING” “IS SHE DANCING OR SUMMONING DEMONS???” 

he stammers out, “i-i can’t even show her on camera. she’s like—she’s like if temptation was a person.” 

you finally notice him and shoot a flirty wink. “you like it?” 

he SCREAMS. just screams. ends the stream, sprints toward you, and grabs you like you’re being banned from public spaces and he needs to protect the world from your sinful existence. 

© 𝐤𝐱𝐬𝐚𝐠𝐢

[batilenima]

It started with good intentions.

Clark had barely gotten the words out "He's been exhausted lately. Maybe we should all do something nice—" before Dick clapped his hands and declared "We're making breakfast for Bruce. Like a normal family"

Unfortunately "normal family" in this case meant a pack of overprotective and highly competitive alpha children trying to cook in the same space.

Tim was at the stove, flipping pancakes with a precision that looked suspiciously like he'd memorized Gordon Ramsay's movements.

Jason, in defiance, had taken the omelet station and was aggressively shredding cheese like it owed him money "we're not making delicate little crepes you idiot. Bruce needs protein. Muscle fuel.”

"I'm right here" Tim muttered.

"I know" Jason grinned.

Damian was trying to slice fruit, the problem was: every time he made a nice arrangement, someone bumped into the counter and the stack collapsed. His eye twitched "You are all incompetent. I could've made something better on my own"

"You say that while butchering strawberries like they insulted your honor" Dick teased, as he tried (and failed) to wrangle the waffle maker.

Clark stood at the fridge, blinking at a bottle of oat milk "wait, is Bruce lactose intolerant or just lactose annoyed?"

Jason: "Does it matter? We're making bacon anyway!"

Dick: "He doesn't eat pork! Tim, did you just set something on fire?!"

Tim: "It was one pancake and it was intentional! It's called caramelization!"

Damian: "You fools don't deserve to feed him"

Somewhere in the chaos, a bowl of whipped cream hit the floor, the blender made a sound that shouldn't be physically possible. Someone knocked into a stack of plates that Clark caught with super speed, only to accidentally snap the handle off the frying pan in the process.

Bruce, still half asleep in a hoodie and baggy pants stood at the kitchen door.

He blinked once.

Tim was holding a fire extinguisher, Jason had batter on his shirt, Damian was snarling in the corner, Dick had flour in his hair an Clark looked way too calm.

Bruce turned around and walked back out.

“I think I'm not that hungry"

-----

Twenty minutes later, Bruce was sitting at the dining room table, a blanket around his shoulders, sipping coffee Clark had brought him as a peace offering. A single, very burnt waffle sat on the plate in front of him.

Jason was sulking. Dick had his head in his hands. Damian kept mumbling about "culinary justice"

Alfred stepped into the kitchen doorway, surveyed the battlefield and declared in a very clipped tone:

"I am invoking emergency protocol 7: none of you are to touch the kitchen simultaneously again, I shall install a lock if I must"

Bruce smirked behind his mug "Next time just buy me a croissant"

[lucy-literates]

I know in GTWC races there is no media pen but let’s just pretend there is.

There is a new reporter in the media pen and the first time Arthur sees her he loses his mind. He makes a beeline for her intending to be confident, suave and sexy to impress her but as soon as she asks him her first question, his mind goes blank and he ends up stuttering out an answer. Over the next few races, he keeps going to her first, even practicing some flirty lines in advance but every time he is in front of her he either goes off rambling about some aspect of racing she didn’t even ask about or ends up just saying that the car is good, the race was good and then repeating himself until he can escape.

She just assumes that he doesn’t like her, that he goes to her first to get it out the way and then never actually answers her questions properly. But then one day Lorenzo and Charles come to see Arthur race. She is walking behind them and overhears them talking about this reporter than their brother won’t shut up about. So she decides to throw in a couple of flirty lines in her next interview with Arthur and winks at him and he blushes bright red, stumbles over his words even more and then runs away.

Later, she is getting ready to leave the race track and Arthur and his brothers appear. They push him towards her telling her that he has something to say to her. When he eventually stumbles over his words enough to ask her out, she asks him what took him so long and grabs his hoodie to pull him in for a kiss with his brothers whooping and hollering in the background.

A/N: This is so cute!!! Enjoy!

Good Race, Good Car, Good God You're Pretty

The first time you see Arthur Leclerc in the media pen, he walks straight toward you like he’s been waiting all his life for this one moment.

He’s got the walk—confident, calm, like he knows what he’s doing.

Then you ask, “Arthur, how did the tyre strategy affect your mid-stint pace?”

And he… dies.

On the inside.

He opens his mouth. Closes it. Then somehow blurts, “Yes. The tyres. They were… good. The car… also good. And the strategy. Was… good.”

There’s a long pause. You blink.

“…Right,” you say slowly, smiling to hide the confusion.

Arthur practically sprints away.

The next few races? Exactly the same.

Every time he shows up, it’s you he walks up to first. He even tries rehearsing lines under his breath, trying to sound effortlessly cool. But once he’s in front of you, everything short-circuits again.

Your questions are normal—about racecraft, setups, pace, how he feels post-race. His answers? Rambling nonsense or the same “yeah car was good, race was good” loop on repeat.

You start to assume the worst.

He must hate talking to you. Probably just gets it out of the way so he can move on to real questions.

You try not to take it personally.

Until Monza.

You’re walking behind a trio of familiar voices near the paddock. Two men, deep in conversation—French accents, unmistakable grins.

Lorenzo: “It’s embarrassing, honestly. He runs to her and then turns to jelly.”

Charles: “She thinks he’s not into her. He thinks he’s blowing it. I’m tempted to mic him up for the next one just for entertainment.”

You slow your steps, blinking. Wait—you?

They’re talking about you?

You duck out of sight before they can see you grinning like an idiot.

So at the next race, you decide to have a little fun.

He approaches you again—eyes flicking nervously between your face and your mic.

You smile sweetly. “Arthur, good to see you. Have you finally learned how to talk to me, or should I just ask you how good everything was again?”

His brain fries.

He lets out a laugh—nervous, shaky—and then you wink.

Wink.

He stares at you like you just set his car on fire. And then—mid-question—he stammers something unintelligible, blushes crimson, and bolts.

You try not to laugh. The cameraman definitely does.

Later that afternoon, you’re slinging your bag over your shoulder, about to leave the track, when you hear footsteps—and arguing.

“No, Arthur, go now.”

“I can’t, this is ridiculous!”

“She winked at you, bro, she wants you to!”

“Just tell her you like her, dumbass!”

You turn to see all three Leclerc brothers marching toward you.

Charles and Lorenzo are flanking Arthur like bodyguards pushing a reluctant teenager toward a dance floor. Arthur’s eyes go wide when he sees you.

“Uh—hi.”

You raise a brow, smiling. “Everything good?”

Lorenzo gives him a not-so-subtle nudge. “He has something to say.”

Arthur glares at his brother, then turns back to you—nervous, sweaty-palmed, heart-in-his-throat.

“I… uh… I’ve been meaning to ask if you’d maybe want to… go out sometime? With me. If you want. Because I… really like you. And I’ve definitely ruined every interview, and I’m sorry, but—”

You step closer, tug on the front of his hoodie with a smirk.

“What took you so long, Leclerc?”

Before he can answer, you pull him in for a kiss.

He melts into it. Warm hands at your waist. A quiet, stunned "mmf" against your lips.

Behind you, Charles and Lorenzo explode.

“FINALLY!”

“ABOUT DAMN TIME.”

Arthur pulls away, red-faced but glowing, forehead pressed to yours. “Can we, uh… keep this part off the record?”

You laugh. “Maybe. If you give me a proper interview next time.”

He grins. “No promises.”

[kefiteria]

I loved loved your “if I kneel” story about sebek, I would love to see your take on Lilia if you ever feel like writing for him ☺️💞💚🙏

pairing : Lilia Vanrouge x Reader

summary: You made a bet with Lilia Vanrouge: if he lost, he’d stop flirting. If you lost? You’d have to flirt back. Well. Guess who’s now spiraling in slow-motion while attempting seductive eye contact and forgetting how sentences work. He’s smug, you’re doomed, and this is what you get for challenging a centuries-old fae at his own game.

a/n: Lilia is easily in my top 3 favorites 😩🙏🏻 so this piece is really me indulging in his flavor of charm for once — softer, smugger, dangerously sweet. A little different from my usual existential dread writings🌀 If you enjoyed the fluster, the tension, the barely-contained chaos~ let me know! 🍀 Thank you so much for requesting and enjoying my writing💖

“Go ahead. Say that I’m crazy. Because isn’t that what you’ve made me? And you—” Lilia’s voice curved like smoke through the hollow between your ribs.

“You’re crazy too.” His smile, wide and unrepentant, was sharper than anything Raskolnikov would dare to confess.

Before you could recoil, he had already pushed you — gently, politely, irreversibly — down onto the ancient stone bench lining the corridor.

A hallway. Open. Daylight humming like static against the stained-glass. A place where moments like this should unravel into nothing.

But they never do, with him.

You tried to make your voice a wall, a line of marble between heart and hazard.

“I don’t think this falls under the terms of our agreement, Vice Housewarden Lilia.”

The formality was a mask, suffocating, and flimsy. You clung to it like a prayer, or a blade — a distance you could press between your chest and his centuries.

Lilia only tilted his head, almost sympathetically, eyes glinting like a cathedral set on fire.

“You keep lobbing distance at me, dear.” he said, voice low, intimate in its tiredness.

“You've been talking all the nonsense, and maybe neither one of us should talk anymore?”

