#like——-AS HE SHOULD BY THAT POINT GOOD FOR HIM DOING THAT

[yeagersss]

Sukuna as a Firefighter (Part 2)

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Thanking him was the only logical explanation.

The man saved your life after all. Pulled you away from the jaws of death. You know you tried to thank him just before you lost consciousness but that felt like a poor excuse.

So you do what you do best. You bake him some brownies as a thank you. (Those brownies never failed you. Everyone loves them. Friends, family, charity events, your burned down workplace.)

So you carefully place them into a container and head down to the local fire station.

Your heels click against the marble floor as you walk inside the building. You were a bit nervous. The men turn to stare at you curiously or in amusement or were checking you out.

You straighten up and go to the closest fireman.

"Excuse me."

He turn towards you. He is just as large as the man who had saved you but with black hair and a scar running across the corner of his lips.

His lips curl up into a sultry smirk as he eyes you up and down. "Well, well. What's a pretty, little thing like you doing here?"

You ignore his obvious flirting attempt and just get to the point. "I'm, uh... Looking for someone. He saved me and I just want to thank him."

The man steps closer. "You sure it wasn't me? I'm the chief around here. I know a thing or two about saving pretty things like you."

You try your best not to roll your eyes. "No, I'm pretty sure it wasn't you. The man has pink hair."

And that's when the fireman sighs and steps back. "Of course, he does... Sukuna! Someone's here for you."

The man—Sukuna—walks over, running a hand across his hair. Unlike last time, he has ditched his heavy jacket and is wearing a compression shirt that accentuated his muscular frame.

The fireman mutters something about "why does this damn guy keep getting all the credit around here. I work my ass too." as he walks away. Sukuna merely smirks his way. "Not my fault I'm too unforgettable, Fushiguro."

And then he turns to you. At first he narrows his eyes and then a flash of recognition passes across his face.

He grins. It almost looks feral.

"It's you. What? You here to make good on your promise?"

You frown at that. "Excuse me?"

"The one where you said you were going to marry me before you passed out."

"Excuse me?" You squeak out. "I said no such thing!"

He leans closer to you but you lean away, glaring at him. He merely chuckles. "Oh, that's definitely what you said. I'm used to women saying I'm hot as hell when they're delirious but marriage? That's new."

"I was thanking you!"

"By saying you wanna marry me?" He snorts and stares at you in amusement. "You're going to have to work harder than that if you want me, girl."

Oh... This... This jerk! You suddenly regret even doing all of this for him. You should have just forgotten about it and moved on with your life!

Sukuna's gaze then shifts to the container in your hands and he perks up. "That for me?" He doesn't give you chance to say anything as he takes it from your grasps and opens it, staring down at the brownies.

He picks one up and takes a large bite, humming. "Not bad. Too sweet for my taste though."

You splutter because he had the audacity to call your precious brownies too sweet. You had enough and turn around, storming out of the fire station and hoping against hope that you will never get to see that jerk face ever again.

[itzpookiepooh]

Don’t Touch It

You try to pump your own gas

Rafayel is fed up to the tip of his head with you. He feels like he’s teaching you to breathe when he sees you do things you aren’t supposed to be doing. You pull up to the get out. Rafayel tries to pull up something on his phone as he gets out. You thought he was going to get snacks. You should have known better than that. You press your card to the reader, select the grade, untwist the cap, and go to pump, everything was going smoothly until he appeared on the other side of the tank.

He looks you up and down and then looks around. He opens your jacket, stares at you then pushes your front to the car and looks your backside up and down. You were getting irritated with this foolishness. What could he possibly be doing at a gas station of all places?! You swat his hand away shooting an evil glare his way.

“Are you dying?” He asked with wide eyes, his hand on your forehead. “No?” You answer taking his hand off of you.

“Would you like to?” He deadpans. No blinking. No moving just straight up staring at you.

