#its meant to simmer not pop

[927roses-and-stuff]

THANK YOU FOR SAYING IT

tiktok swifties are failing to understand the album is literally an anthology of poetry but to music, so it’s meant to be long and slow processing. you’re supposed to sit and meditate on it. you need to think about the lines, think about the authors life, think about your own, then go back to the song with understanding. it’s not an easy breezy album, it’s taylor swifts poetry collection and we’re all supposed to sit on it

[monstersholygrail]

The Kiss of Fate

Shark Hybrid x fem!reader x Merman— fingering (f!receiving), slight cuckolding, masturbation, double penetration, creampie, cockwarming

Shark Hybrid bf loves everything more when he gets to experience it with you. When once he loathed the land he now loves it as it’s where he can spend countless hours with you. And when once his home within the ocean caves were lonely and dreary, now he’s seen it through your eyes and it’s the second most beautiful thing he’s ever laid eyes on. The first, of course, being you.

But experiencing the ocean with you, his lovely mate, comes with a price. A price terrible yet worth it. You see, as a Shark Hybrid his kiss doesn’t have the ability the let humans breathe underwater. So when he wishes to take you into the ocean, he has to ask for help from his rival, the Merman.

He hates the way the Merman swims up to them all smug, the way he looks at you as he sweeps you up in his arms, and the way the Merman looks at him, smirking as he kisses you with the simmering heat of an underwater volcano.

But most of all he hates how much it turns him on to watch you getting kissed so roughly. Because fuck if it isn’t the hottest thing he’s ever seen. His cock hardens the longer you get swept up into the kiss.

When his length pops from its sheath his hand itches with the urge to pump himself to the sight of you. The Merman’s gaze flickers back to him and a spark of understanding passes between them.

The Merman needs no further explanation besides the sight of your bfs cock. His kiss with you grows more passionate, his webbed fingers trailing down your body and dipping into your bathing suit. That jolts you out of your trance and you glance at your bf, shocked to see him touching himself. Your brows furrow in uncertainty but at your bf’s encouraging nod you slowly turn back to the Merman who gazes at you as if you’re his most precious treasure.

With his arms holding you tightly, the Merman swims deeper into the ocean, leading you and your bf into what you assume is his home as you resurface into a cave with an air pocket.

The Merman pins you against the wall of his cave, his mouth back on yours and his hand resuming its place as he nearly rips your suit off in his haste and swipes his long digits through your folds. You whimper against his mouth, legs wrapping around his tail.

“Goddess, I’ve been waiting for this day. But I knew it’d happen. Knew one day you’d both be mine,” the Merman pants in between kisses, his hands roaming all over you as if he’d spent so much energy holding back and now he’s been let loose to give into his desires.

His cock falls from its sheath and joins his hand, grinding his length against your pussy while his fingers rub diligently at your clit. You cry out, body rocking into his hard cock. Hands weaving into his hair to keep him close.

You know exactly what he’s talking back. The hidden tension and desire that always floated between the three of you. A pot of boiling water just waiting to spill over. Every meeting, every kiss, and every glance. Bringing you all closer to the inevitable.

Your bf’s hands grip your waist as he slides himself behind you against the wall. You immediately moan and arch back against him as you feel his cock nestle between your thick thighs. With your body on display the Merman delves down, kissing along your neck.

“Don’t act like you knew I’d eventually give in,” your bf snaps as if angry. But the husky tone of his voice betrays him. He was just as aware as you all were. This was meant to be.

The Merman lifts his head, his smirk as smug and arrogant as ever as he gazes at your bf. His hand reaching out to cup the Shark Hybrids cheek and he can’t resist leaning into the touch. Only serving to make the Merman more smug.

“Of course I did, I have eyes,” he responds cheekily in a way you’ve grown to find endearing. “Now let us claim our mate before I lose my patience.”

His gaze sharpens with a burning heat that inflames your insides despite being in the cold water. He wastes no time guiding his cock to your entrance, the buildup up of it all has his length sinking inside you with ease. Mirroring moans leave you both as he stretches you so wonderfully. The Merman cries out, throwing his head back.

“You feel even better than I imagined. So tight. So fucking warm,” the Merman exclaims, losing himself in the feel of you.

Just as you’re starting to adjust to the Merman’s side, your bf’s fingers playfully trail down your back till they tease at your other hole. You whimper pathetically, desperately wanting them both inside you. Your bf shushes you gently, leaning down and kissing your temple.

“Don’t worry, mate. You’ll have us both. We’re here for you. I’m right here,” he whispers in your ear and you angle your head to kiss him.

Shark Hybrid bf kisses you slowly as he preps your ass for him. Your hips instinctively rock into the feeling, causing the Merman to hiss sharply as he tries to hold back. Waiting for your bf. And when he finally does enter you, joining the Merman inside your body, the cave echos with wanton cries and grunts.

The two Merfolk begin to move together and you gasp at the sensation, your eyes rolling back as you feel so full stuffed with two thick cocks. You clench around them, not being able to get enough and they both growl. The sound letting you know you’re in for a wild ride.

Your bf instantly picks up pace, pounding into your ass and giving it to you just how he knows you like it. The Merman quickly follows, furiously snapping his hips against yours and forcing his cock in as deep as you can take it. You scream in pleasure, holding onto them both as they take you for a ride. Forcing waves of pleasure onto your body with no remorse.

The two work in complete tandem, making sure when one is thrusting out, the other is plunging back in. Ensuring you’re never without a cock inside your addictive body. The overwhelming sensations constantly clashing and overpowering the over leaves you weak and limp in their hold. Endless moans fall from your dropped jaw as you’re helpless to the strike of your senses.

When you can no longer hold it back, your body seizes, a fierce shriek vibrating off the walls of the cave as your thrown off the edge and into the deep end of euphoria. Your orgasm moves its way through your quivering body as your mates help work you through it. Their thrusts turning erratic at your constant clenching.

They both spill their cum inside you, one after the other. Their hot release filling your insides, spurt after spurt splashes along your walls, leaving your belly slightly distended. Four webbed hands are caressing your body and two sets of lips silently praise you for how good you were for them.

You lean into them both just as you lean into this new chapter of your life. Knowing that neither of you will be able to leave the Merman now and that you both won’t want to. The three of you together just feels right. And now that you’ve had it you can’t imagine it any other way.

As you meet your bf’s eye you know his thoughts are running along the same path as yours. With a subtle nod and a gentle kiss to your throat he confirms it for you. A giddy feeling bursts through you and you naturally clench, causing your mates to groan in unison. Their cocks slowly hardening again for another round, wanting nothing more than to please their mates.

[damienkarras73]

An essay on Furiosa, the politics of the Wasteland, Arthurian literature and realistic vs. formalistic CGI

Mad Max: Fury Road absolutely enraptured me when it came out nearly a decade ago, and I will cop to seeing it four times at the theatre. For me (and many others who saw the light of George Miller) it set new standards for action filmmaking, storytelling and worldbuilding, and I could pop in its Blu Ray at any time and never get tired of it. Perhaps not surprisingly, I was deeply apprehensive about the announced prequel for Fury Road's actual main character, Furiosa, even if Miller was still writing and directing. We didn't need backstory for Furiosa—hell, Fury Road is told in such a way that NOTHING in it requires explicit backstory. And since it focuses on the Yung Furiosa, it meant Charlize Theron couldn't return with another career-defining performance. Plus, look at all that CGI in the trailer, it can't be as good as Fury Road.

Turns out I was silly to doubt George Miller, M.D., A.O., writer and director of Babe: Pig in the City and Happy Feet One & Two.

Furiosa: A Mad Max Saga is excellent, and I needn't have worried about it not being as good as Fury Road because it is not remotely trying to be Fury Road. Fury Road is a lean, mean machine with no fat on it, nothing extraneous, operating with constant forward momentum and only occasionally letting up to let you breathe a little; Furiosa is a classical epic, sprawling in scope, scale and structure, and more than happy to let the audience simmer in a quiet, almost painfully still moment. If its opening spoken word sequence by that Gandalf of the Wastes himself, the First History Man, didn't already clue you in, it unfolds like something out of myth, a tale told over and over again and whose possible embellishments are called attention to in the dialogue itself. Where Fury Road scratched the action nerd itch in my head like you wouldn't believe, Furiosa was the equivalent of Miller giving the undulating folds of my English major brain a deep tissue massage. That's great! I, for one, love when sequels/prequels endeavour to be fundamentally different movies from what they're succeeding/preceding, operating in different modes, formats and even genres, and more filmmakers should aim for it when building on an existing series.

This movie has been on my mind so much in the past week that I've ended up dedicating several cognitive processes to keeping track of all of the different ponderings it's spawned. Thankfully, Furiosa is divided into chapters (fun fact: putting chapter cards in your movie is a quick way to my heart), so it only seems fitting that I break up all of these cascading thoughts accordingly.

1. The Pole of Inaccessibility

Furiosa herself actually isn't the protagonist for the first chapter of her own movie, instead occupying the role of a (very crafty and resourceful) damsel in distress for those initial 30-40 minutes. The real hero of the opening act, which plays out like a game of cat and mouse, is Furiosa's mother Mary Jabassa, who rides out into the wasteland first on horseback and then astride a motorcycle to track down the band of raiders that has stolen away her daughter. Mary's brought to life by Miller and Nico Lathouris' economical writing and a magnetic performance by newcomer Charlee Fraser, who radiates so much screen presence in such relatively little time and with one of those instant "who is SHE??" faces. She doesn't have many lines, but who needs them when Fraser can convey volumes about Mary with just a flash of her eyes or the effortless way she swaps out one of her motorcycle's wheels for another. To be quite candid, I'm not sure of the last time I fell in love with a character so quickly.

You notice a neat aesthetic contrast between mother and daughter in retrospect: Mary Jabassa darts into the desert barefoot, clad in a simple yet elegant dress, her wolf cut immaculate, only briefly disguising herself with the ugly armour of a raider she just sniped, and when she attacks it's almost with grace, like some Greek goddess set loose in the post-apocalyptic Aussie outback with just her wits and a bolt-action rifle; we track Furiosa's growth over the years by how much of her initially conventional beauty she has shed, quite literally in one case (hair buzzed, severed arm augmented with a chunky mechanical prosthesis, smeared in grease and dirt from head to toe, growling her lines at a lower octave), and by how she loses her mother's graceful approach to movement and violence, eventually carrying herself like a blunt instrument. Yet I have zero doubt the former raised the latter, both angels of different feathers but with the same steel and resolve. Of fucking course this woman is Furiosa's mother, and in the short time we know her we quickly understand exactly why Furiosa has the drive and morals she does without needing to resort to didactic exposition.

Anyway, I was tearing up by the end of the first chapter. Great start!

2. Lessons from the Wasteland

Most movies—most stories, really—don't actually tell the entire narrative from A to Z. Perhaps the real meat of the thing is found from H to T, and A-G or U-Z are unnecessary for conveying the key narrative and themes. So many prequels fail by insisting on telling the A-G part of the story, explaining how the hero earned a certain nickname or met their memorable sidekick—but if that stuff was actually interesting, they likely would have included it in the original work. The greatest thing a prequel can actually do is recontextualize, putting iconic characters or moments in a new light, allowing you to appreciate them from a different angle. All of season 2 of Fargo serves to explain why Molly Solverson's dad is appropriately wary when Lorne Malvo enters his diner for a SINGLE SCENE in the show's first season. David's arc from the Alien prequels Prometheus and Covenant—polarizing as those entries are—adds another layer to why Ash is so protective of the creature in the first movie. Andor gives you a sense of what it's like for a normal, non-Jedi person to live under the boot of the Empire and why so many of them would join up with the Rebel Alliance—or why they would desire to wear that boot, or even just crave the chance to lick it.

Furiosa is one of those rare great prequels because it makes us take a step back and consider the established world with a little more nuance, even if it's still all so absurd. In Fury Road, Immortan Joe is an awesome, endlessly quotable villain, completely irredeemable, and basically a cartoon. He works perfectly as the antagonist of that breakneck, Road Runner and Wile E. Coyote-ass movie, but if you step outside of its adrenaline-pumping narrative for even a moment you risk questioning why nobody in the Citadel or its surrounding settlements has risen up against him before. Hell, why would Furiosa even work for him to begin with? But then you see Dementus and company tear-assing around the wasteland, seizing settlements and running them into the ground, and you realize Joe and his consortium offer something that Dementus reasonably can't: stability—granted, an unwavering, unchangeable stability weighted in favour of Joe's own brutal caste system, but stability nonetheless. It really makes you wonder, how badly does a guy have to suck to make IMMORTAN JOE of all people look like a sane, competent and reasonable ruler by comparison?!?