There was no mockery in it—not precisely. Merely the soft, baroque ache of a man who had learned to dress his loneliness in lace and laughter; who remembered centuries too vividly and was, in turn, remembered too dimly.

When he leaned closer, the fabric of his coat made a noise like leaves whispering secrets to the wind—secrets only the old and the unloved would understand.

“Go on. Say it again. That I’m crazy.”

The words curled around your spine like an incantation. A dare. A descent.

“Vice Housewarden Lilia.” you breathed, too soft to scold, too loud to pretend.

“If you keep behaving like this, people will talk. This is a hallway. A public one—”

You didn’t finish. The words slipped, blurred at the edges like ink in water, and your tongue—once yours—sat heavy, useless in your mouth. Everything felt slow, steeped in something golden and wrong.

The only thing louder than your heartbeat was the hush of his breathing—or rather, the lack of it. He didn’t move. He didn’t even blink. In that stillness, you felt yourself unraveling softly, like silk torn under candlelight.

“Ah~” he murmured, almost tenderly, “there it is. Your voice when you’re lying to yourself.”

As you blinked, he went closer again — not in distance, but in density. Like gravity. Like regret.

“Where is your end of the deal, starlight? You lost.” he said, with the kindness of a man reciting a eulogy.

“I thought mortals glorified their oaths. Or… is it because I’m no knight, and you think my promises are made to be broken?”

His lips hovered near the shell of your ear—not quite a kiss, not quite mercy. Just the phantom hush of skin remembering what it has never been given. You felt it anyway. Felt it like a sin prayed too sweetly: his breath tracing a line down your neck like a ghost leaving fingerprints you’d deny in daylight.

Because you’d promised because you had looked him in the eye and wrapped your pride in oaths too fragile to keep—

You let the lie fall.

Not in anger. Not in surrender.

But like the first snow on a grave. Soft. Inevitable.

“Fine.” you said in surrender paired with a voice crystalline, trembling, absurd.

“Would you rather I call you my liege… or my sin?”

Lilia stilled, the motion caught somewhere between a sigh and a shudder.

The smile that lingered was no longer a jest but a fragile relic, folding inward like a moth’s wing pressed beneath a glass—the delicate architecture of centuries collapsing in slow, deliberate surrender.

His eyes widened, not with surprise, but with the slow, mournful clarity of a man submerged in thick honeyed fog, as if he had been waiting through countless seasons—through winter’s cruelty and summer’s forgetfulness—for a single, trembling syllable to fall exactly like that.

Between the shallow tides of breath and silence, the air thickened, saturated with the weight of unspoken eons, a fragile tension spun from threads of smoke and old, unspent desire, pressing against your skin like a secret too tender to bear.

“Mmm…” he exhaled slowly, voice dusted in awe.

“Why not both?”

He stepped back—just far enough to keep you breathing, just close enough to make your chest ache like a wound left open.

“Careful now.” he said, his voice suddenly bare and steady, like a secret carved into stone.

“Flirt with me like that again, and I might start hoping you meant it.”

Then he turned—slick as midnight, a slow, satisfied smile curling at the corners of his lips as he walked away.

Under his breath, just loud enough for the shadows to catch it, he murmured:

“You keep throwing stones, sweetheart — like you’re trying to chase me off. But I don’t mind. I’ve got all the time in the world to throw them back."

"If this is a game, then play it. But don’t blame me when you start to like losing.”

His gloved hands adjusted, deliberate and calm, like the calm before a storm you’re desperate to dive into—and desperate to escape.

Left standing there, your heartbeat pounding in wild rebellion, the echo of a bet you never truly lost twisting tighter around your ribs.

And damn if it doesn’t feel like the first page of a story neither of you are ready to end.

[sebmindbreak]

on my KNEES for Dusekkar headcannons, pretty please :3 I need that man in my life fr

YAYSSS

THERES NOT ENOUGH OF THIS PUMPKIN </333

I REALLY HOPE YOU LIKE IT!

DUSEKKAR x you

(also small headcanosn , i hc that he is part phoenix HEHEH >:D , because his pumpkin has fire, and so phoenix..)

TITLE : soft glow

Platonic

He noticed how different your aura felt compared to the others. Not better. Not worse. Just… more aligned with his energy.

Sometimes, he watches you read or tinker with something. He doesn't interrupt just sits nearby, creating calm by presence alone.

He’s always willing to explain magical theory to you, even if it’s wildly above your understanding. His voice gets a little more animated when you ask questions.

He keeps giving you random little objects he enchants. He doesn’t say what they do. Half of them are just for fun, like glowing softly when you hum.

He doesn’t laugh often… unless you do something silly. Then, you might hear the softest, most genuine chuckle from behind his scarf.

Especialy with how much he gets jumpscared by two time , man is always on edge..

First Meeting

He ALMOST ignored you. Another survivor. he hoped you weren't going to annoy him with his protection spells

When you looked at him, you didn’t flinch or avoid his gaze. You stared straight through the layers of his calm. That startled him more than he let on.

You tried to thank him for helping you escape a trap or using his speels to help you. He nodded once, then scurries off.

After that, he kept “accidentally” running into you during runs. Always nearby, but never intruding.

You asked his name. He told you softly, like it was a secret no one else deserved.

Getting Along

He starts waiting for you at the starting point of rounds. Never says it aloud, but you know he’s “protecting” you.

He listens when you talk, fully and intently. You start to realize he memorizes everything.

You catch him staring at you more often… not out of suspicion, but out of fascination. Like he’s trying to figure you out.

He lets you touch his spellbook , tea set , something no one else gets near.

You bring him tea once as a joke. He ends up loving it and starts making it himself… just the way you did.

Realizing He Has Feelings

The moment you got injured on a round and laughed it off, he froze. He didn’t understand why his chest ached.

He starts dreaming about you but they’re soft dreams. You laughing, you walking beside him, you resting in his study.

He gets jealous, but he doesn't know how to handle it. If someone else gets too close, he simply goes away and doesn’t return for days.

He tries writing about his emotions in his journal. Half of it is crossed out. He thinks love is illogical, yet he keeps writing your name.

He’s afraid of ruining what you have so he says nothing. But his silences grow heavier.

How He Confesses

It happens after a particularly close call. You saved him for once and that tipped the scales.

He appears at your bedroom door later that night, awkward, holding a glowing feather (one he plucked from his own tail.)

He doesn’t speak right away. He sits beside you and holds the feather out, whispering: “This… is yours. it's..something I’ve kept. From the day I first realized I couldn’t bear to see you harmed.”

He says: “I wish to be by your side. If you’ll have me. Not as a protector. As a man. As… me.”

He watches you closely gently, almost nervously for your reaction.

Romantic

He hasn't been with many partners ,so he is kinda awkward at first.

When you kiss him, he’s so still, like he’s afraid it’ll vanish. But his hands slowly goes up when he touches your cheek for the first time.

He crafts a room just for you in his sanctum. Full of candles, pillows, runes that react to your presence with warm light.

He reads to you in old languages, his voice so calm it feels like music. Sometimes, he falls asleep with you, arms carefully coiled around you.

When you’re gone too long, he gets anxious not possessive, just… worried. He tries to search around the hide out for you.

He never stops calling you “my star,” “my dove,” or “my light.”

I HOPE YOU ENJOY!!

HEHEH

[sslytherinslut]

Needy Brat ; MR

Summary: You push your normally submissive boyfriend much too far.

warnings!MDNI : dom!Mattheo, bratty!Reader, power play, rough sex, dominance switch, choking (light), overstimulation, dirty talk, sub-to-dom dynamic shift, established relationship

Word Count: ~3,000

✷　✦　　✦　　☆　*　　•*.　•　*°　　　　　*　　✯　　　·　　　　✵　 •*.

You thought teasing Mattheo would end the way it always did—with him begging under your touch, lips parted in desperate moans, and his hands clinging to the sheets like they could save him.

But tonight?

You pushed a little too hard.

It started in the common room. He’d been patient—so patient—all day. Touch-starved eyes, pretty little sighs when you brushed past, and that subtle pout he wore when you ignored him just long enough to make him ache.

But when you leaned just a little too close to another boy, laughing at a joke that didn’t even deserve a smile, you caught the way Mattheo’s jaw tensed—sharp, silent, dangerous.

One too-sweet laugh. One careless glance at someone who wasn’t him. That’s all it took for Mattheo’s restraint to begin unraveling.

He didn’t say anything—not then. Just sat there, elbow resting on the arm of the leather chair, fingers tapping slowly against his knee like he was counting the seconds before he snapped. His gaze didn’t waver, dark eyes fixed on you like a loaded wand with the safety off. And you? You kept smiling, lips sweet and eyes sparkling like you weren’t fully aware of the line you’d just crossed. But you felt it—the drop in the room’s temperature, the burn of his stare on your skin. You knew you’d just lit a match. And Mattheo? He was already reaching for the fire.

But when you got back to your dorm?

The door slammed behind you with a force that made your chest jolt, the crack of it echoing through the room like a warning shot. A second later, the lock clicked into place with a smooth, deliberate flick of his wand. The silence that followed was thick—so heavy you could feel it in your throat. You didn’t need to turn around to know Mattheo was standing there, jaw set, breath slow, eyes burning holes into your spine.

You turned slowly.

“Everything alright, baby?” you asked, mock-sweet.

He didn’t give you the reaction you were expecting. No blush, no boyish grin.

Just one slow step forward, his eyes dark and unreadable—like a storm gathering just beneath the surface. Gone was the soft, eager boy who craved your attention. What stood in front of you now was something else entirely.

“Funny thing,” he said it with a voice so low it was almost a growl, the words sliding out like dark velvet—thick, slow, and heavy with warning. “You forget—letting you lead is a privilege, not a right.”