“What is wrong with you?!” You snap foxing your clothes. You let go of the gas pump making him quickly grab onto it. A win is a win.

“I was wondering if we switched roles overnight. I don’t remember you having…other facilities when I went to bed last night.” He gave a fake smile making your eyes widen.

“What are you talking about?” You tilt your head at him making him do the same but sassier.

“You don’t need me anymore?” He accused you making you fumble over your words. “Because it seems like you don’t if you’re out here pumping your own gas!” He snaps staring at you like you committed a crime.

“Rafayel—“ You sigh, defeated when he puts his hand up, not wanting to hear anything else from you. He waved you away to get back in the car.

“I was just trying to help.” You call from the drivers seat but your statement only aggravated him more. “Help someone who needs it!” He shouts back watching the gas tank fill.

“Love you!” You call to him, he glares at you once more. “I love you too.” He snaps before going back to ignoring you.

How dare you insult him like this!

Zayne is the perfect boyfriend, a textbook example. He cooks for you, drives you everywhere, and doesn’t let you so much as open the car door if you don’t have to. So why in the hell did you think it would be a good idea to pump the gas while he went inside to get a snack? Only you know the answer to that. It’s not a good one but it’s an answer.

Zayne nearly dropped his grapes when he saw you by the car pumping gas. He blinked a few times to make sure he was seeing what he was seeing. There was no way the love of his life was pumping gas in his car. He must be dreaming…or having a terrible nightmare.

“What are you doing?” He asks you placing his hand over yours that’s on the pump.

“Pumping gas?” You ask as if it were obvious. He didn’t understand the problem.

Zayne waited a beat in silence, the only sound is the gas pouring in and city life. He pushed you gently out of the way holding onto the pump where your hand once was. You just stared at him in confusion. What was his problem?

“It seems you believe my hands don’t work.” He told you as he watched the tank fill up. You cock your head back in confusion.

“I never said that.” You tell him in disbelief that he put words in your mouth. He glances at you his same expression on his face.

“It must’ve been what you thought if you believed it was okay to pump gas on your own.” His tone the same as it always is. You put your hands on your hips in a huff.

“You were in the store!” You reason but he shakes his head. “For a moment. Now get in the car it seems I have to teach you about what you need to be doing.” He lectures you pointing to the car.

You got in the car but not because he said so.

You thought you were so slick, waiting for him to pull his card out of his wallet while you went to go pump it yourself. Sylus pushes you back into the car causing you to pout. You were only trying to help. You look up at him like a pouty hamster to which he gives you a bored stare. He didn’t need you to lift a finger when you were together much less for something as small as this. Were you raised in a barn? Why would you pump his gas? He’s right there.

“Do you always try to inconvenience others?” He teased leaning against the passenger’s side door. You glared at him going to open the door but it wouldn’t.

“Did you put child’s lock on!” You yell through the window while he snickered.

“Did I? I don’t recall.” He chuckled watching you scramble to the backseat only to find those also have a child’s lock on them. Sylus couldn’t stop laughing at you. You looked like a hamster in a cage.

You weren’t able to exit the car as Sylus ignored you while he pumped the gas. You were so mad when he got back in but it didn’t matter. He told you about yourself on the way.

Please for the love of all things holy, don’t play with him like that. He nearly fell out and died because he saw you pumping his gas. You were lucky he even let you drive, he loves driving you around and only rarely does he let you drive him around. He went to run to the restroom real fast when he came back you were filling up the tank. He popped your hand so fast, his eyes narrowing at you.

“I just saw it needed a top up so I decided to do it.” You whimper rubbing your hand. He shakes his head at you.

“You don’t ever pump my gas, understand?” He lectures you as he crosses his arms. You pout, what was so wrong about pumping gas anyway? He leans closer waiting for you to agree.

“I don’t see what the big deal is. I’m just tryna help.” He sighs feeling bad about scolding you.