…and then they open the door to the vault where he keeps his wives, and in a flash you're reminded just how awful Joe is and why Furiosa will risk her life to help some of these women flee from him years later. This new context enriches Joe and makes it more believable that he could maintain power for so long, but it doesn't make him any less of a monster, and it says a lot about Furiosa's hate for Dementus that she could grit her teeth and work for this sick old tyrant.

3. The Stowaway

Here's another wild bit of trivia about this movie: you don't actually see top-billed actress Anya Taylor-Joy pop up on screen until roughly halfway through, once Furiosa is in her late teens/early twenties. Up until this point she's been played by Alyla Browne, who through the use of some seamless and honestly really impressive CGI has been given Anya's distinctive bug eyes [complimentary]. It's one of those bold choices that really works because Miller commits to it so hard, though it does make me wish Browne's name was up on the poster next to Taylor-Joy's.

Speaking of CGI, I should talk about what seems to be a sticking point for quite a few people: if there's been one consistent criticism of Furiosa so far, it's that it doesn't look nearly as practical or grounded as Fury Road, with more obvious greenscreen and compositing, and what previously would've been physical stunt performers and pyrotechnics have been replaced with their digital equivalents for many shots. Simply put, it doesn't look as real! For a lot of people, that practicality was one of Fury Road's primary draws, so I won't try to quibble if they're let down by Furiosa's overt artificiality, but to be honest I'm actually quite fine with it. It helps that this visual discrepancy doesn't sneak up on you but is incredibly apparent right from the aerial zoom-down into Australia in the very first scene, so I didn't feel misled or duped.

Fury Road never asks you to suspend your disbelief because it all looks so believable; Furiosa jovially prods you to suspend that disbelief from the get-go and tune into it on a different wavelength. It's a classical epic, and like the classical epics of the 1950s and 60s it has a lot of actors standing in front of what clearly are matte paintings. It feels right! We're not watching fact, we're watching myth. I'm willing to concede there might be a little bit of post-hoc rationalization on my part because I simply love this movie so much, but I'm not holding the effects in Furiosa to the same standard as those in Fury Road because I simply don't believe Miller and his crew are attempting to replicate that approach. Without the extensive CGI, we don't get that impressive long, panning take where a stranded Furiosa scans the empty, dust-and-sun-scoured wasteland (75% Sergio Leone, 25% Andrei Tarkovsky), or the Octoboss and his parasailing goons. For the sake of intellectual exercise I did try imagining them filming the Octoboss/war rig sequence with the same immersive practical approach they used for Fury Road's stunts, however I just kept picturing dead stunt performers, so perhaps the tradeoff was worth it!

4. Homeward

Around the same time we meet the Taylor-Joy-pilled Furiosa in Chapter 3, we're introduced to Praetorian Jack, the chief driver for the convoys running between the Citadel and its allied settlements. Jack's played by Tom Burke, who pulled off a very good Orson Welles in Mank! and who I should really check out in The Souvenir one of these days. He's also a cool dude! Here are some facts about Praetorian Jack:

He's decked out in road leathers with a pauldron stitched to one shoulder

He's stoic and wary, but still more or less personable and can carry on a conversation

Professes to a certain cynicism, to quote Special Agent Albert Rosenfield, but ultimately has a capacity for kindness and will do the right thing

Shoots a gun real good

Can drive like nobody's business

So in other words, Jack is Mad Max. But also, no, he clearly isn't! He looks and dresses like Mad Max (particularly Mel Gibson's) and does a lot of the same things "Mad" Max Rockatansky does, but he's also very explicitly a distinct character. It's a choice that seems inexplicable and perhaps even lazy on its face, except this is a George Miller movie, so of course this parallel is extremely purposeful. Miller has gone on record saying he avoids any kind of strict chronology or continuity for his Mad Max movies, compared to the rigid canons for Star Trek and Star Wars, and bless him for doing so. It's more fun viewing each Mad Max entry as a new revision or elaboration on a story being told again and again generations after the fall, mutating in style, structure and focus with every iteration, becoming less grounded as its core narrative is passed from elder to youth, community to community, genre to genre, until it becomes myth. (At least, my English major brain thinks it's more fun.) In fact there's actually something Arthurian to it, where at first King Arthur was mentioned in several Welsh legends before Geoffrey of Monmouth crafted an actual narrative around him, then Chrétien de Troyes added elements like Lancelot and infused the stories with more romance, and then with Le Morte d'Arthur Thomas Malory whipped the whole cycle together into one volume, which T.H. White would chop and screw and deconstruct with The Once and Future King centuries later.

All this to say: maybe Praetorian Jack looks and sounds and acts like Max because he sorta kinda basically is, being just one of many men driving back and forth across the wasteland, lending a hand on occasion, who'll be conflated into a single, legendary "Mad Max" at some point down the line in a different History Man's retelling of Furiosa's odyssey. Sometimes that Max rips across the desert in his V8 Interceptor, other times driving a big rig. Perhaps there's a dog tagging along and/or a scraggly and at first aggravating ally played by Bruce Spence or Nicholas Hoult. Usually he has a shotgun. But so long as you aren't trying to kill him, he'll help you out.

5. Beyond Vengeance

The Mad Max movies have incredibly iconic villains—Immortan Joe! Toecutter! the Lord Humongous!—but they are exactly that, capital V Villains devoid of humanizing qualities who you can't wait to watch bad things happen to. Furiosa appears to continue this trend by giving us a villain who in fact has a mustache long enough that he could reasonably twirl it if he so wanted, but ironically Dementus ends up being the most layered antagonist in the entire series, even moreso than the late Tina Turner's comparatively benevolent Aunty Entity from Beyond Thunderdome. And because he's played by Chris Hemsworth, whose comedic delivery rivals his stupidly handsome looks, you lock in every time he's on screen.

Something so fascinating about Dementus is that, for a main antagonist, he's NOT all-powerful, and in fact quite the opposite: he's more conman than warlord, looking for the next hustle, the next gullible crowd he can preach to and dupe—though never for long. For all his bluster, at every turn he finds himself in way over his head and writing cheques he can't cash, and this self-induced Sisyphean torment makes him riveting to watch. You're tempted to pity Dementus but it's also quite difficult to spare sympathy for someone who's so quick to channel their rage and hurt and ego into thoughtless, burn-it-all-down destruction. When you're not laughing at him, you're hating his guts, and it's indisputably the best work of Chris Hemsworth's career.

It's in this final chapter that everything naturally comes to a head: Furiosa's final evolution into the character we meet at the start of Fury Road, the predictable toppling of Dementus' precariously built house of cards, and the mythmaking that has been teased since the very first scene becoming diagetic text, the last of which allows the movie to thoroughly explore the themes of vengeance it's been building to. A brief war begins, is summarized and is over in the span of roughly a minute, and on its face it's a baffling narrative choice that most other filmmakers would have botched. But our man Miller's smart enough to recognize that the result of this war is the most foregone of conclusions if you've been paying even the slightest bit of attention, so he effectively brushes past it to get to the emotional heart of the climax and an incredible "Oh shit!" payoff that cements Miller as one of mainstream cinema's greatest sickos.

Fury Road remains the greatest Mad Max film, but Furiosa might be the best thing George Miller has ever made. If not his magnum opus, it does at least feel like his dissertation, and it makes me wish Warner Bros. puts enough trust in him despite Furiosa's poor box office performance that he's able to make The Wasteland. Absolutely ridiculous that a man just short of his 80th birthday was able to pull this off, and with it I feel confident calling him one of my favourite directors.

[pookalicious-hq]

blue velvet... jinx x reader

| 0.1. wrecking ball | next | masterlist

synopsis: two girls trapped within a world full of hate would do anything for eachother. too bad they're both crazy. tags/tws: mentions of mental health illnesses, mention of suicide, blood and gore, mc has split personalities word count: 1.7k

To the people of Piltover, you were a storm devil, a dark figure wielding unnatural power and chaos. In Zaun, though, they sang a different tune. There, you were their angel of death, a symbol of protection—or a promise of impending ruin. Your name meant salvation to some, doom to others. And depending on who you asked, it marked either a savior or a death sentence.

The billowing smog swirled around you, outlining your feathered wings like a ghostly shadow against the vibrant glow of Zaun’s undercity. This was no gentle welcome—the air was thick, saturated with oil, smoke, and the sharp bite of chemicals that burned your nostrils. It clung to your skin, coating everything in a fine, greasy layer. Eyes were on you already, peering from fractured pipes and shadowed alleyways, watching your every move.

The streets stretched before you, cracked cobblestones that seemed to pulse with a life both unsettling and invigorating. It felt as if the city itself was breathing—exhaling dust, shimmer, and a constant undercurrent of danger. Each step you took sent faint crackles of electricity tingling across your fingertips, the remnants of tonight’s mission still simmering through your veins.

Your wings, usually sharp and sure, were now folded tightly against your back, their feathers singed and dulled from the exertion. As you passed, people cast wary glances your way—some with awe, others with suspicion. Silco’s orders lingered in your mind like a bitter taste, a reminder of the duty that had brought you here.

You took a steadying breath, feeling the sharp current of electricity crackling through your body. Each pulse felt like an unbearable mixture of pain and power, the dark remnants of Silco’s relentless trials etched into your bones. Even now, the energy surged restlessly beneath your skin, reminding you of everything you’d endured to become his weapon.

You clenched your fists, grounding yourself against the power that begged to be released. This wasn’t the time to draw attention, though every instinct inside you screamed to let the storm loose. For now, restraint was your duty, and unruliness would be your downfall.

The smog of Zaun barely settled in your lungs when a sudden pop split the air, followed by a burst of glitter that exploded in front of you. It coated your face, your wings, and the grime-caked cobblestones beneath your feet. The sparkling mist shimmered mockingly under the dim neon lights of the undercity.

You froze, coughing as the glitter bomb went off, its sharp, chemical taste lingering in the back of your throat. You flapped your wings to dispel the cloud, the gritty particles sticking to your feathers. “Holy shit—”

“Birdie!” Jinx’s gleeful voice rang out, her silhouette dropping down from a pipe above. A wide, mischievous grin stretched across her face, pink smoke trailing from her latest concoction, the scent of sulfur heavy in the air behind her. “Gotcha good, huh? You were so focused on being grumpy, didn’t even see me coming.”

Your heart was still racing, the burst of noise and color stirring every survival instinct within you. A spark of electricity jumped from your fingertips, lashing out reflexively. It wasn’t deliberate, just the aftershock of the moment. The faint crackle of power hit Jinx square in the shoulder, and she yelped, staggering back, though the sound quickly dissolved into giggles.

“Woah!” she gasped, blinking in surprise, then patting the singed edge of her sleeve. The gleam in her eyes sharpened, her smirk widening. “Do that again!”

“What?” you sputtered, still coughing out glitter, the sharp metallic taste lingering on your tongue. “No, I’m not—Jay! Are you insane?”

She tilted her head, her grin crooked and knowing, the flickering neon lights casting shadows on her face. “You know, people say that a lot about us,” she teased, her voice light but laced with something sharper beneath it. A shared understanding hummed in the air, like the crackling static that clung to your skin.

You couldn’t help but laugh—a dry, unsteady sound, still choked with the taste of glitter and the pulse of raw power in your veins. She mirrored you, that familiar, wild energy swirling between the two of you, filling the space with a chaotic kind of warmth.

Her fingers reached out, brushing through the faint static still buzzing in the air around you. The tingling sensation ran along your nerves, a constant reminder of the force contained within you.

“C’mon,” she pressed, her voice low and coaxing, the coolness of the alley around you suddenly feeling a little too close. “Just a little zap? You know it’s cool.”

You shot her an exasperated look, swiping at the glitter stuck to your cheeks, the gritty particles scraping against your skin. With a resigned sigh, you muttered, “Absolutely not. And stop throwing glitter bombs at me—it’s stuck everywhere now.” The metallic scent still clung to the air, mixing with the heavy smog that seemed to saturate every corner of the undercity.

“Everywhere?” she echoed, a mischievous smirk pulling at her lips, her eyes gleaming with that familiar spark. The playful challenge in her voice was undeniable, but you knew it was just another one of her stupid jokes. You stared back at her, unimpressed, brushing your hands against your jacket as though to rid yourself of the last traces of glitter.