You raised a slow eyebrow, feeling your pulse quicken just a little. “I am in charge. You’re my good boy, remember?”

He let out a low, sharp laugh—just once—but it carried a warning beneath the sound.

Without warning, his hands were on you—firm, unyielding. One strong hand snatched your wrists and pinned them high above your head against the cold, unforgiving wall. The other curled around your throat, fingers resting just enough to remind you who was in control—not crushing, but a silent threat that made your breath hitch. Your pulse hammered in your ears, shock radiating through your limbs as the air seemed to tighten around you. The softness you knew in him vanished, replaced by something sharp, fierce, and utterly unyielding. In that instant, the world flipped—no longer the obedient, waiting Mattheo, but a storm barely contained, and you were right in the eye of it.

His lips barely grazed your ear, warm and heavy with intent. “Then why are you trembling?”

Your breath hitched.

“Oh, now you’re quiet?” he whispered, voice dripping venom. “Wasn’t so shy when you were laughing at his jokes. You like making me jealous, sweetheart? You like acting like I won’t remind you who you belong to?”

The whimper left your lips uninvited, high and broken.

“Mattheo—” you gasped, eyes wide, hips shifting without thought, like your body was already surrendering while your mind tried to keep up.

“No,” he cut you off. “You had your fun. Now I’m going to remind you who I am.”

He kissed you then—hard, unforgiving. All tongue and teeth and punishment. It wasn’t sweet, it wasn’t slow—it was a claim. You gasped against his mouth, and he swallowed it greedily, lips moving like he needed to devour you just to breathe.

Your wrists strained in his grip, but he didn’t budge—his hold tight, possessive, unrelenting. Then his knee shoved between your thighs, forcing them apart with practiced ease, and his hips followed—pressing into you with a pressure that made your head spin.

You felt him—already hard, already pulsing through the thick press of fabric—and it made your knees buckle. A low, broken moan slipped from your throat before you could stop it, lost in the mouth that wouldn’t stop kissing you like he wanted to ruin you.

“I always take it,” he spat, voice low and ragged as he rolled his hips with purpose. “Like a good fucking toy. I beg. I moan. I let you do whatever the hell you want. But you forgot something.”

He jerked your wrists higher. “I let you.”

He gripped your jaw hard enough to make your lips part, eyes dark and wicked.

“You think you’re in charge?” he sneered. “Not tonight. Tonight, you’re mine.”

The control—the bite in his voice—lit something filthy inside you, heat surging low and immediate.

He dragged you to the bed and threw you down like you were weightless, ripping your panties down in one rough motion.

His fingers found the heat between your thighs, and he let out a bitter laugh.

“Already soaked,” he sneered. “Tell me—was that for me? Or for him?”

Your lips parted to bite back—but the moment his fingers found your heat, your breath stuttered and the words crumbled into a soft, needy gasp.

He smirked, like he already knew he’d shut you up.

His grin was slow and cruel, like he was savoring the silence.

“What happened to all that attitude, huh? That mouth?”

He leaned in closer. “That’s what I thought.”

There was no pause. No mercy.

His fingers plunged back into you, curling immediately with practiced ease—like he’d memorized every inch of you, like this wasn’t about teasing anymore. This was about proving something.

And he did.

He hit that spot over and over, dragging moans from your throat you hadn’t meant to give him. Your hips bucked wildly, out of sync with your thoughts, but he held you down with one hand and never missed a beat with the other.

“Mattheo—fuck—I’m—”

“You’re not coming yet.” His voice was low, no room for argument as he slid his fingers out—wet, glistening with your essence.

Without hesitation, he pressed them into your mouth, holding your gaze as you sucked on his fingers.

“Taste yourself,” he ordered, voice thick with possession. “That’s exactly what a desperate little brat tastes like. Mine.”

You moaned around his fingers, eyes fluttering shut.

But he wasn’t done.

He pulled his fingers from your mouth, a slow, deliberate move that left your tongue tingling and your nerves raw. His dark eyes locked onto yours, sharp and hungry, watching every flicker of desperation that crossed your face.

“You think you get to tease me?” he murmured, voice low and dangerous. “You think you get to have all the control?”

Before you could respond, his fingers were back inside you—this time teasing, sliding just beneath the surface, never quite giving you what you crave. He worked you with maddening patience, curling and pressing, pulling away before you could catch your breath, then circling back again and again.

Your hips bucked helplessly, desperate for the release he refused to give, every fiber of your body trembling with need. You whimpered softly, arching toward his hand, your eyes silently begging for mercy.

“Beg,” he said, voice like a command and a challenge wrapped into one.

Your breath hitched. You opened your mouth to argue—until the tip of his finger brushed against the most sensitive spot, and a shudder ripped through you.

“Say it,” he growled. “Beg for me. Like you always do.”

Your voice cracked on the desperate plea that spilled out, raw and needy, just like every time before—just like he wanted.

And he smiled—dark, satisfied, victorious—because tonight, the game had changed.

His belt clinked—sharp, final. The sound alone made your breath hitch, heart thudding like a drum in your chest. Then came the rustle of fabric, the low drag of his zipper, pants hitting the floor with a soft thud.

And before you could fully register it—before your brain could catch up to your body—he was on you.

He slammed into you in one brutal, possessive thrust, knocking the breath from your lungs. No warning. No teasing. No mercy.

You cried out, back arching off the bed as he filled you in one go—thick, deep, relentless. The stretch burned, beautiful and overwhelming, and your fingers clawed at the sheets, at his arms, at anything you could reach.

Your thighs instinctively tightened around his hips, trying to ground yourself against the sheer force of him, but he didn’t slow. Didn’t give you time. He pulled out halfway, then slammed back in again, harder.

A broken moan escaped your lips, half shock, half pleasure, all need.

“Fuck,” you breathed, voice shaky and wrecked, “Mattheo—”

But he wasn’t listening. Not really.

His hand found your throat, not squeezing—just there. A reminder. A claim.

“Is this what you wanted my little slut?” he growled against your ear.

You moaned in response, already close again, your body spiraling from the brutal rhythm and the sheer force of his control.

Just raw, hard claiming.

You cried out, nails clawing at the sheets, but he pinned your hips down with a hand and fucked into you like he had something to prove.

“You act like it’s yours,” he growled, pressing into you with a roll of his hips. “But control? I lend it to you. Because you’re such a good girl for me when I do.”

He eased out, just enough to leave you empty and aching, then flipped you onto your stomach with a firm, unrelenting grip. His hands dragged your hips up into position—and then he was back inside you with one brutal thrust, deeper than before, like he wanted to ruin you from the inside out.

“And now I’m taking it back.”

Your face buried in the pillows, you cried out with every thrust, your body already shaking from how close you were. He knew you too well—mapped you with hands and mouth and memory—and tonight, he was using that knowledge like a weapon.

“Say it,” he hissed through gritted teeth, his hand gripping your hip so tight it’d leave bruises. “Say who’s in control, you needy little brat.”

You shook your head with a breathless, half-mad smile, just to see what he’d do.

His laugh was dark.

“You shouldn’t have done that.”

Big mistake.

He fisted your hair without warning, yanking you up until your back arched sharply against his chest. You gasped, the sudden change in angle sending a shock of sensation down your spine—

And then he slammed into you.

So deep, so hard, it knocked the air from your lungs and left you seeing stars.

His grip tightened, keeping you flush against him, completely at his mercy. His lips brushed your ear, breath hot and cruel.

“Say it,” he growled, voice low and lethal. “Say who’s in control.”

You whimpered, but your mouth stayed shut, jaw trembling with stubbornness even as your body begged for relief. Your walls fluttered around him, desperate, aching—and still, you held out.

He stilled inside you.

Completely.

The lack of movement was torture. His cock throbbed, buried deep, and you could feel how hard he was—how badly he wanted to move—but he didn’t. He wouldn’t. Not until you gave in.

“You really want to play this game?” he whispered, dragging his teeth lightly along your neck. “Because I’ll keep you like this all night. Right on the edge. Wet, shaking, stuffed full, but not allowed to come. Not once.”

You whimpered again, a soft broken noise, but still didn’t speak.

His hips rolled—once—deep and slow and devastating. Then nothing.

“You don’t say it?” he murmured. “I pull out. I leave you dripping and begging while I sleep like a fucking king.”

A tear slipped down your cheek, your thighs trembling.

He licked it from your skin.

“Say it,” he demanded again, grinding into you just enough to make you shatter inside—without giving you the release. “Say who owns this body. Say who’s in control. Or I promise you, sweetheart, you won’t be coming tonight. Or tomorrow.”

“You,” you cried out, the words half a sob. “You’re in control, Mattheo—please, I need—”

He buried himself deeper, holding you in place with bruising force.

“Good girl,” he snarled. “Now take it. Every last bit of what you begged for.”

Your orgasm hit you hard—unexpected, violent. You screamed his name, legs shaking, body convulsing around him.

The orgasm ripped through you, violent and all-consuming, your breath punched from your lungs in a scream of his name. Your muscles clamped down around him, your legs trembling uncontrollably.

But he didn’t ease up. He just grinned and thrust harder.

“Too much,” you sobbed, voice breaking, fingers clawing at the sheets.

“Good,” he rasped, hips still grinding slow and deep. “Now you get it. That feeling you give me when you play. Hurts so good, doesn’t it? But you’re strong. You can take it, baby.”

He didn’t stop—couldn’t. Your orgasm still pulsed through you in raw, shaking waves, and he fucked you through every second of it. His grip on your hips was bruising, like he needed the anchor or he’d unravel entirely.

Each thrust was messier now—deeper, rougher, less about control and more about hunger. His breath came hard and ragged against your neck, teeth grazing your skin as he chased his own release like a man starved.