“I understand that. It’s about manners, you shouldn’t be pumping gas if I’m sitting in the car. It’s rude.” He explains ruffling your hair making you push him.

“Whatever.” You roll your eyes at him. He ushers you back into the car so he can finish filling the tank. His gesture did warm your heart though. The thought of him not wanting you to do things you don’t have to was heart warming.

He glares at you. He doesn’t say anything but his eyes say a lot. He feels like you’re disrespecting him in a way. He gently pries your hand off the pump even while you protest. You guys were pushing your hips against each other like siblings. Some people looked at you all with a confused look except a singular old woman who thought it was cute your boyfriend wanted to pump your gas.

“Sweetheart your boyfriend is so polite.” The older woman giggles softly. You both freeze and smile at her, Xavier decides to use this to his advantage.

“She’s so stubborn and doesn’t let anyone do things for her.” He smiles sadly at the woman making her gasp. She gives you an eye as her hands fall on her hips.

“You should let him! It’s rare to find someone like this! Take it from me!” She scolds you making your jaw drop. How did he manage to get this random old lady on his side? You tried to protest but she barely let you.

“I understand.” You sigh in defeat, your head hanging low. She huffs before giving you a talk about how you should let people take care of you sometimes.

Xavier was behind the woman with a small smirk. You side eye him trying to ignore him. This was his fault anyway how did he slide from punishment? The woman leaves you two alone allowing you to finally glare at him.

“You did that on purpose.” You tell him. He shrugs finishing with the gas. He turns to you, kissing your nose.

“You shouldn’t have tried to do it on your own. I’m here for a reason.” He teased. You pout getting in the car along with him.

I feel like I started running out of ideas for this one somewhere but it all came together 🙂‍↕️

[minswriting]

POKER FACE - SPENCER REID X READER

About: You’ve been practicing your poker skills and want to try them out in a game of strip poker with your boyfriend. And when you lose, you decide to make it more of a punishment for him than for you.

Warnings: NSFW, MDNI, inaccurate portrayal of poker probably, masturbation (f), cumming untouched, voyeurism, sore loser!reader, pathetic!spencer, etc.

Word Count: 1.5k

A/N: Border made by @cafekitsune and fic proofread by @beenreidingaboutyou !! A separate post will be created with the AO3 link!! Please comment and reblog to support your creators.

You knew it was likely a bad idea to challenge your boyfriend to a game of poker. Spencer had grown up in Vegas and was a mathematical genius, so really it was inevitable that you’d lose. However, you have been practicing your poker skills for a few months, doing whatever you can to get better. You read online forums, you played with strangers on the internet, and you had weekly game nights with your friends. And at one point, you kept winning.

So you had challenged your boyfriend and now you were reaping the repercussions of your own decisions. At first, the two of you were using poker chips to play the game. But Spencer had suggested making things a bit more interesting and now you were sitting in nothing but your bra and underwear while Spencer was wearing all of his clothes except his socks.

You had a frown on your face as you placed down your cards, revealing four of a kind. Spencer looked smug as a smirk formed on his face. “Sorry, darling,” He exclaimed before placing down a royal flush, ultimately ending the game.

You groaned in frustration, reaching behind you to unclasp your bra. “That’s so unfair,” you exclaimed, a small annoyance in your tone but nothing genuine. After all, it’s okay a game.

Spencer pouted at you in sympathy but his eyes were fixated on your chest, you took off your bra. “I’d say I feel bad but truthfully, angel, I do not,” He murmured.

You couldn’t help but roll your eyes, tossing your bra to the side, revealing your tits to your boyfriend. “I think you should feel bad,” You said, adjusting your position on the couch so that both of your legs were on the piece of furniture. You had an idea and you were going to make Spencer pay for beating you once again in poker.

Spencer curled an eyebrow at you, watching the way you got yourself comfortable on the couch. “Is that so?” He asked, tilting his head slightly, turning his body to face you as well rather than facing the cards on the coffee table. “And why do you think that, sweetheart?” Spencer licked his lips as he looked at you with a small smirk.