She crossed her arms, tapping a foot against the cracked pavement, the rhythmic tapping contrasting sharply with her casual tone. “Whatever. Glitter’s classy. You look like... like a hot and deadly, sparkly peacock.” The words danced in the air, teasing the edges of your irritation but lightening the mood just enough to keep it from escalating.

You shot her a glare. “Shut up, if anyone’s a peacock, it’s you.”

Jinx just laughed, skipping up beside you as you resumed walking. Her pace slowed when she saw where you were heading—back to Silco’s headquarters.

Her usual chatter quieted, and her grin faltered for just a moment before she slapped it back on. “So... uh, you sure we gotta go back right now? I mean, we could hang somewhere, grab a drink, blow something up—”

The slight tremor in her voice gave her away, betraying the calm she was trying to maintain. You paused mid-step, the gritty pavement shifting under your boots as you glanced down at her. “Jinx.”

“What?” she snapped, too quickly, her voice tight, like she was trying to cover something up. “I didn’t say anything. Why are your eyes all scrunched up? That’s gonna give you wrinkles, y’know?”

You frowned, sensing the lie beneath her deflection. The faint bruise near her temple caught the low, flickering light, deep purple against her pale skin, and it twisted something inside you. The way she scratched at her wrist, tugging her sleeve down almost defensively, made your stomach churn.

Without another word, you crouched, bending slightly to open your arms. You felt the faint crackle of static tingling along your skin as your wings shifted behind you. “Come here.”

Her brows furrowed, confused, but the hesitation in her eyes said everything. “What are you—”

“Jay,” you said again, softer this time, the tenderness in your voice breaking through the exhaustion you carried. “Come on.”

It took a moment, but the stubbornness faded, and she stepped into your embrace. The warmth of her body against yours made the cold grip of the city seem distant. Her head dropped against your shoulder, and though she didn’t cry—Jinx rarely did without the comfort of four walls surrounding her—you could feel her body relax, tension leaking away in small, silent waves.

The silence settled between you, the low hum of Zaun’s distant noise—smoke-streaked lights, the hum of machinery—filling the quiet. You didn’t need to say anything more. She had already said it all with her quiet surrender.

“Hold on,” you whispered, and your wings unfolded behind you, the air rushing against your skin as you stretched them wide.

“What are you—holy shit!” she yelped, her fingers gripping your jacket as you lifted off the ground. The sudden rush of wind swirled around you, the city stretching beneath you like a vast, dark labyrinth of neon lights and smoke. You could feel the electricity crackling at the tips of your wings, the air charged with your unstable power as you shot upward.

Jinx clung to you instinctively, her bravado fading away with the city’s dizzying height. Her breath was warm against your neck, rapid and sharp, as the familiar streets blurred beneath you. She squeezed her eyes shut, as if willing the world to slow down.

You didn’t go far, just high enough to leave the alleys behind, heading for a quieter rooftop on the outskirts. The cool air hit you once you landed, the scent of rust from the old water tank mingling with the smoky haze that clung to everything. The roof was sparse—just an old, rusted water tank and a few scattered crates—but it was quiet. Safe.

You set her down carefully, your wings folding back behind you with a soft flutter. The ground beneath your feet was solid, a welcome contrast to the dizzying heights you’d just left behind.

Jinx stared out across the city, her eyes narrowed in that sharp, calculating way she often had, but there was something different in her gaze now—a vulnerability, quiet but clear. Something unspoken hung between you, but for once, you didn’t need to voice it. You both knew the weight of the world you carried, even if you didn’t always acknowledge it.

The night stretched out before you, dark and endless, as you stood together—two figures on the edge of Zaun, floating in the same currents, bound by something far deeper than the chaos of the world.

a/n: so this is the start of my jinx x reader series!! i hope you like it, we're starting at around 17 years old for both jinx and mc,,, then after w few chaps we're gonna go into season 1 arc and eventually season 2. mwahhh

taglist: @stupendousbananasharkcop

lmk if you wanna be added to the taglist loves <3

[glorified-red]

Locks & Cake Pops (Damian Wayne x Reader x Jon Kent)

summary: Gotham was a scary place when the sun went down. One terrifying encounter with a stranger left you completely worn thin. Thankfully, your boys were more than prepared to come find you.

word count: 4,800~

warnings: panic attack, paranoia, vague & very short description of encountering a scary stranger (none explicit to what happened, by whom, or by any gender. Only specification is that it's a conversation and Reader is hesitant around touch), paranoia to violence or potential violence, constant paranoia of not being safe

Y'all called me a main character and I think the people writing my story took that as a CHALLENGE. The amount of plot I went through today??? I swear, fics really do write themselves, huh?

Shout out to @quillsareswords for planting the Poly Fic seed in my head with her fics until I couldn't NOT write one. And shout out to @unmotivatedwrit3r for being my Jon today and @uni-magi-nation for being my Damian because guess what lads, this fic is based on a true story!! As are most of my fics anyway, so please, enjoy the events that happened less than 12 hours ago ;P

You could pinpoint the exact moment your day had derailed. 

It wasn’t until the sun had just barely started to slip beneath the horizon. Nearly ten hours of joy all crashed in one single moment. It was one decision. A single foot placement was the difference between coming home safe and the disaster that befell you currently. 

One foot placement was all it took and your entire world crumbled from above you. 

You almost wondered if your foot pivoted slightly to the east, if you took the path to your right instead of your left, would you still be in this position? Would you be here, clinging to your next breath as if it was your last? 

But alas, you traveled west to your car. The path you took was slightly dimmer than the other in the middle of dusk. Less people, less crowds . . . less witnesses. 

That one decision landed you in an inescapable exchange of words. Whether you made it home was a decision you no longer had control of, it was now placed in the hands of a stranger—a person who thrived on the rush of feeling a life beat in the palm of their hands. 

Your feet were placed on a track alongside them, desperately trying to find a way out. But each pivot was either too late or too suspicious, all you could do was play along like some kind of puppet. Eventually the rush simmered and the paths diverged, they split off into two distinct directions, and you were free. 

You didn’t bother to care when your feet pounded against the ground one after another. They did their job, they took you to where your brain had decided you needed to go despite you not truly being a part of that conversation. You let your instincts take over, the adrenaline high of blazing through empty sidewalks and burning passed streetlamps flickering on for the first time that night. 

Your breath faded into the air with each step, a resounding huff of forced exhales as your legs ached from the pace. Before you knew it, your world tilted on its axis as your brain and body fully disconnected. Tunnel vision took over your view, the only thing in sight was the faraway gleam of steel and vinyl. 

You slammed the car door behind you, fully encasing you in a carbon cage. It felt like a cage in all senses of the word. You were suffocated inside the doors of your own safety, hating how your only semblance of security was in a man-made product that could fail within a moment—that could be broken into with just the thought of doing so. 

You heard the satisfying click of the doors locking, never realizing your fingers jumped to the button the second they could. That sound meant safety, that sound meant you would be okay. 

Electrons slipped past connections and you couldn't properly process anything aside from the steering wheel in front of you and the sharp polyester strap cutting across your chest. Your next exhale was steady and long, a pitiful attempt at self-soothing. Even with the length of the breath, the shakiness behind it was so easy to hear in the silence of the cage. 

You gripped the steering wheel with both hands, twisting your grip along the rim until you could feel the bite in your palms. You brought yourself back one cell at a time. It started with the pads of your fingers tapping against the polyurethane, then your palms rubbing against the grooves and curves of the wheel, then your hands were gripping at your arms until feeling returned to them slowly. You thawed out your own body seconds at a time. 

You breathed again. 

Then the car had started and you drove away. 

You could remember the exact moment you realized this was much deeper than mere disassociation. Your eyes were filled with red lights and your ears buzzed with the sound of passing cars. It started in your chest, a small hum of warning deep in the confines of your ribcage. 

The death rattle had started inside you and only got louder the longer your hands stayed connected to the prison bars. The hum turned into a storm of pyrocumulonimbus as your foot pressed into the gas, each breath of oxygen only fueled the fire burning at the edges of your lungs. 

You fought so hard against the impending doom of it all. You just wanted to go home. You wanted to come home and beeline straight for—not safety—comfort; you wanted to remind yourself that touch wasn’t something to be scared of; you wanted to remind yourself that you were safe—that everything was going to be okay. 

But instead your breath quickened into a terrifying speed and you had no choice but to pull over into the nearest complex with well-lit parking spaces and bustling activity at its front doors. Your car clicked off and your fingers immediately reached for the lock icon at your side. 

You pressed it once to hear the simultaneous click of four doors locking in tandem. 

Leaning against the plush seat, you tried to breathe properly. Your hands gripped at the seatbelt across your chest, both hating and adoring the pressure it forced against your body. 

You pressed it twice to remind yourself the doors were locked. 

Gripping the strap, you didn’t mind the way the edges dug into your palms as you bent it in on itself. It was tight against you, just enough to keep you present. The hands of sharply woven polyester forced you to stay conscious in reality, they didn’t dare let you slip between the cracks and fall into dissociation. 

You pressed it a third time, the same click resounding in your ears. 

Suddenly you felt too suffocated. You could feel the bottom of the wheel on your knees and the lanyard of your keys against your thigh. 

The clicks reversed as you tumbled out of the car. 

Fresh air hit your entire body and the fire raging in your chest worsened tenfold. You were exposed—you were vulnerable. You slammed yourself back into the car. A blink and you were in the backseat this time. 

The carved metal of a key dug into your fingers while you clutched it like a lifeline. Your hand reached for your phone before you could process anything else. Your other clicked the lock icon once more and the entire car fell into darkness. 

⋘⋙

Damian didn’t remember falling asleep but when a human sized heater was laying across his chest, it never took long for his exhaustion to get tired of being ignored. 

He was slightly annoyed, arguably moreso, when the heater in question jerked upright. Damian’s eyes snapped open. “Watch it,” he groaned, sleep still affecting the timbre in his voice. Hands dug uncomfortably into his stomach and he pushed them away. 

“Sorry, sorry,” the kryptonian apologized from above him. “I just . . .” he trailed off. 

That got his attention. 

His eyes focused on the alert expression on his lover’s face. Jon shifted upright completely, still straddling Damian’s thighs. His eyes were distant, looking off into the window at the other side of the room. 

“What’s wrong?” Damian asked, finding himself slightly propped up onto his elbows. 

“Y/n,” Jon replied, his eyebrows furrowing slightly. The way he said your voice was just as distant as his gaze, almost like his voice was nothing but an exhale. He blinked, looking down and glaring so hard at Damian’s upper body that Damian almost took offense. 

“Their heartbeat,” he said, confusion lacing his voice as he tried to focus on the thum of your beat, “it’s . . . different.” 

“Different,” Damian echoed. He would’ve been annoyed at the vague answer if he wasn’t aware both him and Jon were currently barely awake and therefore, barely functioning (Damian more so than Jon, of course). “What do you mean different?” 

Kryptonian powers were always so finicky. He always thought so, but meeting Jon? This man was evidence in itself that powers were annoying at best. Damian watched as Jon developed each new power slowly at the most inconvenient times, mind you. And now, years after being the Man Of Steel, Jon’s powers still went berserk. 

Damian couldn’t even count on his fingers how many sensory overloads he’s guided Jon through—and he’d do it all over again if he had to. 

Jon shook his head. “It’s just different.” He shrugged. 

“You woke me up because it’s just different?” Damian deadpanned. 

Jon glared down at him. “This isn’t exactly an exact science, you know.” 

Damian sighed and slid back down until his upper back hit the mattress once more. “Is it going faster? Skipping a beat?” he prompted, trying his best to shake the grogginess from his body without letting paranoia fester in its place. 

Heartbeats always worried Damian. He ended up assuming the worst. But with a Kryptonian tracing them so often, he realized that different didn’t necessarily mean bad. You could have raised your hand in class, forgot your keys, or missed a step down the stairs and your heart lurched. That was enough to perk Jon’s ears. You could have been stressed so your heart rate was elevated. Maybe even tired which made it drag. 

Despite his own fears, Damian kept reminding himself that there's more of a chance that you were fine than not, especially when he was currently talking to a sleep deprived kryptonian who announced heartbeat changes all the time. The idea of getting away with any kind of anxiety while around that golden retriever was stupid and incredibly naive—Damian gave up after a year of Jon’s super-hearing kicking in. 