“Fuck—fuck, you feel so good,” he gasped, voice wrecked, fingers digging in like he couldn’t bear to let you go. “So good for me baby, so tight.”

He buried himself to the hilt, grinding into you with shaky desperation, the rhythm gone, replaced with pure need. You felt him trembling behind you, felt the tension coil tight in his body like it might snap.

And still, he kept moving. Pushing. Falling apart with you.

You trembled beneath him, every nerve ending screaming with need, your body still raw and sensitive from the first wave. His thrusts slowed, steady but relentless, and you could feel it—the familiar burn beginning to build again, low and slow like a spark growing into a wildfire.

Your breath hitched, hips pressing up into him without thinking, chasing the rising tide of pleasure. Fingers curled into the sheets, nails digging into the fabric as your body clenched tight, begging for release again. The second orgasm was coming—fast and fierce—and you arched your back, eyes fluttering shut, letting yourself fall into it.

Your eyes shut tight, muscles tightening enough to draw groan from his throat as the second wave built fast and fierce. “Mattheo—I’m—” you gasped, voice trembling with the edge of release.

He pressed his forehead against your shoulder, voice low and soothing but still rough with need. “I know, baby. Go ahead. Let go.”

With his permission, your body gave in—arching, trembling, shuddering as your second orgasm ripped through you. Your hands gripped him, your legs clenched around his hips, and your world narrowed to the dizzying pleasure between you.

He groaned deep in response, a guttural, trembling sound that rumbled through his chest and into your skin. His teeth sank into your shoulder, sharp and possessive, marking you like you were his territory. His hands gripped your hips tighter, muscles bunching as his body tensed and then shuddered violently against yours.

His breath came out in ragged bursts, each thrust losing its rhythm as he rode the wave of release. You could feel him pulsing deep inside you, every inch claiming you harder than before, desperate and raw. His voice cracked on a hoarse growl, thick with need and surrender, as he spilled over the edge, dragging you both down into a shared chaos of sensation.

His heavy breathing slowed as he settled next to you, dominance melting into something softer. His hand cupped your cheek, thumb brushing away a stray strand of hair. “Done being the boss for a minute,” he whispered. “Let me take care of you.”

Pressed close, you breathe out, “That switch… it flips quick, doesn’t it?” Your words are heavy, your body still trembling.

He smirked, dragging you against him.

“Brat.”

You smiled, limp in his arms. “Still like being my good boy?”

His hand found your throat again—soft this time. “Only if you remember I’m still a man. Not your pet.”

He chuckled softly, the fierce edge from before melting into warmth. His large hands began to roam gently over your skin, fingertips kneading the sore spots—the tight muscles in your shoulders, the ache lingering in your lower back. Each press was firm but careful, like he knew exactly where you needed it most.

A low, contented hum rumbled from his chest, and little moans escaped your lips, but these were different—soft sighs of relief and pleasure, not need or desperation. His touch was steady, grounding, and it made you feel safe in a way no intensity ever had.

“Relax, baby,” he murmured, voice thick with affection. “I’ve got you now.”

You melted against him, letting the tension slip away, replaced by something quieter but just as powerful—a connection deeper than words.

You kissed him, slow and sweet, totally spent. “I’ll behave.”

“You ’d better not,” he whispered.

[charliegsthings]

a little push (over the edge)

Pairing: Evan Buckley x Eddie Diaz

Word Count: 3.3k

“Ok, I’m starting to see the problem,” she takes a deep breath, putting the tea down. “Eddie, I’m going to ask you something, and I need you to not freak out.” “Okay…” Eddie says slowly, apprehensive.  “Are you in love with my brother?”  It’s like watching a train crash. He blinks. Once. Twice. There’s a flush spreading across his face all the way down to his neck, and his mouth opens and then closes a million times, like a fish out of water.  “What? No—,” he laughs, way too loudly. “Me? In love with— in love with Buck?”  Eddie looks scandalised, like Maddie just suggest he committed murder.  “It can’t be that crazy of a suggestion,” she says offended, crossing her arms. “You could do much worse than Buck.”  “No! I mean, yes— you’re right, he’s kind, and funny, and stupidly pretty–“ he stops, his cheeks turning bright red as he realises what he just said. “That’s not— I don’t—it’s not like that.”  “Are you sure?” Maddie raises an eyebrow, “Eddie, you did kind of baby trap him.” “Baby trap—“ his eyes are the size of dinner plates. “What?”  “He told me about your will, how he’d become Chris’ guardian if anything happens to you” she clarifies. “Eddie, with all due respect, that doesn’t seem very platonic to me.”  “That’s— that’s not—“ Eddie is chocking in his own words.  “Look,” Maddie sighs, deciding to take the man out of his misery. “I know this is a lot. Some feelings are… complicated. But you two are basically married, and you have been for years. I see the way you look at each other,” her voice becomes soft, a smile tugging at the corner of her lips. “I think there’s something there, but you two are too stubborn to admit it. You just need a little push.” Eddie is at a loss for words. “Maddie— “ “Just— think about it, yeah?”  She offers a soft smile, then gets up and leaves, calm and causal – as if she hadn’t just set Eddie’s entire world on fire. 

ao3

[mostly-marvel-musings]

Chapter 5 - Terms and Conditions

A/N: Alright we’re getting there! Let me know your thoughts :)

Pairing: Tony Stark x Wife! Reader

Warning: slow burn.

Terms and Conditions

.

Malibu feels colder than you remember.

Maybe it’s the jet lag. Or maybe it’s the weight of what followed you home, something heavier than suitcases and lingering tabloid headlines.

Tony disappears into the lab almost as soon as you step off the plane. No goodbyes. No check-ins. Just a “Don’t touch anything that hums or glows” over his shoulder before the door hisses shut.

You wait. An hour. Two.

Then you go down there anyway.

It’s late and the lab lights are dimmed, casting everything in sterile blue. He’s hunched over a table, hands blackened with grease, arc reactor glowing through a tank top like a lighthouse losing power.

You clear your throat.

He looks up. Surprise flickers across his face—but not annoyance. Just… caution.

“Didn’t expect you to follow me down here.”

You step closer, holding up the tablet. “I’ve been running simulations.”

He blinks. “Of what?”

“Your arc reactor problem.”

Tony scoffs. “You make it sound like a bad break-up.”

“It is. You just haven’t filed the paperwork.”

He smirks despite himself. “And let me guess…you’ve solved it?”

“No. But I might’ve cracked the way in.”

You set the tablet down between his prototypes, right next to the coffee he forgot to drink. On the screen is a restructured elemental matrix—unstable, yes, but promising. Stark-grade promising.

He studies it. Then you.

“Where did you learn this?”

You shrug. “My company deals with quantum instability modeling. Novastem’s been prototyping renewable reaction chambers for years. I applied the same logic to your core.”

His eyes narrow, not with suspicion…with interest. And maybe something else.

“You’ve been holding out on me.”

“You never did your research before signing the contract.”

He leans forward, elbows on the table. “So what’s the play, boss lady? You gonna start redesigning my tech behind my back now?”

“I could. But I figured we could build something together.”

There’s a beat of silence. You’re both suddenly too aware of how close you are. His breath catches—so soft you almost miss it.

“You’re really not afraid of me, are you?”

“No,” you say. “I’m afraid for you.”

Something changes in his face. The smirk softens. The bravado slips.

He looks down at your design again. “This—this could work. With some restructuring. A different power funnel.”

“And a new containment field. You’d need to isolate the toxicity at the molecular level.”

You’re talking science, but your voice is low. Gentle.

Calming.

And Tony—for once—listens.

You stay in the lab all night solving equations, sketching circuits. Every so often, your hands brush. Every so often, you catch him staring—and he doesn’t look away.

There’s a point, just before sunrise, when the music cuts out and the silence settles in. You glance up. He’s still watching you, arc reactor casting a soft blue glow over the shadows on his face.

“You know,” he says, voice quieter than usual, “if I didn’t know better, I’d think you were trying to save my life.”

You don’t blink. “I am.”

He doesn’t have a response to that.

So you both go back to work.

.

You’ve lost track of time.

It’s been hours since the sun rose, then dipped again below the horizon, and somewhere in between, you and Tony Stark have created three promising prototypes, burned through a whiteboard’s worth of equations, and ignored four meals and at least one alarmingly passive-aggressive message from Pepper.

Tony’s hair is a mess. There’s a scorch mark on your sleeve. Dum-E the robot has just rolled by dragging a fire extinguisher it wasn’t asked for.

“False alarm, bud,” Tony mutters, waving him off with a wrench. “We only set one thing on fire.”

You glance up from your calculations, glasses slipping a little on your nose, and push them back with the back of your hand. “Correction—we only set one thing on fire. The coffee machine doesn’t count.”

Tony turns, sees you in your glasses and a smudge of grease on your cheek, and visibly pauses. Long enough for Dum-E (the cat) to leap onto the workbench and knock a stylus off with zero remorse.

“You okay?” you ask, catching Tony staring.

He blinks. Coughs. “Yeah. Just… trying to remember when lab goggles started looking like that.”

You glance at him over the rim of your glasses. “Like what?”

“Like they belong on the cover of Scientific American meets Playboy’s ‘Women in Science special edition.”

You raise an eyebrow. “That’s not a real issue.”

“It should be,” he mutters, and goes back to his holographic projection.

Another hour ticks by. Equations are solved, frustrations muttered, a few genius-level arguments are had over whether your containment approach is better than his. (It is. He pretends to disagree anyway.)

Then, Tony leans back in his chair, rubbing at his temple.

“I’m calling it. Brain’s fried. You’ve bested me with science, glasses, and sheer stamina.”