You giggled, tilting your head slightly as you looked at Spencer. You bit your bottom lip, bringing your hands to cup your tits. “Because,” You began, massaging your chest. “You can watch me but now, you’re not allowed to touch me.” You said seductively.

Spencer’s lips parted as he watched the way you moved your hands over your boobs, his brain short circuiting. “But-” He stopped himself from speaking when he saw the way you spread your legs. There was an obvious wet spot in your lace panties, showing your arousal. Spencer hated being able to see you but not able to touch you. But he also adored it. It added to the thrill, to the attraction he felt for you.

“You’re so mean to me,” You sighed, moving your hands down your body. “Going full force in the game while I’m just merely a girl who’s learning,” You knew you were being a sore loser. Did you care? Not at all. Not when Spencer was looking at you like you were the only person he’d ever laid eyes on. Perhaps you were.

“I’m sorry, baby,” Spencer said before biting his lip as he watched your hand move down to your barely clothed cunt. He thought about how you tasted. With all the times he’s gone down on you, Spencer knew you were very sweet. You were a constant craving he had, much better than any drug he’s taken. “I could make you feel so good.” He swallowed, eyes fixated on your pussy.

You chuckled, shaking your head. “I’m sure you could,” You replied, moving your panties to the side. “But karma is a bitch, Spencer, and you, my dear, are not allowed to touch until I say so.”

Spencer’s gaze fixated on your cunt, his mouth watering at the sight. He was like a dog in one of Pavolov’s experiments. As soon as he sees your cunt, he’s practically drooling. A small whine left his lips, desperate to taste you. His cock was already achingly hard but he didn’t dare to touch himself. You hadn’t given him permission.

You dragged a finger along your slit, spreading around your wetness. “I’m so wet,” You murmured seductively, looking at Spencer. You took your pointer and middle fingers to your clit and began rubbing slow circles, eliciting a soft moan from your lips.

Mutual masturbation was something you and Spencer did quite a bit. Getting off while watching each other, it was thrilling. But you hadn’t experienced getting off while Spencer simply just watches. It was new, electrifying, and incredibly arousing.

“You’re so beautiful,” Spencer said hoarsely, watching as you flicked the bean. It was true, of course. You were the most beautiful woman Spencer had ever had the pleasure to lay eyes on.

Your response was a simple moan as you continued rubbing your clit. After a few minutes, you dipped a finger to your hole, teasing the entrance. “If only you weren’t so harsh on me,” You breathed out, licking your lips. “I’d let you get a taste,” You said as you showed Spencer the slick on your fingers from your cunt.

The whine that left Spencer’s lips as his hips bucked into nothing, a small pout forming on his lips. “Please,” he whispered, the words barely leaving his lips.

You giggled, shaking your head no. “No, baby,” you replied, bringing your finger back to your entrance. You eased your finger inside of yourself, moaning softly. You were very wet, to say the least. You moved your finger slowly in and out of yourself, almost teasingly so.

Spencer let out a frustrated noise as his cock was aching against the confines of his pants. He brought his hand to his crotch, about to palm himself when you shook your head. “You don’t get to touch yourself either,” you said breathily. “You can look but you cannot touch.”

“This is so mean,” Spencer replied, moving his hands to grip the cushion beneath himself so that he wasn’t tempted to touch himself. He knew to listen to you. If he didn’t listen, your punishments would be worse. Spencer wasn’t in the mood to defy you today.

“Well you win some and you lose some, sweetheart,” You chuckled, adding another finger inside of yourself. You whined as you curled your fingers inside of you, eyes fluttering shut for just a moment. You thrusted your digits, hitting your sweet spot with each movement. “Spencer,” you moaned out as you used your other hand to cup your boob. “If you hadn’t been so harsh on me, you could be the one making me feel so good,” your tone was between a moan and a whine as you pleasured yourself.