“You’re anxious.” 

“Shut up.” 

“You should probably—” 

“I said shut up.” 

Jon spoke up: “It definitely jumped and it’s been slightly faster than normal ever since.” His head tilted slightly to the side to listen better—Damian couldn't help but picture a tiny puppy doing the same and its ear flopping over. “It’s getting steadily faster. I think . . . I think they’re driving?” 

Damian’s eyes furrowed. He reached for his phone as Jon continued. “Definitely driving,” he settled on. “I can hear their car.” 

“Maybe they almost got into an accident,” Damian mumbled in thought, setting a personal reminder in his brain to berate you for speeding later. His phone clicked on and his eyes saw his blurry home screen. He blinked the image into focus. When his eyes could properly trace over the smiles on you and Jon’s faces, he looked at the time. 

It was earlier than he thought. 

Jon’s hands fiddled with the hem of Damian’s sleep shirt, the compression material stretching slightly to accommodate the movement. “Maybe,” Jon gnawed at his bottom lip. “I didn’t hear anything like that though, just normal traffic.” 

Damian hummed. “They were at the library today. I didn’t expect them to head home so soon.” His fingers opened your contact. “Did they text you that they were heading home?” 

 Jon leaned across the bed to reach for his phone on the nightstand. Damian resisted a snark at how uncomfortable the shift was with the unnecessary knee to the side. 

Jon fiddled with his phone for a moment. “Nope, nothing.” 

Damian opened his mouth to supply another sentence of rationale when two things happened simultaneously: In an instant, Jon’s phone slipped from his hands and ricocheted right off of his stomach. (“Ow!”) Then Damian’s ringtone sounded throughout the entire bedroom, bouncing off the walls and reverberating into their tired brains. 

The fear written on Jon’s face was enough for Damian to pick up on the first ring. 

“Y/n?” he asked. Jon’s fingers clutched at his shirt. 

“Hey,” you responded. There was a crackle over the line but Damian couldn’t tell if it was your voice or the shitty internet. 

“Are you okay?” Damian was blunt, cutting straight through any attempt at small talk. How could he not when Jon was currently mouthing “panic attack” at him and poking his ribcage. 

You hesitated enough for Damian to shoo Jon off of him. Both boys tumbled out of the massive bed in varying degrees of grace. 

“What are you doing right now?” 

“Doesn’t matter. You’re dodging the question,” Damian slid on a pair of pants and made his way down the stairs. “What’s wrong? And don’t say it’s nothing because I have a human sized Holter monitor that would beg to disagree.”

Jon tumbled behind, no doubt using some kind of kryptonian flare to gather all the necessary items to drive to you. 

“Can you both meet me here, I—” you cut off, if Damian strained, he could hear your rampant breathing. “I need you.” You choked, “No—No capes.” 

Damian breathed in slowly and exhaled through his mouth. The keys and wallets were already floating into his pockets as he opened the front door. 

No capes. 

It was a valid request. It was a request both Jon and Damian had come to appreciate overtime. No need for heroics, no need for perfection, no need for theatrics—you just needed your partners, as they were. 

That was a level of normalcy that was so rare in this lifestyle. As much as it would be miles quicker with Jon’s flight or even his grapple gun, he respected the thought process behind the decision. You just wanted your boys, that was all. 

Car doors slammed shut and Damian was already behind the wheel making his way to you. “We’re on our way.” He felt a poke to his bicep. Jon motioned towards the phone, opening and closing his hand in request. “I’m going to pass the phone to Jon. He’s going to stay on the line until we reach you, okay?” 

Damian barely waited for your small “ok” before handing the phone off. He didn’t bother to fill Jon in on the conversation, it was obvious he was already listening intently. 

“Hey, sunshine.” Jon pointed directions out and Damian followed. No need for maps when you have a super-hearing alien who knows exactly where you are just by the sounds of traffic and the volume of your heartbeat. “We’re coming as fast as we can. Just give us ten minutes and we’ll be there with you.” 

Damian focused on driving, the one thing he could do at this moment. He was tactical, he was useful. Jon was the comforting one; Jon was the one who could navigate emotionally tense situations with ease. So he gripped the steering wheel tighter and made sure he got to you safely. 

Strengths. All three of you had them just as you all had weaknesses. But the beauty of your triad came from how perfectly your strengths filled each others’ weaknesses. You lifted each other up, and when you couldn’t, it was easy to lean on one another. 

So Jon handled the comfort, Damian handled the logistics. 

Words of affirmations flew out of Jon’s mouth in a way that Damian used to envy. Now, he found it endearing. He has his own strengths and that’s okay. 

“Just ten minutes, baby. Ten minutes and everything will be okay, I promise.” 

Red lights glared down at Damian. 

“Breath with me. In and out, just like that. Keep doing that.” 

Stop signs seemed taller than usual, more demeaning. 

“You’re gonna be alright. I know it doesn’t feel that way right now but you’ll be okay soon, you just gotta hang in there for us.” 

Brakes screeched against the pavement. 

“I'm so proud of you, you’re so brave right now. No, don’t be like that. You’re so strong, you’ll get through this, I swear.” 

His fingers tapped against the gear shift impatiently. 

“Are the doors locked? Yea? That’s good. You did good—so good.” 

He heard you sob into the receiver and his heart twisted painfully. 

“You’re safe. No one can get to you right now without your consent. Just keep telling yourself that: no one can get in, no one can reach you, you’re safe.” 

His foot finally hit the gas. 

“You’re alright, sweetheart. You're okay. You did everything right—yes you did. Yes, Y/n. You got to safety, you pulled over, you locked the doors, and you called us. You did everything right.” 

He made a right and then a left. 

“Five more minutes, bub. Just five more minutes. Keep breathing. Just a few more minutes and we’ll be right there with you.” 

He was trapped behind a slow Jeep—he switched lanes. 

“Yea? Grab the jacket and hold it tight. I’d rather you hold that. Just a few more minutes and that jacket will be replaced with us, alright?” 

Yellow lights always annoyed him the most. 

“We’re coming, I promise. We’re coming.” 

He swerved into the complex, not caring if he cut someone off in the process. 

“We’re pulling in right beside you. That car is us so don’t be scared. It’s just us, baby.” 

Damian clicked off the car and tumbled out with Jon quick to follow suit. He always forgot how much Jon used pet names as he rambled through words of reassurance. He was sure it was some kind of nervous tick Jon had, a way for him to soothe both himself and the other person. It could also just be a habit of his mouth speaking far faster than his brain, but the nicknames flowed out of him so fast either way.

“You gotta let us in, love. We can’t help from out here.” Jon’s hand gently rested on the glass window to the backseat. Damian motioned towards the building in front of the car, Jon nodded in response, already knowing his thought process far before Damian’s feet started moving backwards. 

Focus on his strengths. Focus on what he can do. Focus on that. 

The car doors unlocked and the boys split up. 

⋘⋙

You were huddled in the backseat for what felt like hours and milliseconds all at once. Every time your breaths evened, your brain fizzled out with it until you couldn’t feel anything aside from the car key scraping against your palm and the plastic door digging into your spine. 

Legs pulled into your chest, phone to your ear, and arms wrapped around a hoodie long since stolen for your backseat, you waited. You tried to bury your nose in the scent of pine and peppermint, a tanglement of your home—your boys—but it never fully sunk into your comprehension. 

Your empty hand grasped at the plush cotton in a sour attempt at bringing yourself back up. Unfortunately, the second you were brought back to awareness, your breathing spiked. Every distant voice, every shifting shadow, even the cars passing by in the nearby road—it all screamed danger into your head until you struggled to breathe. 

Even in this locked prison, you still felt too exposed. You were miles from home and miles from safety, how could you not? 

The doors are locked. 

You’re safe. 

No one can come in without your permission. 

They’re coming. 

When a car pulled beside yours, a familiar tint of windows and gleam of dark steel, you fought all of your instincts to run, to hide, to scream. 

The doors are locked. 

You’re safe. 

No one can come in without your permission. 

They’re here. 

It took every ounce of your willpower to allow your finger to press the open lock icon after pressing the locked one over and over again for what felt like an eternity.  

“Y/n,” Jon sighed out in relief. The call ended and what once was a distant voice was now a full fledged being.

“Please close the door,” you sobbed out, feeling nothing but claws of terror scratch up your chest the longer the door stayed open. Jon instantly complied, shutting the door as gently as he could without slamming it. 

The doors instantly locked again. 

“Can I touch you?” he started with. He didn’t bother asking if you were okay or asking what you needed, it would be pointless. You weren’t okay and asking what you needed when you were so clearly in peril would just put unnecessary weight onto your shoulders when he should be taking it off. 

Your hands fisted into the fabric, fingers swimming amongst the mountain of cotton. “I-I,” you choked on an inhale, “I don’t know.” 

And how could you? Sometimes touch was a blessing, a craving nothing else could satiate. Sometimes touch was the only way to bring you back all the way: it was grounded as was it weighted, it was nice. 

But sometimes touch was terrifying, a pressure of what if tangled in previous experiences. Sometimes touch was the only thing that terrified you the most: after such a night, how could you possibly feel safe with an ounce of contact? 

“Okay,” Jon said quickly, not wanting to make you feel worse about your own indecision. “What if we try? I’ll pull away the second you tell me to, pinky swear.” 

He even raised his pinky to solidify the statement. If you weren’t miles deep into a panic attack and hundreds of tears worn, you probably would have laughed. Instead, you nodded, a jerky movement that shifted the fabric around your face. 

“I’m gonna place my hand on top of your knee, real slow. You tell me if you don’t want it there anymore.” He looked into your eyes with his vibrant blue bells. His face was so sure, so confident, but the edges of his face were hardened with worry. He really couldn’t hide his emotions around you.

You nodded once more. You saw your own quickened breaths more than you felt them, the shadows off to your right reflecting the rise and fall of your chest. 

Jon’s hand was raised slightly above your knee and he hesitated just enough for you to track his movements. Then it was nothing but a light touch of fingertips, then fingers, then a palm, and then an entire hand. 

Despite his slow, deliberate movements, you still flinched. It was a whole-body jerk that started with pulling your legs closer to you and ended with your shoulders hitching upwards. Jon bit the inside of his cheek at the reaction, ignoring the way it dug into his heart a little too deep for his own sanity.

He kept his hand there even when your body’s instinctual reaction screamed for him to pull back. Jon waited for your words, but more importantly, he waited for you to settle into the touch or comprehend that you didn’t want it anymore—whichever ended up happening. 

Luckily, it was the former. Your shoulders pressed back into the door behind you and your head leaned against the car seat. Your feet unhooked at the ankles and relaxed. 

“Do you want more touch or is this enough for now?” 

You felt the heat radiate from his palm, it fought against the storm of fire boiling in every fiber of your being. It also fought against the sheet of ice that threatened to separate you from the rest of the world. It was enough. 

“ ‘s good for now,” you breathed in shakily. Trying to match the rise and fall of the chest in front of you. 

Jon looked off to the side and squinted into the darkness. “Damian’s on his way back.” His thumb absent-mindedly rubbed against your knee slowly and in a small movement. It was so small you barely would’ve realized it if your knee wasn’t at eye level. “You’ll have to let him in soon.” 

Your eyes flickered over to just beyond your car and into the entrance to the building—the cafe—where Damian had started walking out of. You had a moment or two to emotionally prepare yourself to unlock those doors. 

You struggled on your next breath and Jon heard it. He returned his gaze to you. “Breathe, baby. It’s just Dami. You can lock the doors immediately afterwards.” 

You squeezed your eyes shut and nodded, hating the way your breathing sped up slightly as you clicked the open lock. Gears shifted and the reversal of the click was impossibly loud against your muddled brain. 

The door in front of you swung open and Jon pulled Damian inside before closing the door as soon as possible. You found your thumb pressing the lock button the second you heard the car door close. You never once felt the hand on your knee leave and you silently thanked Jon’s perceptiveness. 

Opening your eyes, you were met with Damian’s emerald eyes looking at you with as much concern as those eyes could ever truly show. Jon had somehow found his way squished in between the seats and middle console, half debating if he should just sit on the floor or on the console. Damian sat across from you with his hands full of drinks and food. 

He offered you the blend of sugar and ice to which you took without much hesitation. Your head was pounding. You could hear your heartbeat in your ear and you could feel it in your temples. It was unbearably hot with pain. 