You smirk. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

“Take it as surrender. I’m cooked.” He nods toward the little stack of gift boxes someone, probably Pepper left on the table by the espresso machine. “You wanna open some of those? Could be explosives. Or more ties.”

You set down your stylus. “That’s the most domestic thing you’ve said all week.”

“Don’t tell anyone. It’ll ruin my reputation.”

You both head over, Dum-E the robot tries to follow and bumps into the cat, who gives him a deeply judgmental meow before hopping onto a high shelf, tail flicking.

You pick up a box labeled with your name in surprisingly neat handwriting.

Tony watches as you open it, and you watch him watching. There’s something softer in his eyes. Less performative. More real.

Inside the box? A set of styluses and a sleek notebook. You turn it over—there’s an embossed quote on the cover.

“To invent, you need a good imagination and a pile of junk.” — Thomas Edison.

You glance at Tony.

He shrugs, casual. “Thought it was fitting. You’ve got the imagination. And I’ve got a hell of a junk pile.”

A beat.

Then he adds, “Metaphorically.”

You laugh. “Sure.”

He hands you a second box—small, velvet. You raise an eyebrow, suspicious.

He smirks. “Don’t worry. Not a ring. You’d run.”

“Depends on the stone.”

You open it.

Inside: a pair of delicate earrings shaped like atomic models—silver electrons orbiting tiny sapphires. Subtle. Nerdy. Beautiful.

You’re quiet for a second too long.

Tony shifts on his feet. “If you hate them—”

“I don’t.” You meet his eyes. “I really don’t.”

The tension lingers—but it’s not the bad kind. It’s the kind that hums under your skin. The kind that says this could be something… if you let it.

“Alright,” he says, breaking the silence. “We’ve got brains, biceps, and banter. Back to building a new element?”

You nod. “Let’s finish what we started.”

“Oh and cheeseburgers are on the way.” He adds, not waiting for you to respond. You chuckle to yourself before shaking your head.

And just like that, you’re back at it.

Side by side.

.

It happens sometime after midnight.

The lab is humming—alive with the flicker of projections, the whirr of processors, and the faint jazz Tony queued up hours ago that neither of you bothered to turn off.

Tony’s discarded his outer shirt long ago, down to that black sleeveless tank that hugs his frame a little too well. His arc reactor pulses through it like a second heartbeat—its light casting shadows on the angles of his collarbone, the taut line of his arms as he tightens something on the collider prototype you both jury-rigged together.

You’re holding a tablet, double-checking a sequence, but it’s getting harder to focus.

Because—let’s be honest—damn.

There’s sweat at his temple. Grease smudges at the crook of his elbow. And the way his biceps flex as he adjusts the wiring?

Scientific miracle? Maybe. Divine intervention? Possibly. Existential crisis about how this whole arrangement started and what you’re feeling now? Definitely.

Tony turns toward you, catching your gaze mid-stare.

You absolutely don’t look away in time.

His lips twitch. “See something you like, wifey?”

You deadpan, “Just admiring your circuitry.”

“Sure you are.”

But then—just like that—his tone shifts. More serious. Focused.

“I think this is it.”

You blink. “Wait—really?”

He nods toward the collider. “If your recalibration holds—and it should—this should give us a stable reaction. Better output, safer levels. It’s not just palladium-free. It’s… smarter.”

You set down the tablet. Step closer.

“Let’s light it up.”

Tony grins—wild, hopeful, brilliant. The man who once said I am Iron Man now holding a makeshift element born out of desperation and genius and, your collaboration.

He hits the switch.

The lab glows white-blue as the core ignites. It pulses once—twice—and then steadies into a brilliant hum.

A perfect reaction.

You both stare at it.

Tony exhales a shaky laugh. “Holy hell.”

You smile, heart pounding, fingers brushing the edge of the console. “We did it.”

He looks at you then. Really looks at you.

And not like a business partner. Not like someone he tolerates out of obligation or contract. But like someone who helped save his life. Like someone who saw the worst of him and stayed.

Your breath catches.

You don’t say anything. You don’t have to.

Instead, he just murmurs, “You’re kind of extraordinary, you know that?”

And for once, there’s no joke to follow.

Just the soft glow of something new beginning—burning steady, like a star forged under pressure.

Like the proof of something real.

The silence between you stretches, soft and charged.

Tony’s still looking at you like he doesn’t quite know what to say—but for once, he wants to. That flicker of sincerity in his eyes feels new, untested, like something fragile made of glass and stubbornness.

He opens his mouth to speak—

“Tony?”

The voice cuts in, sharp and efficient, from the comm unit on the desk.

Pepper.

Tony curses under his breath and hits the console. “Yeah?”

“You missed the call with the Japan team. Again. Also, there’s a press conference tomorrow—9 a.m. sharp. They’re expecting a smiling CEO. Try not to scare any shareholders this time.”

There’s a pause. You can hear her typing.

“And please, don’t let the cat near any explosives.”

Tony glances at Dum-E (cat edition), who is currently asleep in a toolbox like the absolute chaos gremlin she is.

“Too late,” he mutters, then into the comm: “Got it, Pep. Thanks.”

“Don’t forget to hydrate,” she adds, sweet as a sword.

The comm cuts out.

The silence returns—but it’s a little more brittle now. A little more real-world-shaped.

Tony exhales, running a hand down his face. “Well. There goes the moment.”

You arch a brow, arms crossing. “Was there a moment?”

He looks at you. And for a split second, it’s like he wants to rewind, to reach for it again.

But instead, he smirks. “Nope. Just a hallucination. Must be the lab fumes.”

You snort softly. “And here I thought it was the power of teamwork.”

He tosses a rag at you, easy, but you catch the glint of something unspoken in his eyes. Something softer.

“You should get some rest,” you say, voice quieter now. “We both should.”

He nods, but doesn’t move.

As you walk away, Dum-E (bot version) lets out a mechanical chirp and bumps lightly against Tony’s leg.

Tony sighs, rubbing his jaw.

“Yeah, yeah. I know,” he mutters. “She’s smarter than me.”

Dum-E chirps again, louder.

“…And hotter.”

.

You didn’t mean to fall asleep.

But you’d settled into the couch near the back of the lab some time later, Tony’s tablet still propped on your lap, blueprints faintly glowing in the dark. You’d been going over his element models again, cross-referencing particle decay data with your own theories.

Your glasses are still on. The screen’s gone idle. And Dum-E—the cat this time, not the bot—is curled up in your lap, tiny chest rising and falling in perfect rhythm, tail flicking once in her dreams.

You don’t stir when the elevator opens with a soft ding.

Tony steps out, barefoot, still in that black sleeveless compression shirt he wears when he’s in work mode but just shy of shutting down. There’s a smear of grease across one arm, and he’s holding a bag of takeout with your cheeseburgers.

He spots you instantly.

And stops.

For a long beat, he just… watches. The tablet’s glow lights your face in a soft haze. One arm is draped over Dum-E’s furry body, the other tucked beneath your head. You look peaceful. Relaxed in a way he hasn’t seen before. Like the tech, the chaos, him—none of it has touched you in this moment.

He swallows, sets the bag down quietly.

Crosses the floor on silent feet.

And then—because he can’t help himself—he crouches beside the couch, gentle fingers reaching up to slide your glasses off. You murmur something unintelligible in your sleep, shifting slightly, and the cat lifts her head just enough to give him a do not disturb the nap ecosystem glare before resettling.

He chuckles under his breath.

“Alright, alright,” he whispers. “Noted.”

He pulls the throw blanket from the armrest and lays it over both of you with a care he usually reserves for circuit boards and prototypes.

Then, just before he straightens, he hesitates.

His hand brushes your hair back, fingers pausing at your temple. And for a moment, he lets himself look at you the way he doesn’t when you’re awake—unguarded, like he’s afraid of how much he wants to stay right here.

“You’re gonna outsmart me one of these days,” he murmurs, almost to himself. “Probably already have.”

Dum-E the bot chooses that exact moment to let out a low, suspicious beep from the hallway.

Tony startles. Glares.

“Ssshhh. Go snitch to someone else.”

Then he turns back to you one more time.

And walks away.

But the warmth of the blanket lingers. So does the faint scent of motor oil and that aftershave he pretends he doesn’t use.

And somewhere behind your dreaming mind, your heart flutters.

.

You wake to the low growl of your stomach.

The lab is still cloaked in semi-darkness, save for the soft glow of the reactor core downstairs and the strip lights lining the walls. The tablet’s screen has gone black. Dum-E (the cat) has vanished from your lap, replaced by a lack of feline warmth.

You sit up, blinking slowly, blanket sliding off your shoulders. A blanket you don’t remember draping around yourself.

And then you smell it.

Cheeseburgers.

Not the kind from five-star kitchens or health-conscious eateries—no, these are unapologetically greasy, bag-rustling, artery-threatening cheeseburgers. The kind Tony Stark would absolutely crave after a 12-hour bender of science and emotional avoidance.

A paper bag sits on the nearby counter, beside two unopened cans of soda and one very familiar pair of sunglasses.

“I was gonna wake you,” comes his voice behind you, “but then Dum-E gave me that ‘if you disturb the cat, you die�� look. So I ordered food and decided to wait until it was safe.”

You turn.

Tony’s leaning against the lab doorway, hair tousled, the black sleeveless top swapped for an old hoodie that hangs low on his frame. He’s barefoot again, but this time he’s holding two burgers and wearing a smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes—but comes closer than usual.

“You hungry?” he asks, tossing you one of the burgers.

You catch it with both hands. “Starving.”

You settle on opposite ends of the couch, the silence between you filled with the crinkle of wrappers and the occasional satisfied sigh. For a while, it’s just the two of you, biting into warmth and salt and melted cheese.