“I’m sorry,” Spencer groaned out. He bucked his hips into the air once more, trying to gain any sort of friction but was met with nothing. “Let me take care of you to show you how sorry I am,” he tried to bargain, a pleading look in his eyes.

You shook your head, looking at Spencer with a pleasurable expression on your face. “No. You need to learn your lesson,” you exclaimed. After a few moments, you began thrusting your fingers faster, mewls of pleasure leaving your lips. You threw your head back, feeling that familiar pit in your stomach that drew closer and closer.

Spencer watched intensely, wishing he were the one fucking you into oblivion right now. His cock could do so much better than your own fingers. His fingers could do so much better. His lips were parted, his cheeks flushed from the heat of the situation. He could feel his cock stiffening in his trousers, begging for attention.

“I’m so close,” You whined, biting your lip as you looked at Spencer. His intense gaze fixated on you was what drove you to the edge as your walls clenched around your cunt and your back arched, thighs shaking with pleasure as you came with a loud moan of Spencer’s name.

Spencer let out a groan, watching the way you fell apart from your own fingers. You were such a sight to behold. And without any warning, he felt himself cumming, a whine escaping his lips as a wet spot formed on his crotch. “Oh fuck,” Spencer groaned, unable to help it.

When you both came down from your highs, you looked at Spencer as you removed your fingers from your cunt. “D-did you-“ you stuttered, breathing heavily. “Did you just cum?”

Spencer swallowed, nodding his head. “I’m sorry,” he said, his voice raspy. “I-I didn’t mean to.”

You bit your lip, thinking for just a moment before responding. “I think you’ve been punished enough,” you exclaimed before moving to crawl onto Spencer’s lap. “I think it’s now time for a reward, hmm?”

Spencer hummed in response, nodding his head. “Oh yes, please.” He replied, grabbing your hips.

And so, you gave Spencer the ride of his life.

[oddlylovingaddiction]

; Coming Full Circle

Part 1: Here , Part 2 (You’re here)

Sorry that it took so long everyone, I’m close to graduation now and I’ve been busy, however I hope this is good!

CW: Reader is pregnant BUT is gender neutral only being referred to as you, if you don’t have the ability to get pregnant you do now (in this series). Neglected reader x (platonic.) bat family. Reader is probably around in your 20s (21 - 25) and is the 5th(??) oldest. READER ALSO HAS NO IDEA THAT THE WAYNE FAMILY ARE SUPERHEROS (for now…) Reader is also bit emotional because of pregnancy hormones.

TW: Past abuse in the form of emotional neglect, Pregnancy, Arguments

The Garden was warm, you could almost relax and drink your tea peacefully.

Keyword being almost. Because unfortunately you were surrounded and being interrogated by some of your siblings. Dick, Tim, Cassandra, Jason and Damian.

“Who’s your husband?” Cassandra asks curiously. You really didn’t want to tell them anything but it’s clear if you ignore them, Tim the cyber stalker will just drag it up.

“I’d like to keep my private life—.” You go to reply but Damian interrupts, “I bet you the husband is made up.” and for some reason Jason nods along. Ever since yesterday Damian has stuck by you, anywhere you go in the mansion he’s somehow lurking behind you or around you in general. You’re not sure why especially since when you woke up he had gone.

“He is real.” You scoff your face bunching up in annoyance. “Oh yeah then why isn’t he here with you right now then?” Jason questions clearly not believing you like Damian. “… we had a small fight.” You reply slowly, concern blooming on all of their faces. It feels you with a mixed feeling… happy that finally some people in your family are concerned and also annoyed because they have no damn right to look at you like that. “I thought you said it was a disagreement?” Damian argued.

“It was on his end… but I suppose it was more of a fight on mine.” You mumble embarrassed, leaning your head on your hand to cover your mouth.

“What was the fight over?” Cassandra asks and you wince. You realllyyyyy didn’t want to answer that but you don’t want them to think of the worst scenario about you and your husband.