“I got your usual,” Damian said, “just the way you like it.” 

You sniffled, already feeling the fire inside swirl into dissipation. “No inclusions?” you asked in a small voice. 

“No inclusions,” he reassured you. 

“The base?” 

“Lemonade, not water.” 

You opened your mouth to ask another question but Damian was quick to read your mind. He lifted up a straw still wrapped in its plastic casing. “Yes, I got you a straw.” 

For the first time that night, you smiled. It was small, twitchy, and faded just as quick as it came, but it was still better than the choked off sobs from earlier over the phone. 

Damian opened the top of the straw for you and you held out your drink for him to place it inside. Your hands were so shaky it was difficult to even hold the large drink (because of course he got you the biggest size), let alone have enough dexterity to open a straw. 

“I also bought cake pops,” he lifted up the three brown bags of parchment that held your sugary treat. He knew you so well you swore he was a mind reader. Your hands were shaking from panic but also from how low your energy levels were from using every ounce of it to breathe. 

Damian lifted the first bag after peering inside. “Birthday cake.”

You snatched the bag. 

“Chocolate.” 

Jon did the same for his. 

“And mine.” Damian set his bag in his lap and handed Jon his drink full of sugar. 

Jon propped open the cup holders attached to the center console and set his drink inside, Damian was quick to set his water beside it. 

You clutched your drink with both hands, enjoying the feeling of the cold condensation against your aching fingers. “Thank you.”

Damian hummed in response. It didn’t take long for his hand to find its way onto your other knee and this time, you didn’t end up flinching. You swore the presence of your two lovers was more than enough to calm any attack that found its way up to you. Tonight was proof of that. 

“Your breathing is still too fast for my liking,” Damian spoke up. “Do you want to go through some breathing exercises?” 

Both of the boys looked at you expectantly. You shrunk back slightly at the pressure before you shook your head. “Can . . .” you breathed in to reassure yourself—your request was okay, you’re voicing your needs, you’re valid—“Can you guys just distract me?” 

They shared a look between each other and Jon ended up speaking up first: “Go ahead, Dami. Distract them.” 

“Why do I have to?” Damian demanded, “You’re obviously better at running your mouth than I am.”

“Because I said so?” 

“Because you said so,” Damian mocked, “Really? Do you honestly believe that holds any true merit in this household?” 

Jon scoffed. “It does when you say it so why doesn’t it when I say it?”

“Because I’m better than you, obviously.” 

“Am not.” 

“Am too.” 

“Boys,” you giggled through the word. Your grip on your drink was loose and your legs uncurled slowly until they pressed into Damian’s shin. “While this is adorable, I just want to listen to you two talk, not bicker.” 

One of them huffed from their nose and you genuinely couldn’t tell who—you’re half convinced they both did. 

“Fine.” Damian’s free hand fell around the top of your shoe, his pinky brushing against your ankle. “Go ahead, genius. Tell our beloved what you did to the kitchen while making dinner tonight.” 

Jon’s eyes widened slowly. “We agreed not to tell them,” he whisper-shouted. 

Damian shrugged. 

You turned to Jon with a fire behind your eyes. 

“What did you do to my freshly cleaned kitchen?”

Taglist ♡

@anothertimdrakestan

@cherry-dropp

@missredrobin

[ginxyy]

The past

The past has a habit of coming back and in this case it’s from too many bottles of soju

Anger burns like a ravenous fire, consuming everything in its path, and that night, it roared through me like a tempest. The sky was a dark canvas spattered with stars, fading into a strong scent of sizzling meat and laughter. My friends and I were gathered around a crackling barbecue, with drinks flowing freely, the warmth of the flames contrasted with the warmth of camaraderie. I could feel the pulse of excitement in my chest, a mirage of happiness, but beneath it all lay an uneasy knot of anxiety. It simmered, waiting for the right moment to unleash itself, and it came crashing down like a wave that left destruction in its wake.

Mingyu and I had been dating for a year, every day a tapestry of passion and affection woven into the fabric of our lives. But that night, as the fire crackled and the laughter echoed, I felt a shadow looming over us. Minghao, usually the easy-going, charismatic one, had consumed more than his fair share of soju. His laughter turned raucous, punctuated by the occasional slurred word but still rooted in a confidence that bewildered me. I wanted to enjoy the night, to laugh along with the group and send up toasts to friendship and love. Instead, I found myself gripping the sides of my seat, anticipation mingling with dread.

As the night wore on, Minghao's powers of persuasion had transitioned from jovial drunkenness to something more insidious: gloating. The glances he threw my way, the sly smirks, were cloaked with the kind of heat that made me uncomfortable. He launched into a speech, a series of exaggerated stories about our past, tales from when we had been undeniably hot and heavy, a whirlwind of youthful passion. My heart twisted in my chest, needing to feel grounded as the words spilled out of his mouth, words that painted our relationship in such vivid colors it was like he was splashing paint on a canvas meant for someone else.

“Remember how we used to light up the room?” Minghao grinned, waving his glass like a magician revealing his trick. “Those late-night adventures, the heat of our�� chemistry?” He leaned into the space between us, his intoxicated bravado betraying years of history. “And can we talk about how beautiful she is? I mean, come on, Mingyu, you hit the jackpot!”

Each passing word was a dagger aimed intentionally at Mingyu, and I could see the tension creeping into my boyfriend's jaw, the way his fists clenched involuntarily as he fought to maintain composure. My stomach twisted painfully, and I shot Minghao a furious glance, willing him to shut up. But the alcohol had taken command, and my pleas fell on deaf ears. His eyes sparkled with mischief, a reckless joy that poured gasoline on Mingyu's simmering anger.

“Yeah, that’s right. You may think you’re the lucky one, but let me tell you about the fire we had!” Minghao continued, fully unraveled, oblivious to the mounting tension that threatened to shatter our supposedly joyful gathering. "How could you not be jealous, Mingyu? We burned like a wildfire together.”

With every sentence, Mingyu rose from his seat, the veins in his temples pulsing with a fury that I’d never seen before. My heart raced as I felt the impending explosion of emotions sweeping through him. He finally shook his head, anger pinching his features. “Shut up, Hao,” he warned, voice low, but the crack in his composure was evident. This wasn’t a joke anymore.

“What's the matter? Jealous?” Minghao threw back gleefully, not grasping the magnitude of the chaos he was inciting. The whole group grew quiet; they could feel the tremor in the air, taste the bitter tension that simmered like hot coals. My palms were sweaty, overwhelmed by a helplessness that spiraled through me.

Mingyu’s face twisted in a rage that seemed foreign, as if at any moment he would burst, like an over-inflated balloon on the verge of popping. “You think this is funny? Just stop!” His voice was sharp as a knife, slicing through the night and drawing everyone’s attention. The laughter faded as people began to realize how serious this had become, fingers clutching bottles with a mix of fear and concern.

I wanted to intervene, to diffuse the situation, but my own anger bubbled angrily beneath the surface. My relationship with Minghao had been a glorious blaze a wild summer that we both carried with us like a scar, but that time had passed. I loved Mingyu. I had chosen him, buried my past under the weight of every moment we shared together. Yet, as I looked at the two men, one fueled by nostalgia and the other by a primal need for dominance, I felt the anger that had been strangling me permeate my thoughts.

Minghao chuckled, beckoning Mingyu with an outstretched hand as if inviting him deeper into the fiery memory. “Oh come on, don’t pretend like you haven’t thought about it! We were amazing together.” His tone was teasing, but it stung

“I said stop!” Mingyu bellowed, anger boiling over, and before I knew it, he was lunging toward Minghao, ready to settle this with fists instead of words. “You don’t get to talk about us like that! Not when we’re here!”

“Mingyu, no!” I shouted, practically throwing myself between them as the other members scrambled to hold him back. “Please, don’t do this! This is insane!”

I could feel Mingyu’s rage pulsating like a wild animal fighting against restraint, adrenaline rushing like fire through his veins. Minghao gawked in disbelief, clearly having crossed a line he never saw coming. It took Seungkwan's steady grip and the panicked look on the others' faces to stall Mingyu’s advance.

“You’re my boyfriend, Mingyu! I’m Not his!” I cried, desperately seeking to break through the storm of emotions swirling around us. “You chose me! Remember our love? Please don’t let this moment ruin everything we have fought for!”

The sight of him struggling against his friends, the way his chest heaved in frustration, broke something deep inside me as I realized the danger of my words. Would Minghao’s drunken bragging haunt us forever? Would it rip open the wounds of my past and poison the present I had with Mingyu? The gravity of the situation overwhelmed me, but in that chaos, I could see glimpses of the man I loved the patence, the kindnessthat urged me to trust in him.

As the group worked to pull Mingyu away, I stepped closer, grabbing his shoulders. “Please,” I begged, feeling my heart race. “Let’s talk about this together. It doesn’t have to end in violence.”

Slowly, he relaxed, the fire in his gaze flickering and dimming as he met my eyes. In that moment, the rage subsided, replaced by the hurt and betrayal of realizing just how easily Minghao had pried open an old wound. I could see anguish writhe behind Mingyu’s eyes, and suddenly, the boiling anger shifted. It morphed into a complicated mixture of frustration and sadness that threatened to swallow him whole.

This was supposed to be a night of celebration. A testament to our love and devotion to one another. Yet here we stood, the ashes of a fire that should have created warmth swirling chaotically around us, the laughter now a haunting echo of what could have been.

“Let’s just go,” Mingyu murmured, expressing weariness. There was a shaky breath as he stepped back, wrestling with emotions that were still raw and frayed. I felt a profound sadness wash over me—would our love withstand this blemish? Could we turn and walk away from the chaos?

“Just… come with me,” I urged, my heart aching for the love that had brought us both so

[girlfriendsofthegalaxy]

tuesday again 1/2/2024

it’s quite satisfying how the year started on a monday

listening

first song of the year: how could it be anything other than Sabata. this is the theme from the titular Sabata, i meant to pick the theme from Return of Sabata but im not mad about it.

-

reading

i read Tim Marchman’s Popping Tins newsletter (a newsletter about fish and seafood) less bc i enjoy locking Mack in the bathroom every time i want a tuna melt and more for the droll authorial voice. i have bought a tin of mackerel after reading some entries, and it was very good but much much richer than tuna.

What should I do with this can of krill meat?

after consulting the importer’s website:

This is accompanied by a photograph of the can featuring easily-discerned black eyes, which are nothing to be concerned about, according to the company that produces this can. The first question on its FAQ page is “What are the little black speckles in my can?” “No need to be concerned here!” the answer reads. “Your meat is not dirty, and you did not get a defected can. Our Antarctic Krill meat contains the most nutritious parts of the krill, which happen to include their eyes.

…

The risks here are clear: I could vomit when I open the can and see the nutritious black eyes staring at me; I could destroy the peace in my home by making it smell like sautéed and simmered krill; and/or I could ruin a perfectly delicious lunch by introducing nutritious eyes and hard bits of chitin.

i have no memory of how i found this newsletter.

i keep forgetting i have ten hoopla credits a month through my old library and i want to read more comics this year bc reading comics is fun. in the past in practice this means ive binged all ten credits over a weekend. this weekend i had time for exactly one.

The Riddler: Year One is an extremely direct tie-in to the movie and i think it’s neat they let the riddler’s actor paul dano go wild with his backstory and then turn it into a comic. it’s fun when actors get to do weird tie-in shit.

(non-sequential pages)

watching this forensic accountant’s brain crack and scramble like an egg as he struggles to really grasp the enormity of gotham corruption and why the city is such a dogshit miserable place to live in made me go “oh huh that was a pretty good writing decision in the movie”. not that the riddler was terribly stable to begin with but the despair and the unraveling were very effectively conveyed. this comic has a lot of fun with funky layouts (left) and an entire issue (right) is conspiracy board shit on top of accounting forms which is a neat artistic choice.

deeply depressing but an interesting new little window into the rpatz batman (god i hope we get more rpatz batman films) and fun to look at.

how i found this: trawling the popular comics page on hoopla

-

watching

this is the seventh year of starting a new-to-me classic black and white movie around 1030/11 PM New Year’s Eve and i am annoyed i didn’t like the movie that started this year but, according to the data, it’s been fifty-fifty so far.

previous years have featured: sunset boulevard, yojimbo, the thin man, it happened one night, bringing up baby, the big sleep, and now roman holiday (1953, dir. Wyler).

this is the platonic ideal of a classic movie. it’s not sterile but it’s so… unobjectionable. wholesome (derogatory) even. not particularly what i was looking for in a movie but, much like the gelato and champagne that pop up, it was kind of a sweet nothing. i don’t think anyone eats any real food this whole movie?

this is never a movie that feels rushed. it is two hours of watching beautiful people traipse around a beautiful city in beautiful edith head costumes. i would not say there is a lot of tension for the first hour and a half. however, imo, it does land its ending and for that i can forgive it a great deal. this is another beautiful movie that is simply not for me.