Then he says, “My mom used to make cheeseburgers when things got bad. She burned them. Every single time. But it was… her way of trying.”

You glance over. He’s not looking at you—just staring at the wall across from him like it holds something only he can see.

“She was soft. Always trying to smooth things over. My dad, on the other hand—” he pauses, laughs bitterly, “—was made of steel and vodka. Never home. And when he was, he’d rather talk to the bourbon bottle than his son.”

You stay quiet. Let him keep going.

“Jarvis, the butler—not the AI—he raised me. Taught me how to tie a tie, how to drive, how to pretend I wasn’t breaking inside. He called me ‘Master Tony’ until the day he died.”

You reach for your soda. “And people wonder why you built a suit of armor around your heart.”

Tony glances at you then, a flicker of something passing over his face.

“Yeah, well. You don’t grow up like that and come out unscathed. But I guess you already figured that out.”

You offer him a smile, soft at the edges. “I think you turned out better than you think.”

He doesn’t answer right away.

Instead, he nods at you. “What about you? Got any tragic backstory I should be bracing for?”

You shrug, leaning back into the couch. “Mine’s less headline-worthy. My mom was a teacher. My dad ran a hardware store. We weren’t rich, but they loved me.. I got into tech because I used to tinker with broken stuff at the store after school. Fixed a toaster when I was eight. Thought I was a genius.”

Tony raises a brow. “You are a genius.”

“Tell that to the toaster I set on fire two weeks later.”

He laughs. Really laughs. And it does something to your ribcage.

For a moment, the genius billionaire and the tech-savvy stranger-who’s-now-his-wife sit in shared warmth, surrounded by flickering lab lights and fast food. Not partners. Not enemies. Not pawns in a corporate chess game.

Just two people with old wounds and new stories. And half-eaten cheeseburgers.

[the-au-collector]

AHAHDHDEIOWWOWJBFBFNDM

NORTHEAST BASEMENT 1

Thoughts below the cut y’all

Ok so I have been WAITING for an update with Wars and Wild. I want to see them work together. I want to see them TALK. I want to see them set shit on fire.

Ok first of all Jojo’s drawing of a shrine is beautiful once again have to shout out Jojo’s impeccable art

I also like how this acknowledges Wild’s tenaciousness, which yeah is something you need when playing BOTW. There are so many different challenges to overcome with the shrines—you really DO have to just figure it out sometimes.

Also nice to know that Wars did not, in fact, know Wild was also a newbie to true LoZ dungeons when choosing teams. It makes more sense now how he and Time figured out the groups (no doubt if he’d known, we wouldn’t have gotten the groups we did.)

I’m LIVING for the reference to Tears of the Kingdom y’all

RIP Wars who was trying to have a serious conversation, but I guess this shows that Wild tends to deflect conversations with humor.

Also poor Wild—he’s set the bar so low for himself

ART ART ART

Very nice challenge ahead, I can’t wait for them to put their heads together and make their way through it

Wild once again stepping headfirst into danger and having to get yanked out of it by someone else. Hopefully this doesn’t become a pattern.

YES WILD SHOW OFF YOUR SLATE DO IT WILD ANA FBDJWIWLSLFNFKDPWJWBEJFNF GOING FERAL RN Y’ALL

This went far more smoothly than I think any of us were expecting, and genuinely I can’t wait for the next update to see Wild use the Sheikah Slate and show off his out-of-the-box thinking! And of course see more of these two trying to make it through the dungeon as beginners. I really can’t wait to see what Wars is able to bring to the table, since I’m not nearly as familiar with Hyrule Warriors as I am with BOTW.

All art credit, as always, goes to @linkeduniverse

[jessesluvr]

Can you give us a short sweet little thing about Jesse and Reader cuddling during a cold night and just being adorably hopelessly in love :( i wish i could kiss his cheeks his temple his forehead and hold him reeally close and have him cuddle up to my chest bcs he always does so much for everyone and he needs some love too ok bye 🥺

warmth like this | jesse x reader

author's note : ahhh i'm caught up now with reqs until i get more ! i'm trying to plan out more ideas for some oneshots :). please enjoy and thank you for requesting !

word count : 382

the wind rattled the windows, whistling low through the cracks in the old cabin walls. jackson had been hit with a cold snap, the kind that lingered in your bones even with a fire going.

you pulled the thick quilt tighter around your shoulders and shifted on the couch, legs curled beneath you. jesse had gone out for night duty earlier, grumbling about how he always got stuck with the worst shifts—but he still went. because he always did. because that’s who he was.

when the front door finally creaked open, you looked up from your book. jesse stepped inside, shaking snow from his shoulders, cheeks flushed pink from the wind. his hair was damp, his hands stiff as he peeled off his gloves.

“hey,” he said, voice soft, already smiling when he saw you waiting. “still up?”

“yeah,” you said, standing. “wasn’t gonna sleep till you got home.”

he set his gear down and walked straight into your arms, sighing as you wrapped him in the blanket with you. he was cold, always colder than he admitted, but he melted against you like he’d been waiting for this all day.

you led him back to the couch, pulling him into your lap gently, his head resting against your chest. he grumbled something into your shirt about being too heavy, but you just tightened your arms around him.

“you’re not,” you whispered, pressing a kiss to the top of his head. “you’re perfect.”

jesse let out a soft breath. “long day.”

“i know. you’re always doing everything for everyone else.”

you kissed his temple. then his cheek. then the corner of his eye, just because it was there and warm and yours to love.

he let out a small, sleepy laugh. “you’re being sappy.”

“you need it.”

he didn’t argue.

you held him tighter, feeling the slow, steady beat of his heart against yours. your fingers stroked gently through his hair as he sank deeper into you, one arm curled around your waist, the other tucked under the blanket.

“you know i love you, right?” you said softly, barely above a whisper.

jesse hummed. “i know. i love you too.”

you tilted your head to press another kiss to his forehead.

“you’re safe. you can rest now.”

and for once, he did.

[milk-is-stable]

The Shoot From the Hip Hunger Games: Night 3

Masterpost (<-START HERE! the posts are best read in order)

Content Warning: descriptions of violence, blood/injury, grief/guilt, major character death

The sun begins to set on the third day of the games, casting a blood orange light across the sky. The wide shot of the arena fades from the TV screen and is replaced by a shot of Benjamin walking through the forest alone. He is gripping the handle of the utility knife he took from Caesar and Jasper's camp tightly in one hand, and his eyes dart back and forth through the trees.

Suddenly, he stops and ducks down to the ground, hiding behind a scrawny bush. Walking towards him are two figures, their forms blurry and out of focus in the shot. They come closer, then the shorter of the two holds out a hand, and they stop.

"Hello? Who is there?" a small voice calls, and the camera's focus shifts to reveal that the speaker is Alexa.

Benjamin doesn't move, his eyes wide and fearful, and Alexa tilts her head. Julian, who has been walking beside Alexa, leans towards her.

"Are you sure someone is here?" he asks, and Alexa nods.

"I can hear breathing," she says, looking towards the bushes where Benjamin is hiding. "Loud breathing, like someone is very scared. Don't be scared, hiding-person. We're not going to attack you."

The camera zooms in on Benjamin's knuckles, which have gone white around the grip of his knife as he slowly rises from the bushes.

"You're from District 6, right?" Julian asks, and Benjamin nods.

"I'm Julian, from District 4. This is Alexa, from District 1. We don't want to hurt anybody, alright?"

"Really?" Benjamin asks, and Alexa nods. "How come?"

"Because that's what they want us to do," Alexa says. "And we don't want to do what they want us to."

Benjamin shifts his weight, and looks away.

"I don't either," he admits in a quiet voice.

"Do you want something to eat?" asks Julian. "We have some extra."

After a moment, Benjamin nods, and the three sit down beside the bush Benjamin hid behind.

Julian distributes the food from his pack between the three of them, and for a few moments they are silent as they eat.

"How many tributes are left now?" Julian eventually asks, and Benjamin frowns, mouthing silently as he counts.

"Uhhhh, thirteen, I think?"

"It's eleven now," Alexa says quietly. "There were two canons today."

"So who's left?" Julian asks, and Benjamin begins counting off on his fingers.

"From One, Alexa. From Two, the scary guy, Caesar. One of the brothers from Three, then there's you and the other boy from Four.

"That's Jasper. He's allied with Caesar right now," Julian says.

"Then there's me from Six," Benjamin continues, "and the boy from Seven–"

"Michael," Alexa supplies his name.

"And Robin is the boy from Eight," Benjamin says. "He's a dangerous one...he nearly got me on the first day. I think both tributes from Nine are still in it, and so is the nice kid from Ten."

"He's called Peter," adds Alexa.

"Then there's the two from Twelve," Julian finishes. "Chip, who I was with earlier today, and–"

"Sally's gone," Alexa interjects quietly. "She was the first cannon today."

"That's everyone, I think," Benjamin says, and Julian frowns.

"Well, one of them is gone...Chip killed someone today. I just don't know who."

"I suppose we will find out when the anthem plays tonight," Alexa says, looking up at the sky.

The camera sweeps up to follow her gaze, showing the streaks of red sunset for a moment before panning away to focus on another tribute.

Down at the bottom of his ravine, Robin is once again struggling to light a fire. The isolation the ravine has afforded him has come at the cost of there being very little in the way of kindling to be found, and eventually he gives up, wrapping his arms around himself and leaning forward on his knees.

The camera cuts abruptly to Chip, who is sitting in almost the exact same position, though he sits in front of a fire. He stares into the flames, and their reflections dance in his eyes, making them almost appear to glow.