“It… was over the colour of the nursery walls…” You whisper-mumble closing your eyes shut. “Huh?” Tim replies.

“It was over the colour of the nursery walls…” you say still whispering but not mumbling anymore. “Can you speak up? I don’t think any of us caught that.” Dick adds.

“IT WAS OVER THE COLOUR OF THE NURSERY WALLS OKAY?!” You burst out standing up quickly as you slam your hands on the table.

Everyone goes silent as you sink back into your chair hands over your face embarrassed. “That’s it? Are you serious??” Jason grunted clearly he thinks you’re insane for choosing to stay with family over the colour of some walls. And you admit “it does sound ridiculous but in my head at the time it was a lot bigger of a deal…” you feel so embarrassed.

Surprisingly Damian pats your shoulder gently while you’re slouched over, “I support you and your future divorce. Because if he can’t let you pick the wall colour then what else will he do? His lover is pregnant, he should give in.” He advises which just makes you even more embarrassed because you can’t believe you’re being comforted by a kid. Cassandra also leans in and pats you on the back as well, at this point you’re wondering if you could just bury yourself in a hole.

“This is so stupid…” Jason mutters, “Why…” Tim adds and you can hear Dick trying not to laugh at the absurdity. “Pregnancy hormones.” You can hear Cassandra whisper-mouths as a reply to Tim.

“You guys don’t have to comfort me, I know it’s dumb.” You say finally looking up at them all as Cassandra and Damian retract their hands. “If you know just go back.” Jason frowns before Dick elbows him in the ribs. “I would but it just feels too embarrassing…” you sigh. You can’t believe you’re having this conversation with people a phew years ago probably wouldn’t notice if you were dead. “Is that it?” Tim probes, he knows that there’s got to be more than you’re letting onto, which there is.

“And… because I can’t help but be worried… what if this is the first fight before it gets worse? If we are arguing now what will happen when the baby is here? What if he doesn’t love me anymore because of this?” You confess. Your husband is the closet to you and you can’t bear to imagine losing or fighting with.

“It was just one argument if he doesn’t still love you over and chooses to fight with you more, then just kill him.” Jason stated to which earned a bunch of glares from the table, minus Damian who shrugged in agreement.

“Don’t listen to Jason just divorce him if he does that.” Cassandra proposes clearly uncomfortable with the talk of murder. You laugh softly. You choose to just hum in acknowledgment of their words, a small knot tying in your heart. It feels like your head is full of lead, everything right now going on with your husband and being around your family again it’s all too much.

“I think I’m just going to go relax…” you say picking up your purse. But instead of going towards the front door you go to the nearest car. “Wait!? Where are you going?!” Dick calls after you confused as everyone stands up and follows behind you confused.

“Retail therapy.” You grin as you turn around to smile at them.

You didn’t expect them to follow you. But perhaps you should’ve. You also should’ve stayed with your husband instead of coming back to the manor.

You shake your head trying to refocus on shopping and not focus on all the things overwhelming you right now..

You immediately spot your favourite store, it was a department store that had everything from food to clothes to the strangest items you’ve ever seen in your life. The last time you went you saw a statue of Abraham Lincoln in drag, a smut book of the current president and his political opponent and a dress covered in buttons.

“What is this.” Damian pointed at the store. The store had a sort of rundown look that immediately you probably wouldn’t go in now however since you’ve been here since you were just a bored teen who used to explore Gotham without a care in the world. “A store.” You say bluntly as you walk past them and head in, not bothering to explain anymore. Of course you’re not free of them yet since they also go in with you.

The store inside is similar to a warehouse inside, the only thing separating it from being an actual warehouse is the decoration on the floors and ceilings. You decide to peak at the clothing isle first, they usually have some cute baby clothes.