-

playing

have you ever wanted an open world rpg where you play as a shark? congrats, this was apparently free on epic a while back

Maneater has a tremendously fun prologue where you play as the soon-to-be-dead mother shark who is absolutely going to town on a crowded beach and destroying multiple spear-gun-wielding divers and multiple boats full of citizens exercising their second amendment rights. this prologue is an excellent choice by the game bc it locks the fun part (eating people) behind several hours of really grindy shit. i am not entertained by the grind of eating progressively larger muskellunge, avoiding alligators, and collecting license plates. the grind is EXCEPTIONALLY grindy, i put about three hours into it and have only gotten to level 5 (teen) and have only two mutations i can sink loot into (four types of loot gained from eating other fish. this is too many types imo). i am not anywhere near a recommended level to start fucking humans up. im also not super impressed with the open world aspects of it— there are not a lot of things to do, discover, or interact with in the first two areas.

this seems like a really fun game that clotheslined itself with a cripplingly slow upgrade cycle. im sure the mid and late game are hysterically fun, especially on stream. however i am not willing to put in the hours to get to the fun part when i could immediately be having fun in some other game.

-

making

a lot of profoundly uninteresting cleaning. after not being able to figure out why my office (where Phil [no longer in heat. for now] lives) still reeks of piss even after stealing a blacklight from a friend and cleaning with a blacklight, it is of course bc she has been pissing in secret places i didn’t think she could get to. upside down smile emoji. both the girls got their monthly flea goop yesterday and were deeply unhappy about it.

most of my plants died in the move and i am finally tackling the survivors. fan favorite giant snake plant (not pictured, tidied up and inside) did make it and pull through but is not happy about it. now that i have baby basil and baby dill sprouting in the kitchen i do need to do something with the balcony so they have somewhere to grow up study and strong.

also slammed that silly little blondeyes NFT thing up on the archive

[1800titz]

Really, really short teaser, but just a little something from the upcoming chapter of TDIAG

“I didn’t fuck you last week, and you’re already looking elsewhere, darling?” the statement is said as a jest — but it’s only half of that. His strawberry mouth is twitchy, and the pads of his digits are gentle on her thigh, and his tone is calm, and friendly, and traitorously sweet. 

But Isla knows better. 

Her mother had always said, behind every joke there’s some truth, sort of like a more wholesome version of drunk words are sober thoughts — far more kid friendly, but. The young woman couldn’t relate more to the wise piece of advice than she was, now, in this moment. Because her Eros is green, and obviously so. It radiates from his pores, the envy, no doubt a response to seeing Faunus’s palm pasted to her arm, and the tidbits of his vulnerability make something oddly twist in her. Something like — feelings, beyond the playroom. It pleases her, in a red-flag-on-her-part sort of way, knowing that he cares. But more than that, the sentiment leaves her brimming with arousal. A jealous man was never a kind man, and a mean Eros, tucked away with her in a reserved playroom at Indulge, always left her simmering in welcomed anticipation. 

“Of course not,” she assuages, tracing the folds of fabric in his collar and fixing them up with a smoothing touch, her pupils fixed to her fingers as she tacks on, “I’d never look elsewhere when I’m contractually obligated to uphold monogamy.” 

It’s a tease that’s blatantly meant to rile him — the corners of her mouth buckle like an afterthought, and beneath her touch, the dominant’s chest heaves with a sigh. 

“Contractual obligation. S’that all my time is to you, then?” 

His tone is lighthearted, but the words have that undercurrent of brooding, like her words have wounded him, and Isla thumbs over a button and pops it through a loop — just for a bit of skin. 

“All my cock is to you?” the man shifts below her, his tone still playful, “A contractual obligation?” 

“No,” she protests, her fingers twitchy before his chin dips to ogle her handiwork, and a palm clasps over her wrist to bring the fingertips to his mouth and nip. 

“Hm?” he prods, teeth grazing over skin playfully, “Gonna go back to alternating having your shit rocked when my time is up?” 

Okay. Little less playful. His cadence is still light and good-natured but. Oddly heavy question. That little, unspoken slice of reality peeks through the facade of joking, traces streaking like dawn through cracks of blinds, if only for a moment. 

Isla swallows. Her pupils paste to his cushiony mouth, to the tips of her digits pressed lightly between his teeth. She settles for something safe, her breath held in her chest. Actually, maybe a little unsafe, given the trajectory of his emotions. 

“If you want me to, Sir.” 

Placate, placate, placate. The words are all that any dominant could want — submission in its ultimation. Whatever he wants of her. Despite this, the statement has something like …disappointment twisting in his chest. He doesn’t want that. He wants to elongate their contract, he wants to keep railing Isla over, and over, and over, he wants to spend the rest of timeless time with her as his, in the realm of Indulge, and only his. And he doesn’t want it to be up to him. Tell me no, Harry wants to say. Tell me you want me and only me. Show me you care, the way I do. 

Instead, his mouth purses. 

If there’s any inkling of protest to her words, the dominant doesn’t showcase it. She’s curious to hear his response, but he doesn’t give one. Instead, he intertwines their fingers and shoots her a glance. The topic of conversation pivots. 

“Were you a good girl for me this week?” 

Was she a good girl for him this week? Vague recollections of a very satisfying vibrator pressed between clammy thighs in messy sheets at late hours flit through her mind. 

And her Eros on the other end of the line.

No. Isla certainly wasn’t. 

[regnantlight]

The thimble glimmers when Link holds it to the light. Much fuss for one teeny tiny thing, but even more fuss in its wake because a certain princess decided not to wait. He was greeted by a swift "Ouch!" when he'd returned to her cozy candlelit spot, and though she tried to hide what happened -- only after their eyes met -- it wasn't any use.

He knew. He always knew.

Link kneels before Zelda in her seat, staring hard despite her averted gaze. Her hands are taken into his, to one the thimble he was meant to fetch her. To the other, the result of not coming quick enough. She pricked her finger.

She tries to dismiss it, but Link is only vaguely listening... he'd already taken that wrist into his hand, drawn the fingers close for him to see that pearl of crimson growing from her flesh. And then...

❝ I will be faster next time, princess. ❞

... the blood vanished between his lips, as he took the tip of her finger into his mouth.

Jay continues to be the reason I scream.

Life in Hateno was...different. Wonderfully different, admittedly, with traces of ocean air carried on every breeze, but it came with the very large, glaring reminder that Zelda, Princess of Hyrule, was also different.

She didn't know how to farm or tend to cattle or build homes or hunt. Truth be told, she hadn't even washed her own linens before, hadn't cooked, hadn't managed a household without the luxury of help—though, she supposed there was still help in form of Link.

He did so much for her, had already done more than she could ever repay, and yet he continued in the following year by offering his home, preparing their meals, planting vegetables in their garden, washing their clothes, on and on and on. Zelda tried to learn, and yet, at every turn, Link continued to insist on taking each task on himself.

So when his shirt became torn, Zelda all but jumped at the opportunity to be at least marginally useful. This she could do. She had handcrafted numerous shirts before. It would be perfect, a seamless repair, it would be—

Her finger met the sharp end of the needle in her excitement. Zelda tried to trap the yelp in the back of throat like a child catching a firefly, but it slipped past her fingers. There was little use in trying to outwit Link's reflexes; his eyes and ears had always been quick, like the hand that captured her wrist and swiped her prickled finger across his tongue—

And once again, Zelda can not quite hide the little squeak that hitches a ride alongside his name, "Link...!"

Her cheeks and the tips of her ears begin to burn but she's too frozen in place to hide them. It is as though every nerve along her arms and back and neck have been set to simmer, popping like the oil Link tosses into hot pans. Her heart is beating so terribly fast—he can't hear it, can he?—and her own tongue feels too thick and bulky to speak.

She is suddenly very, very much aware of how very, very alone they are in this little house near the sea.

"The light is too dim," she's finally able to speak in way of a feeble excuse, though the words came out rushed and oddly pitched as she takes her hand away and begins to place the shirt, thread, and needle into a tidy pile upon the desk. "I'll finish this in the morning when there is more light—thank you, Link—I think I'll do a bit of reading before retiring for the night—sleep well."

She held a book on gardening in her hands until the wee hours of the night, and read precisely none of it.

[writingutensilthief]

Femslash February 2024 - Gray

Fandom: Gravedale High Ship: Cleo/OC Summary: Maddie tries to make Cleo feel better by showing her good things that also happen to be gray. Word count: 1,610 Author's Note: I'm doing this year's Femslash February over on my Hanna-Barbera blog using @femslashfeb's prompt list and decided that I want to do some Canon/OC pieces for it as well.

The sky was dark and cloudy, threatening to rain. Nice weather like that meant that Gravedale High opened up for outdoor lunch.

But today Cleo was too absorbed in the latest issue of her magazine to care. All the mummy models in it had bright white bandages, the kind that would catch everyone's attention and then give them eye damage. They probably even smelled like fresh bleach.

Cleo's bandages weren't that bright anymore. She sighed and closed the magazine, pushing it aside. "I wonder if I'm starting to gray," she said aloud to herself.

She didn't expect a pair of hands to clamp onto her shoulders in response.

"Let's see," Maddie said, studying the color of her hands against Cleo's bandages.

Cleo somehow managed not to let out a shriek at the sudden physical contact. She hadn't realized that someone else had sat down at the table she had chosen, or that Maddie was even in school that day.

"You're not gray," Maddie determined, pulling away her sickly, fleshy hand. She then pulled away her other, skeletal hand. "But not bone-white either." She waited for Cleo's response.

"Um... thanks," Cleo responded, rubbing one of her shoulders awkwardly. She hadn't wanted her concerns to become an actual conversation topic.

But it seemed that Maddie did. Sort of.

"But even if your bandages were gray, I think it'd be okay. Lots of things good things are gray."

Cleo shook her head. "Mummies aren't-"

"Like me," Maddie continued. "And my best shoes are gray." She lifted one of her legs to show off the shoes she was wearing. "See?"

"Those are silver, I don't think that counts."

"Of course they don't," Maddie immediately agreed, slamming her leg back down. "But..." She looked around for another idea, finally settling on upward. "Look at the sky! It's gray."

Cleo did indeed look up at the sky. It was a nice shade of gray, and its clouds were able to hide the sun enough to prevent further fading of her bandages. But she didn't agree out loud.

Maddie was still thinking of gray things when an idea popped into her head. She grinned and grabbed one of Cleo's hands. "Hey, do you wanna go down Cemetery Hill with me? I can show you great gray things!"

"Huh?" Cleo blinked. "Right now?"

"Yeah, right now."

"We can't." Cleo pulled her hand away. "We have to go back to class soon."

"How about after class then?" Maddie's grin was still there. "I can wait for you if you want me to."

Cleo's initial thought was that she didn't particularly want to go. Her second thought was that she liked being invited somewhere. She let that thought simmer for second as she studied Maddie's expression; it seemed genuine, and her request seemed to lack any ulterior motives.

With some hesitancy still, Cleo gave Maddie an affirmative "Sure thing" and got up to the sound of a ringing bell signaling that lunch was over.

Maddie ignored the bell and waved to Cleo as she left. "Great! I'll see you this afternoon!"

The next few hours passed by with little fanfare. Without the magazine directly in front of her the worries Cleo had at lunch slipped her mind, so she was in a better mood as she left the school to look for Maddie.

Maddie was the one to find her. She was waiting behind one of the stone pillars at the front gate and grabbed Cleo's arm as she walked by, pulling her next to her.

Cleo did let out a shriek this time. But that was not an unusual sound at Gravedale High, so at least she didn't have to worry about embarrassing herself.

"Maddie!" She hissed. "What are you doing here?"

"Hiding so nobody else thought I was waiting for them," Maddie answered. "Are you ready to go?"

"Yeah, I guess," Cleo replied, composing herself. "Just down the hill, right?"

"Uh-huh, right at the bottom," and with that Maddie was off.