"I didn't know someone was there. I didn't. Besides, I'm just doing what I have to. You understand, right?"

He leans back, and looks up at the sky as the sun sinks lower and lower towards the horizon.

"I told you I'd do whatever it took to come home..."

The camera sweeps up once again, following Chip's view of the sky just as it followed Alexa's, before it comes to rest over Michael, Inga, and Johnny's new campsite.

The three have found a large rock outcropping to set up camp beneath, allowing them to have their backs protected by the terrain behind them. Michael is hard at work digging a long trench that spreads out in a wide semicircle with their camp at the center, and Inga and Johnny are sitting on the ground, whittling a pile of cut down tree branches into sharp points.

"Think this'll be enough?" Johnny asks as he finishes another and adds it to the pile. Inga shrugs, and stifles a yawn.

"I'm not sure. It depends on how densely he thinks we need to fill the pit."

Johnny gets to his feet, rubbing his eyes and stretching before bending over to pick up an armful.

"I'll take these to him and see what he thinks. You keep carving."

He carries the branches over to where Michael is digging, and sits down at the edge of the hole, letting his legs dangle over the edge.

"How do these look?" he asks, and Michael looks up at him, wiping sweat from his brow.

"Let me see."

Johnny passes one of the branches down, and Michael examines it, testing the sharp edge of one end before turning and jabbing into the soft earth he's overturned with his shovel. The pit is deep enough that the tip of the stick is about a foot beneath the lip of the trench.

"This is perfect," Michael says. "I wish I could dig more of these further out, but this already took the entire afternoon, and I don't want to spend all my time digging. This'll do for now. How many of those sticks do we have?"

"Another armful or so. We're still making more," Johnny says, and Michael nods approvingly.

"Do you mind coming down and helping me place these ones here, then?"

Johnny shakes his head, and a moment later he drops into the hole beside Michael. The two spend a few minutes stabbing the spears into the ground, arranging them so that they're all pointed towards the outer edge of the pit.

"We'll cover this with the tarp we found at Caesar's camp, then cover that with leaves, and nobody will even be able to tell this is here," Michael says as they work. Our camp will be super well protected."

"We should still post somebody to watch in shifts overnight," Johnny says, as he drives the last of his branches into the earth. "Just in case."

Michael nods, and he does the same with his last spear. The two take a moment and survey their work, and as they do, Michael shifts his weight from foot to foot.

"Hey...listen. I wanted to say..." he hesitates, and Johnny shoots him a curious look. "I'm sorry about your brother," Michael finally says. "It wasn't fair that the two of you both had to come here, and it wasn't fair that you didn't get to be there for him at the end. So...I'm sorry."

Johnny swallows, looking away as tears well up in his eyes.

"I feel like...I was never really there for him," he admits. "Even back home. He was always the clever one, the mature one. He was inventing things by the time he could walk...everyone knew that he'd go on to do great things. But then that stupid reaping came, and he spent more of his time comforting me than anything else."

"I feel guilty that I wasn't there more for Priscilla," Michael confesses. "And I only really got to know her during our training week at the Capitol. But still...she was just a kid, you know? And she had a rough go of it herself, with her family and everything. It wasn't fair that she was forced to come here. I know it's not the same, but..." he trails off, shrugging.

Johnny wipes at his eyes and looks at Michael, an odd expression on his face.

"You're just a kid too, you know," he says quietly. "And so am I, for that matter, even if I am a little older. We're all just kids."

"Not in here, we're not," says a grim voice, and the two boys look up to see Inga standing above them, another armful of branches in her hands. "This place doesn't let you be a kid. Our only choices in here are to fight..." she drops the pile of makeshift spears down into the pit, and raises her eyebrows. "Or to die.

"Well," Michael says, grabbing one of the spears and shoving it into the earth. "For now, I'll settle on surviving." He looks up at Inga, and raises an eyebrow. "You gonna come help us with these?"

"Of course," she says, dropping down into the pit beside them. "The sooner we get this done, the sooner we have dinner, and I'm starving."

The three work side by side to place the rest of the spikes, and when they're done Michael boosts Inga and Johnny back up out of the trench, who then pull him out together.

"I'll take first watch after we eat," Johnny says, and Inga nods approvingly.

"Just like your future dream. Well then, I'll take second watch. We want to make sure you have time to dream up what we should do tomorrow."

Michael raises an eyebrow at this exchange, but he doesn't comment on it, and the three begin to eat the jerky and cheese from Inga's parachute, as well as some freshly foraged roots and berries.

"I wonder what Caesar did when he got back to his camp and found it ransacked again," Michael muses, and Inga smirks.

"Now that, I'd pay to see."

As if in response to her request, the camera cuts to show the meager remains of the ransacked campsite just as Jasper approaches it. He curses when he realizes that the supplies are gone, then he turns, scanning the woods for any signs of life. Finding none, he sighs and sits down with his back to a tree. He glances up at the sun's low position in the sky, a frown creasing his brow.

"Was that cannon you or not, then?" he wonders aloud. "And if it wasn't, then where are you?"

He straightens suddenly as something else in the sky catches his attention. A sponsor parachute is drifting down towards him, a number four emblazoned on the side. The parcel lands in his campsite, and Jasper wastes no time in opening it. His face splits into a grin when the contents are revealed to be a full meal, complete with bread, meat, fruit, vegetables, and even a small slice of cake for dessert. He looks up briefly, scanning the woods one last time, before shaking his head.

"If he's gonna be late, then I don't have to share," he mutters to himself.

He begins to eat, though his guard remains up as he scans his surroundings every few bites. "Still...where are you?"

The camera cuts back to the mouth of the cave that Peter and Caesar disappeared into earlier in the day. It zooms into the dark tunnel and for a moment the screen is nothing but blackness and the sound of rushing water, then the screen lights up again as the camera emerges into a hidden valley lit up by the golden light of the setting sun. There is a veritable treasure trove of edible plants to be found growing here, everything from fruit trees to berry bushes to grape vines.

Caesar has taken his jacket off and is using it as a makeshift bag, gathering as much of the food as he can. His trident leans up against the trunk of one of the fruit trees, and as he picks the bushes clean, he drifts further and further away from the discarded weapon.

Once he is several yards away with his back turned, there is a rustling sound and suddenly Peter bursts out from one of the bushes near the edge of the clearing, sprinting towards the trident. Caesar spins around, dropping his makeshift bag of food to the ground and yelling in surprise. He barrels towards Peter, but before he can reach him, the smaller boy's hands have closed around the trident's grip.

Peter brandishes the weapon clumsily, and Caesar skids to a stop before he runs into stabbing range, raising his hands. The two stand frozen for a moment as the sunset slowly fades to twilight around them, then Caesar takes a tentative step forward.

"Easy there, kid," he says, even as Peter shakes the trident at him threateningly. "You don't know how to use that thing. You could get hurt."

"Not as hurt as you," Peter says, his voice trembling slightly, and Caesar raises an eyebrow.

"Really? he asks. "Are you certain about that?"

Caesar takes another step forward, and Peter takes one back in turn, making Caesar smile.

"See? You don't even want to use it, not really. I know a killer when I see one, boy, and that's not what I see when I look at you."

He takes another step, but this time Peter doesn't step back.

"I'll tell you what," Caesar says. "If you lay the trident down, I'll let you go back through the cave, and we'll forget this ever happened. You can even take some of the food with you, there's certainly enough to go around. That's all you really want, right? The food?"

Peter glances at the bushes around them, bursting with bright, plump berries, and Caesar's smile widens.

"They look good, don't they? Just lay the trident down, and you can take some and leave. You don't want to do this."

Peter looks back at Caesar, his forehead creasing in a frown.

"You don't know what it is to take a life, boy," Caesar says. "Stop kidding yourself into–"

Peter cuts him off with a quick jab of the trident, the three prongs sinking deep into the flesh of Caesar's stomach.

Caesar's eyes go wide, and he looks down at the handle of the weapon sticking out of his body in shock.

"I know more than you think," Peter says grimly.

He pulls the trident back, and Caesar drops to the ground as blood pours from his newly opened wounds. Peter stares down at him as the rise and fall of his chest gets slower and slower, until finally he goes completely still and a cannon fires.

At that moment, the screen splits into five views, showing each of the remaining tributes looking up in surprise at the sound. The view of Alexa, Julian, and Benjamin zooms in to fill the whole screen as Alexa shivers, wrapping her arms around herself.

"Well," Julian says quietly as the opening notes of the anthem begin to play. "I guess now it's down to ten."

— — — 

The day ends and the Capitol anthem plays. The sky lights up with the third nightly ceremony honoring the fallen. The face of each tribute that died, in District order. Your TV shows a brief clip of how each death occurred, though the projection in the arena doesn’t show this to the tributes.

You see the trident enter Caesar's stomach, a shot of the blazing berry patch, and the engineered mutt tackling Sally to the ground.

The anthem ends, and the projection in the arena goes dim.

This concludes our broadcast for the day! Please tune in again tomorrow to see what will become of YOUR favorite tribute!

Game Summary

Deaths:

Caesar was killed by Peter

Kill Counts:

Pinocchio: 2 (Maria, Jimmy)

Inga: 1 (Jim L)

Caesar: 2 (Juliet, Pinocchio)

Chip: 3 (Clarissa, Marty, Hugh)

Jasper: 1 (Pinocchio)

Robin: 1 (Janae)

Peter: 2 (Priscilla, Caesar)

Game Meta

We're finally at a point where I only need two screenshots to capture all the events of a day! I can't believe it! There's still quite a bit more to come, but things are starting to get really interesting now, and I can't wait to see y'all's reactions to the things that are to come.

One huge note on structure, today marks one of the biggest departures from the simulation that I've done all game: It makes absolutely NO sense narratively for Inga and Chip to fall asleep holding hands. They've never even interacted, and minor spoilers for tomorrow, but it explicitly states that Inga, Michael, and Johnny all three do something together. So I decided just to cut that bit entirely, and instead have Inga hang with Michael and Johnny for the night and Chip have his own little crisis alone. As far as I'm aware, that's the last BIG change, although in order to make some things work later on, we will get a little loosey-goosey with whether a death happens in a Day or Night...you'll see what I mean soon.

Once again, thank you all so much for reading! Have a great day <3

[celestialchemistry]

Frida Kahlo and Diego Rivera, the Artistic Lovers 🎨

Diego Rivera was the Sagittarius Sun, the fire — passionate, philosophical, visionary.

Frida Kahlo was the Cancer Sun, the water — emotional, intuitive, fiercely loyal.

⸻

“The River Paints the Flame”

A Love Story of Diego Rivera and Frida Kahlo

(Sagittarius Sun & Cancer Sun)

He was fire.

Diego Rivera burned with ideas and ambition, with a vision as wide as the sky.

His Sagittarius sun made him a traveler — of lands, ideologies, and hearts.

He loved on grand scales, mural by mural, woman by woman, always searching for meaning in the chaos of creation.

But within all the noise, he met her.

A quiet sea of feeling with eyes that saw straight through to his soul.

She was water.

Frida Kahlo, with her Cancer sun, felt the world before she thought it.

She loved with her entire being — mothering the broken parts of others while silently bleeding through her own.

Her art, her pain, her passion — they flowed like the tide, moody and honest and deep.

They were impossible.

And yet, inevitable.

⸻

Sagittarius and Cancer — Love That Transcends

He wandered.

She rooted.

He expanded.

She enveloped.

Where Sagittarius yearns to explore, Cancer yearns to belong.

But they taught each other balance:

• Frida showed Diego the beauty of staying.

• Diego reminded Frida of the fire still alive inside her pain.

Their love was not clean or perfect — it was a masterpiece of contradictions.

Frida wrote:

“You too know that all my eyes see, all my hands touch, all I live — is for you.”

Diego remembered:

“I realized too late that the most real thing in my life was Frida.”

⸻

A Poetic Vow Between Water and Fire

Frida (Cancer):

“I will carry your fire inside me like a heartbeat — a burn I never wanted to cool. Even when you are gone, I will remain your ocean.”

Diego (Sagittarius):

“I will keep chasing horizons, but my heart always sets like the sun in your eyes. You are my north — the one I return to, no matter how far I roam.”

⸻

Their story wasn’t built on tradition.

It was forged in freedom and feeling — the fire that paints the sea, and the sea that cools the flame.

They fought, broke, healed, created — not just art, but a new way to love.

A way where devotion wasn’t tidy, but it was true.

And in the end, it is said:

Diego wept at her grave as though the fire in him had finally met the sea.

⸻

“Where the Fire Rains and the Ocean Burns”

The Love Story of Frida Kahlo (Cancer Sun) and Diego Rivera (Sagittarius Sun)

Together, they were both storm and sanctuary.

⸻

The Alchemy of Sagittarius and Cancer

• Sagittarius seeks truth through freedom — and Frida craved experience, adventure, and authenticity above all.

• Cancer seeks security through emotional depth — and Diego craved connection, family, and legacy.

Their elemental energies — fire and water — seemed to oppose, but instead, they danced. Fire can evaporate water, yes. But water can shape stone, and fire can forge gold. Their love was not about harmony — it was about transformation.

Diego challenged Frida’s comforts.

Frida anchored Diego’s restlessness.

She lit his world in bold strokes; he gave her devotion, even when they both cracked beneath the weight of their flaws.

⸻

Their Love Story, Like Art

They were not meant to be ordinary.

Their canvases were littered with symbols of each other.

Their homes, though sometimes divided, were always within reach.

Their love endured infidelities, separations, illness, exile — and yet, their hearts circled back again and again like planets to the sun.

She once said:

“Diego was everything; my child, my lover, my universe.”

And he said:

“I realized I had loved her more than my own life.”

This wasn’t a love of neat edges. It was splattered, raw, filled with blood and bloom.

But it was real.

And it never died.

⸻

Water and Fire: Elemental Devotion

• Water remembers: Frida held onto Diego through time, through illness, through distance.

• Fire forgives and transforms: Diego turned every rupture into something meaningful — into poetry, into power.

Fire burns for truth. Water longs for belonging.

And in each other, they found both — over and over again.

⸻

In Their Own Elemental Vows

Diego (Sagittarius):

“I promise to love you through fire — not despite the burns, but because they teach us how to survive.”

Frida (Cancer):

“I vow to hold you in every tide of my soul — not to tame you, but to keep a piece of your flame alive inside my sea.”

⸻

Let me know if this resonates with you Astro lovers!

“I would just like to be where you are; I would just like to trust you and love you and be with you. Only with you. Inside of you, around you, in all conceivable and inconceivable places. I would like to be where you are.”

— Frida Kahlo

[juliettejwnewinesa]

hear me out beomseok version of “you came on my lap?”? 😇

"You Came on My Lap?" – Beomseok Ver. (Set in a private room, post-fight energy, tension heavy, smutty, possessive Beomseok, 3rd person, uses “Y/N”)

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The room was silent except for the throb of bass muffled by thick walls and the faint buzz of fluorescent lights. Beomseok sat back on the worn leather couch, legs spread, jacket loose on his shoulders, the bruises on his jaw still fresh from the fight earlier that night. His knuckles were split, wrapped in tissues he'd barely bothered to tape up. He looked bored — or maybe just exhausted — until Y/N dropped herself down on his lap like it was nothing.

“Really?” he muttered, arms settling low on her waist. “What happened to personal space?”

“You said to stay close,” she shot back, voice dry, but her hands braced against his chest like she was trying not to feel him too much. Too late. His body was hot. His jeans were rough. And the way he exhaled when she adjusted her seat — slow, tight, restrained — made her nervous in all the wrong ways.

His thigh was solid beneath her. Rock-hard muscle under denim, spreading her just enough to press against something she shouldn’t be noticing.

“You’re squirmy tonight,” he said, the corners of his mouth tugging up lazily. “Can’t get comfortable?”

“No. Your belt is digging into me.”

“My belt,” he echoed, tone dipping, “or my thigh?”

Y/N went still.

Beomseok leaned in slightly, enough to let his breath warm her neck. “You’ve been fidgeting for the past minute,” he murmured. “Grinding.”

“I’m not—!”

He hummed, cutting her off. “You are. You don’t even realize it.”

Her face flushed. She was going to move — shift off, say Sorry, didn’t mean to — but his hands pressed down on her hips, anchoring her.

“Stay,” he said, and suddenly the air wasn’t lazy anymore. It was thick. Possessive.

She swallowed hard. “Beomseok—”

“Go on,” he said lowly, watching her like a storm on the verge. “You’re already moving. Might as well finish.”

It came out as a dare, but it landed like a command.

Y/N didn’t mean to roll her hips. But she did. Once. Then again. The friction of his jeans against her thin panties, the way he let her ride his thigh — just watched, unmoving except for his grip tightening whenever she pressed down too hard — it lit a fire in her gut.

Beomseok’s eyes darkened. “Look at you,” he breathed. “So desperate you’ll use my fucking leg?”

“I—I didn’t mean to—” she choked, but her hips were still moving. She couldn’t stop.

“Oh, I know,” he said. “That’s the best part.”

The heat built fast. She could barely breathe. Couldn’t think. Just one more roll of her hips. One more sharp breath through clenched teeth, and—

It hit her.

Soft. Sudden. Her thighs trembled. Her fingers curled against his chest.

Beomseok stilled.

Then he laughed, low and dangerous. “No fucking way.”

She froze.

His hands slid down to her thighs, thumbs pressing just beneath the edge of her skirt.

“You came,” he said, voice like silk over a knife. “You came on my lap.”

Her face burned. “Shut up—”

“No,” he said, voice firm. “Don’t ever hide that from me. You looked so pretty. Fuck.”

He tilted his head, like studying her. “Didn’t even touch you. Just let you use me. And now look at you.”

She tried to move — tried to escape the humiliation crawling up her spine — but Beomseok wouldn’t let her. He kept her planted there, his thigh still slick with her warmth.

“You’re not going anywhere,” he whispered, brushing his nose along her jaw. “Not until I feel you do it again. This time on my cock.”

Her breath hitched.

“That’s what you wanted, right?” he asked, gentle and wicked all at once. “To be ruined properly? Not just a stain on my jeans.”

She nodded before she could stop herself.

“Good girl,” he whispered, dragging her down to grind against him again. “Now ride me like you mean it.”

Author's note: someone remind me to update the taglist im too tired to do it rn 😛

[fyrewalks]

33. How do they learn about the world–what is their preferred learning style? Hands-on learning with trial and error? Research, reading, and note-taking? Observation or rote memorization? Inductive or deductive reasoning? Seeking patterns and organization? Taking things apart and putting them back together? Creative processing via discussing, writing about, or dramatizing things? for bob

Bob is the annoying person who is pointing out the learning styles thing is a myth. He does great with learning the theory behind something and then applying it, but there have been times when strict memorization is the only thing that's worked. He's also a great tinker and probably had a little too much freedom pulling things apart and putting them back together again as a kid. Although, because Bob is naturally very smart, he hasn't had to study very hard, so his study skills are a bit weak when compared to others.

[hauntingblue]

Rewatching act 2.... yeah ISHA WATCH OUT FOR THE CYCLE ISHA!!!!! NOOOOO