Cleo struggled to catch up to her at first. The unpaved path proved to be annoying, with the risk of kicking up dust on herself or her foot getting caught in one of the cracks weighing on her mind.

But it was the rocks she should have been worried about. She stepped on one and her balance was gone, her arms flailing as she stumbled forward trying to catch herself. She couldn't, but she did catch Maddie, unintentionally using her to stop her momentum.

This pushed Maddie forward and she too had to stumble to stop. She then laughed about it. "Don't fall, Cleo." She placed Cleo's hands on her shoulders and held onto them, ready to usher her down the hill. "I'll help you."

Cleo decided to accept her offer, and the two of them continued on. It was quiet for a few minutes until Maddie decided to continue the conversation from earlier in the day.

"You shouldn't get mad about the rocks here Cleo, I wanted to show you them." She nudged one of the gray rocks on the ground with her foot for emphasis. "They're Cemetery Hill's natural defense mechanism, they're protective." She looked up to the sky again. "Just like this gray sky, protecting us from the sun."

Cleo joined her in looking up again. Truthfully, she had lost interest in the topic hours ago, but she found herself liking Maddie's excitement about it. "The sky seems a lot darker now," she said, trying to add to the conversation. "I wonder if it's finally going to-"

The sky opened into a downpour.

"Another great thing about gray skies!" Maddie cheered. "Water to keep things living."

Cleo wasn't as pleased with the turn of events. She let go of Maddie's shoulders and covered her head with her arms. She then darted forward to try and find covering.

"You don't like rain Cleo?" Maddie called after her.

"It'll make my hair frizzy!" Cleo cried back in response.

Maddie stopped in thought. She started to slip off her jacket to give to Cleo, but then pulled it back on. She slipped it off again, pulled it back on again. This happened a couple more times before Maddie made an executive decision.

Cleo had managed to find an awning to hide under. She sighed in relief as she was no longer getting drenched, and had relaxed a little by the time Maddie caught up to her.

"Here Cleo-" Maddie said, holding out her jacket, "-just give it back to me when you're done."

"Oh, no thanks Maddie, I'm good now." Cleo didn't want to inconvenience her and gave her a small smile in appreciation of the gesture. She had never seen Maddie without her jacket on before. "You should put it back on though, you're getting soaked."

Maddie dutifully put the jacket back on. She then took in her surroundings and realized where Cleo had ducked under. She had found one of the mausoleums that rested at the bottom of Cemetery Hill, exactly where Maddie was trying to take her.

"This mausoleum is great, isn't it?" Maddie said, shifting her attention back to the topic of gray objects. "A good place to bury the dead - and free housing for zombies once they resurrect!"

Cleo had to disagree with the first point. Mummies got buried in tombs with fanfare and luxury, and with enough precious, molten gold to burn someone's skin off. That was a good place to bury the dead. But once again, she found herself wanting to keep talking with Maddie, and didn't want to risk ruining it by voicing an alternate opinion.

She instead held out a hand to help Maddie up onto the mausoleum porch, since she clearly wasn't going to get out of the rain herself. "Come on, you're still getting soaked!"

Maddie took her hand and let herself be pulled under the awning, but she was confused about it. "I'm not afraid of rain, Cleo. Besides, I haven't even shown you everything yet."

"You can tell me about it from here, Maddie. I want to wait for the rain to stop."

Maddie frowned but did so. She settled in next to Cleo and pointed across the graveyard. "Do you see those tombstones over there?"

Cleo squinted in the direction Maddie was pointing, as even with her glasses she couldn't see things in the distance well. The tombstones looked like big gray rocks with some scribbles on them to her. "Yeah."

"See, those things are amazing," Maddie started. "Humans put them here when they bury their dead, so they know which one is theirs. But also, it says all the best stuff the humans did while they were alive, right? So when the zombies rise, they already know who they are and don't have to freak out about it. So it's good for humans and zombies!"

She continued rambling a bit, and Cleo found herself listening to every word. She didn't know Maddie had an interest in this stuff. It made her feel good that Maddie would choose her out of everyone to open up to. The idea of the reverse being also true, that Maddie would listen to Cleo talk about her interests, crept into her head. And the fear of rejection that usually followed that thought wasn't as strong as it normally was.

She just wanted to do it somewhere it wasn't pouring rain.

"You know what else is gray?" Cleo found herself asking, still not being willing to outright making her request.

"What?" Maddie responded, her attention now fully on Cleo.

"The trays at Papa Igor's. Once the rain stops ... do you want to go grab a slice?"

[boy-snax]

kravitz writing

usually post this on AO3 but its short enough here i think

Kravitz had made peace with the cold long ago. Being a corpse had unnerved him at first; it took quite a lot to get used to the rigor mortis and the unnatural movement of his own body (and that wasn’t even mentioning his secondary skeleton form). And though the initial shock wore off, the existential horror of it all reared its ugly head time and time again. It’d taken almost a good few years to realize no breathing meant no sputtering fog clouds during winter. Animals shied away from his touch, if they were even brave enough to stay in his presence. In his most panicked states he’d grasped hands over his chest only to realize his heart wasn’t hammering, and his blood wasn’t pumping, and his mind was simply trying to feel what wasn’t there. While most of his emotions stayed intact, experiencing panic without the physical deliriousness was quite a horror in itself. So he tried not to panic, if he could help it.

Being warm was a lot harder now than before. Wrapping himself in blankets and sheets didn’t help; he produced no body heat, and therefore had no heat to preserve. There were only little things that brought him warmth. The full light of the sun on a bright summer day soaked into his skin, making him feel almost alive sometimes. Fires helped, too. He didn’t get to be around fires a lot. Sometimes he would try to conjure a small, magical flame in his palms just to hold it near his face and feel its warmth blossom across his nose, his cheeks, his lips. It just wasn’t the same.

Kravitz never had a consistent respite from the cold. Not until he met Taako, anyway. Because Taako’s life was just full of warmth. 

Taako liked to cook on his own, but Kravitz couldn’t help but butt in from time to time. Taako would begrudgingly give him a pan to simmer, and the hot smoke and steam would billow up and up into Kravitz’s face. Even the feeling of popping grease falling onto his hands- nearly hot enough to burn- was a welcome sensation. After a while, it became routine. Taako quickly caught what Kravitz wanted; he kept him in charge of any big open flames for him to relish in the blast of heat. Kravitz would be in charge of the oven, too. Crouching down and pulling out anything fresh from baking, leaning in just a little too close to feel that warmth from inside. 

And with all this came the fresh food, of course. The freshest stuff he’d eaten in decades. Kravitz could scarcely wait to down everything that came out of their kitchen. He didn’t even really need it- food was a luxury and not a necessity. But he could feel its travel from his mouth to his gut. Taako interpreted Kravitz repeatedly burning the roof of his mouth as a compliment.

He always volunteered to do the laundry for the same reasons. The warm water and soap and even warmer sunlight that dried them off left a pleasant buzz in his hands. Technically, washing didn’t necessitate hot water unless he was scrubbing out a stain, but he boiled it and let it sit out for a few minutes for his own enjoyment. It seemed less weird than if he had just boiled water to stick his hands in.

He saved that for baths, too, when it seemed convenient enough. Having an entirely warm bath was admittedly much more work and resources than one could afford on a regular basis. It was for special occasions- the good and bad kind. Celebrating a holiday night, or taking his mind off a particularly violent day at work. Fortunately, Taako didn’t mind heating all that water, for he was as weak for baths as Kravitz was. They’d spent many hours just soaking and sleepily talking, too tired to stand and dress and go to bed. 

Taako’s friends were pretty warm too, but that wasn’t as welcome an occurrence. Magnus never failed to dishevel Kravitz’s getup every time he hugged him. It was quite a skill of his. And Kravitz had a feeling Magnus was challenging himself to lift the reaper off the ground every time, just to prove that he could. But no matter the inconvenience and absurdity of it all, he still found himself fighting off a smile. Taako’s family was so much more forward than most. It made him feel at ease, in a way. Knowing that no matter how strange Kravitz was, they were stranger.

But Taako himself was Kravitz’s favorite source of warmth by far.

He tried not to ask for it much. Kravitz knew better than anyone how uncomfortable the cold was, but Taako insisted that he didn’t mind.

In the colder evenings when Kravitz retired from work, he crashed into bed with Taako and buried his face and hands into his neck, or his chest, or his stomach. Taako didn’t like when Kravitz laid on his bare stomach; the sudden cold tickled him in a way and made him giggle uncontrollably. So, naturally, it was Kravitz’s favorite place. And though it would be cold at first, they would both be warm after a while. Although Kravitz’s body couldn’t produce heat, his human flesh could still retain the heat rather well. The longer they rested together, the warmer they got. Taako usually rested his hands on Kravitz’s shoulders or back. During the winter, he opted to hold his boyfriend’s face instead to speed up the warming process. Kravitz never shivered anymore- his body must’ve given up decades into the perpetual cold- but he could feel when Taako did. He massaged and rubbed Taako in return to try to keep him warm with friction.

He stole warmth from smaller instances, too. Kisses her and there, ones where Kravitz brushed up on him from behind and let his cheek linger against Taako’s just a few seconds longer. He loved to rub Taako’s hands, too, which Taako asked for often. Being a chef *and* a wizard *and* a prankster all at once sometimes left them cramped and sore. He didn’t stretch very well. Or, perhaps he didn’t stretch, so Kravitz could massage the pain out of his joints instead. Whatever the case, neither of them minded.

They were doing so now, laid out on the couch with Taako half on top of him, half to his side, and their little fufu dog between his feet. He held one of Taako’s hands between his, gently massaging small circles into his palm. They’d stopped talking a while ago, and Kravitz couldn’t tell if he was asleep or not. The silence and stillness made him believe so, but Taako’s breathing hadn’t quite slowed. He could feel his breath still blossoming warmth along his neck. Between the dog at his feet, the fireplace to one side, and the boyfriend on top of him, he didn’t think there was a single part of him that wasn’t warm.

[fairydust-stuff]

Banana Fish Sprited away au pigs

Griffin catches Ash before he falls.  “ Watch you step” 

“ fuck you!” Ash growls 

“ Hey! I know you're mad about me leaving” Griffin said. “ 

“ Your going off to war….what if you?” Ash trails off memories of war statistics he read come to mind.  

Griffin sighs “ I don’t have a choice, Uncle sam called and i’ve got to Answer” 

“ Its not fair! I don’t want to be left alone with him!” Ash groused

“ Look, I know he messed up but he’s still our dad” Griffin argued. 

 Ash ground his teeth together as he looked over his shoulder at Jim callanese who was grumbling the whole time while chugging a beer. 

“ I’m surprised the locals haven’t come after us with pitchforks for bringing him” Ash muttered. 

“ Ash!” yells a cheerful voice as Eiji Okamura jogs up to him. 

“ Wow your fast!” 

“ Or maybe slow America body is weighed down by burgers” Eiji sassed. 

Ash laughed, his eyes drift to Eiji’s sweat-caked tank top and he flushes. 

“ How much further?” Jim snaps 

“ Simmer down pops” Ash retorted 

“ Speak like your father like that again you disrespectful little w….” 

“ Ok!” Griffin cuts in “ Eiji, we’re almost there right?” 

The Japanese boy nods. 

His eyes are nice Ash thinks dreamily. 

“ Little further” 

“ Speak English” Jim said sharply 

Eiji looks like he’s resisting the urge to say something. 

“ Almost there…sir” Eiji said, he leads them toward a tunnel which they follow him through. 

Jim lets out a discontented grunt. 

“ Where are we going?” Ash asked Eiji 

“ Jiufen” Eiji said. 

“ Wait that’s in Thailand” Ash said. 

“ Oh I meant Kyoto” Eiji laughed 

“ I swear you said Jiufen” Griffin frowned. 

“ His English is such shit we cann’t understand a word” Jim pointed out. 

“ Ash you really think I can magically take you to Thailand?” Eiji laughed 

“ Your right it was an honest mistake” Ash realizes those eyes are so warm and innocent. 

Eiji leads them to an abandoned theme park  “ Ta dah welcome!” 

“ Why is it abandoned?” Griffin asked 

“ Something smells good” Eiji sniffs the air. 

Ash realizes he’s right, Griffin and Jim follow his lead and the group finds heaps and heaps of food in a tent. 

Jim starts piling a plate. 

“ Hey bastard! This could be a setup for someone's festival!” Ash points out 

Griffin puts a hand on his shoulder “ don’t worry, I've got some crash on me, i’ll pay for it” 

“ That’s your problem Griff, you're always cleaning up after him!” Ash complained 

Jim starts eating ravenously. 

“ You should stop” Eiji interjects quickly. 

Jim  scoffs “ Why the hell should best dam food I’ve ever eaten. Hey, there any beer around here?” 

“ Here’s some wine” Griffin selects one of the bottles. 

Eiji looks gleeful for a moment. Ash shakes his head maybe his eyes are playing tricks on him.  

Jim opens it and takes a swing his eyes light up “ This is incredible! Here Griffin try some” 

Ash gets a chill down his spine “ No wait stop!” he exclaimed 

“ Ash relax, we’ll just take a bottle each” Griffin reassured him selecting another bottle that he peels the label from. 

“ No Griffin stop no this isn’t right!” 

They ignore him and keep devouring as if they’ve never eaten a meal before and swigging bottle after bottle of wine. Then their faces start to change and their snouts get longer their faces and stomachs bulge they start to burst out of their clothes. 

“ Dad! Griffin!” Ash exclaims soon where his brother and father stood are two fat pigs who race across the table making snorting sounds.

[hells-fvry]

❝ Alright, Porn Critic— ❞ Angel Dust begins, clicking pause on the video— much to Niffty and Vaggie's dismay ( albeit for different reasons; movie stuck on a rather... revealing scene. not that Angel minds, it's one of his better films ) —as he stands up from the couch to face Husk. Putting the feline on the spot, without even the courtesy of the film to offer reprieve from the silence, Angel aims a narrowed gaze on the other man. Lips upturned in a smirk as he challenges, ❝ Since you clearly think my films are shit... Let's see YOU do betta'. ❞

Motioning at the others with a dramatic wave of his hand, he tauntingly spats, ❝ Go on, tell ev'ryone what a DECENT film would look like. What do YOU— ❞ Finger points at Husk, Angel's tone holding the sharp edge of someone whose patience has run thin. ❝ —wanna see happen ta me? ❞ Flashing a sharp grin, he tilts his head and adds in a purr, ❝ C'mon, Kitty. Tell us how ta make jackin'-off classy~ ❞ — (( *shoves some Early!Angel @ Husk because a bitch is threatened annoyed and he wants to put Kitty™ on the spot ( to try and get him to Stop Talking )* ))

@burning-fcols

Lips leaving a bottle's spout with a pop, Husk was unphased at first, a finger being jabbed Angel's way as he tried to ignore the blush heating up his fur. "You can't fucking tell me you think that shit is good! And it's not just your films, it's every fucking half assed knucke puller out there who thinks 'filming' is just pointing and shooting!" He was admittedly getting a bit overdramatic, its was just porn, it wasn't meant to be a five star film, so long as it got someone's rocks off. Still Husk refused to back down, his bottle being slammed on his countertop enough to rattle few glasses stored underneath.

"Shit's so fucking over the top, I don't see how anyone gets off on it without second hand embarrassment." This wasn't a fight he was going to win, he knew, but one that needed to be had for the principle of the matter. "But no, you're right, it's my fault I don't wanna see you tossed around like some two bit whore just so I can get off." Anger that had only been half simmered seemed to boil over at that, Husk not sure if it was because he was now thinking about the shit Angel went through, or because he had maybe shown his hand a little too much.

Downing the rest of the bottle far faster than it's current amount should allow, it was once again slammed onto the bar before Husk jumped over it with surprising grace for someone usually so hammered. "Fuck this shit, I'm goin' for a smoke. Enjoy your fucking torture fantasies." The slam of the front doors followed soon after, the force of which sending the now empty bottle on his bar to the floor with a heavy clang.

[cooledtured]

Dev Patel’s “Monkey Man” Swings into Theaters

Imagine the electrifying energy of Mumbai’s underground fight clubs, where anonymity hides simmering rage and desperation. Now, picture Dev Patel, not just as a participant, but as the masked avenger known only as “Monkey Man,” directing his own path to justice. Yes, you read that right. Patel is pulling double duty, starring in and directing this action-packed revenge tale, with none other than Jordan Peele swinging in as his producer via Monkeypaw Productions.

But wait, there’s more! Forget the quiet whispers of a streaming release. This “Monkey Man” is baring its fangs and leaping straight onto the silver screen, thanks to a partnership with Universal Pictures. Talk about a plot twist worthy of Peele himself!

So, what can we expect from this genre-bending cinematic leap of faith? Patel’s “Kid” is far from your typical hero. He’s a product of the city’s underbelly, fueled by a past shrouded in mystery and a present defined by bloody knuckles and a simian mask. He’s John Wick with a soulful gaze and a touch of Hanuman, the mythical monkey god, guiding his every move.

Whispers suggest the film is a potent cocktail of action, social commentary, and even a dash of superhero origin story. Think “The Raid” meets “Slumdog Millionaire” with a sprinkle of “Black Panther,” all filtered through Patel’s unique directorial lens. Can you feel the anticipation building?

But here’s the real kicker: Peele’s involvement throws a whole new monkey wrench into the mix. Will his signature brand of social horror seep into the Mumbai mayhem? Can we expect genre-bending surprises that blur the lines between reality and vigilante justice? The possibilities are as thrilling as a perfectly executed parkour move — and just as unpredictable.

Mark your calendars, cinephiles, because “Monkey Man” is swinging into theaters on April 5th. Get ready for a story that punches, ponders, and, with Peele onboard, might just leave you questioning everything you thought you knew about heroes, villains, and the masks we all wear. Remember, in the concrete jungle of Mumbai, sometimes the most unexpected figures rise to become the legends they were always meant to be. Will “Monkey Man” be yours?

— — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — —  DANIEL SIMMONS | Writer POP-COOLEDTURED SPECIALIST cooledtured.com | GROW YOUR COLLECTION

[strelitziareginaee]

FROM SORA: He's by the sleek stainless steel stove, poking idly at tuna sizzling in a pan in front of him, eyes a little glassy as he hums softly--surprisingly, Sora can be a reliable cook when he needs to be (though Remy the famous rat chef had been an invaluable teacher, whom gave Sora all the new tips to really take his cooking to the next level). Beyond that, Sora has known how to sear fish nearly his entire life--poking meat over a stick and watching it simmer along a fire had felt like a skill he had been born with the moment he blinked open his eyes on Destiny Islands...

It's a little surreal to put all of these different lessons together here in Quadratum, however. It might be why he's a bit more quiet than usual, despite Strelitzia hovering nearby as a sort of impromptu sous-chef.

He tilts his head a little thoughtfully as he recalls Destiny Islands... and then his pondering drifts off to Riku and Kairi (how are they doing without him...? he hopes they aren't worried, even though they must be) and then to his mother left behind without a word yet again...

He glances up suddenly at Strelitzia, eyes wide and gleaming, his mouth popped open as if he has a truly striking question to ask...

But all that slides from him eventually, as he softens at her and chuckles gently as he asks instead, "Um, hey--was it one clove of garlic or two, I forget...? You mind checking the recipe for me, Strelly?"

He smiles at her before returning his blue gaze to the fish, he shuffles the two slabs about in the oily pan.

"Should be almost done, I think. Hm, I hope the rice is ready soon too," he murmurs mostly to himself, leaning away from the stove to glance at the rice cooker steaming happily on the counter, though he can't spy the digital timer on its face due to the fluorescent lighting of the kitchen. "You ever have dried seaweed on your rice before, Strelitzia...?"

He flashes her a more sincere, excitable grin then.

"It's the best! On Destiny Islands we call seaweed like that nori and guess what?" He steps from the pan to whip out a small glass bottle from a cabinet next to him. He rattles the green flakes at her merrily. "They have it here too! ' Furikake ', huh? It's a lil different with the sesame seeds and is that... salt in here too...? Wanna try this with me?"

She never thought she would become so comfortable with the boy she was meant to watch over.

When Sora slept, it had been fine. His arrival to Quadratum had been a quiet one and Strelitzia was given time to assess this new development, figuring out how she wanted to go about living with a boy she was essentially spying on.

The first few weeks were difficult though, and thinking of those days reminded her of her purpose and why she was with Sora in the first place. Every day, it felt like she was holding her breath, waiting for the other shoe to drop, as one says. But it never came. The Master of Masters never showed his face or appeared, never giving Strelitzia her next instructions.

The one day, Sora woke up and his light was as bright and shining as the goofy smile on his face. It warmed Strelitzia's anxiousness away, and any intimidation she once felt melted away with each passing day. That's when she started to relax, believing that maybe, just maybe, the Master of Masters had moved on to better things (though she knew that was unwise to consider).

Now the two of them were like any other pair of roommates, friendly and co-existing in the same place without casualties or clashing. Strelitzia grew to enjoy each passing day, thriving in an environment where she felt safe with another person. It reminded her of her days when she would talk to Lauriam; like having a brother again.

"Hm?" She looked up from the bowl of cookie dough she was in the process of mixing, blinking. Then she quickly scrambled to the open book near her, scanning the page for how much garlic they needed. "Uhm, it says here that it needs two minced cloves.." She replied, though she personally thought one could never have too much garlic in their foods.

The tuna Sora was cooking already smelled amazing, and Strelitzia inhaled deeply. She couldn't wait to eat. She was starving. Even the cookie dough smelled good, despite not being in the oven yet.

Freshly baked chocolate chip cookies didn't exactly go with tuna and rice, but it's what she wanted, and who was she stop herself from delighting in a delicious sweet treat after dinner?

"Seaweed on rice?" She lifted her gaze again, having returned to the bowl she was mixing once more and began to scoop up the sticky dough into individual balls, placing them on a sheet. She watched as Sora moved away from the pan of tuna and pulled a small glass container from the cabinet, shaking the flakes. She didn't even know they had something like that in their spice cabinet, but then again, everything in the apartment had been stocked by the Master...

"Hm, well-- I'm going to trust you, but I'm not sure. If you say it's good though..." She said, hesitant to try something like seaweed on her meal. Though Daybreak Town had been near the ocean, it wasn't as though they ate things like that often. At least she didn't.

[yue-muffin]

i just binge watched the blood of youth over like five days. this is literally the first cdrama i've finished since...sleuth of the ming dynasty?? i think?? i never finish cdramas. i came super close with a few of the dmbj dramas but the damn long list of episodes usually does me in. i just can't concentrate on one show for that long.

so, the blood of youth was really just that good! also it had a good ending that didn't end in tragedy (i shall not point fingers but...i do read the endings to many dramas bc i am not investing 30+ episodes of my time only for the ending to absolutely gut me unexpectedly).

the pacing was definitely a little rocky at points, the romance meant absolutely nothing to me (except for two side couples), it was absolutely hilarious and really did its comedy well, and i love the main characters. and many of the side characters. just wish we got to see some of the other supporting characters more, but since the last arc was mainly in the imperial city, alas, we barely got to see some of them.

i also love xiao se's absolute i'm-done-with-this attitude. my inner self is how he looks all the time. just a very tired man who's got a lot of plans simmering in that head of his, of which he's not sharing.

i also love lei wujie unexpectedly, kinda sad he got sidelined a bit at the end. didn't really expect to like him! but he reminds me of guo jing from condor heroes who i love. (side note: i'm pretty sure guo jing and hua rong are the only het couple in cdramas i've ever actually loved together and actively enjoyed their romance story from beginning to end)

however, lei wujie's relationship with ye ruoyi definitely has similar vibes with none of the heart. they're cute, but i'm not feeling anything from it. i definitely enjoyed ye ruoyi plotting with xiao se together better than their canon relationships, lol, though i appreciate how she thinks they're too much alike and doesn't like him that way, and vice versa. male-female friendships are something we don't get enough of. much better than tossing in weird love triangles all over the place.

anyways, i really love this drama, didn't expect that at all! the first half is the strongest, the latter half is interesting (I do like the scheming plots and power struggles), but they didn't do as good a job keeping the rest of the cast relevant. certain side characters just fade in and out as needed.

but again: i love the ending is just...the friends gallivanting off to adventure together! i'm not even particularly bothered by wu xin derping off and not joining them yet. he's not that kind of guy. he comes and goes as he pleases, and gets a kick out of coming to save the day. he'll probably pop up when they least expect it and finally get to make that poem of his a reality.

(last note: i see those parallels with mysterious lotus casebook and i'd love to see a crossover of the two one day...ah if i ever steel my heart to watch it all the way through, i might write that myself...)