It seems they have continued to follow you, Dick grabs two shirts and checks their price tags before looking at you confused, “why is everything so cheap?” He frowns. You scowl right back in reply, “Because I’m basically their only customer, Richard.” You flip your head back around and walk off determined to get to the kids section. You knew a Dick wasn’t trying to attack you personally but you loved this damn store and you wouldn’t let anyone ruin that for you.

Two items in the baby’s section stood out and you could decide which one to buy. One was a onesie, it looked liked it was based off of that one popular kid’s book caterpillar and the other being watermelon overalls. Whatever you’ll just get both. After all your kid should be well dressed and have a bunch of different choices. As you held the clothing, it felt weird to hold up such tiny articles of clothing, to know you’ll have to give birth to a little life makes you all nervous and emotional. You can feel a small lump in your throat forming, you pull out your phone and check the messages from your husband. You usually did that when you were feeling emotional it helped you calm down. You forgot that you were currently ignoring him so when you opened up the messages you just felt even worse.

New messages from: My Superhero ❤️💍

“My love, please. I’m sorry we can do your choice okay?”

“I know you’re upset but I have checked almost every hotel and they say you aren’t staying with any of them.”

“The love of my life you are very pregnant, hormonal and quite frankly a little tiny bit insane. I’m worried about you.”

Okay the insane bit was unnecessary and lowkey pissed you off all over again. You had to pull yourself out of the baby clothing section and your phone otherwise you’d end up just buying everything and calling your husband to yell at him for that line. Instead you choose to loiter around the kids section instead. Never hurts to prepare yourself for the future of the kid after all. It also seems Cassandra, Tim, Jason, Dick and Damian finally caught up to you.

“What are you looking at? Do you have another kid we don’t know about because none of those will fit right now.” Jason points out and you roll your eyes. “Just looking.” You reply. Then you suddenly glance at Damian and get a wicked idea. You think Damian suddenly got the chills because he looked up at you and realized your plan. You think the others had the same idea because they all shared the same acknowledging look.

Every outfit you, Cass and Dick picked were really cute on Damian, from little Tuxedos to everyday wear that just made him look so adorable despite his protests. While Tim’s and Jason’s were straight hilarious, Jason picked out at one point a giraffe onesie and Damian practically launched himself at Jason. The only reason he tried it on is because everyone begged him to. Through the entire process Damian scowled and complained. However he still did it anyways, Maybe he liked the attention on him. He is a kid after all.

This time Damian walks out in the last outfit you picked for him.

You really don’t know why you started to cry. Or why you ran to Damian and held him in your arms. Hell you can’t really remember a lot that happened after that, you just remember everyone looking concerned, especially Damian as he looked up at you panicked. Then you remember falling asleep in the car ride home.

[twotwofroote]

When I was a kid, I wanted to break a bone. It happened often enough to other kids and I saw how people treated them. They'd excitedly sign your cast, offer to carry your books, bring you your lunch, etc. I wanted so badly to be looked after like that; to be thought about like that.

I tried to break my bones often. I would hear how someone else did it and try to replicate it. It never worked. Breaking a bone is surprisingly difficult but oh so easy at the same time.

I broke my wrist two years ago. I had stopped trying or actively wanting that over a decade prior. It was simply an accident - a fall when rollerblading. But it was nothing like I'd imagined as a kid.

TLDR: Being sick or injured doesn't give you what you want. It's a fantasy. The reality is painful and scary. I have a support system but it's just that, support. They can't be there 24/7. At the end of the day, I can be alone with my good health or alone with bad health. I'd much rather have the former.

(more context after the break)

For starters, I live in Japan. I had been for 3 years at that point but I'd never had significant medical problems. I had to learn so much while dealing with so much.

When it happened, it felt like a cartoon crunch at first. Like that scene in Teen Titans when Robin breaks his arm. But immediately after was a blinding pain I've never experienced before. I was crying and screaming for my friend but it took him a minute to come back and see what had happened. He was sweet. Trying to comfort me and make jokes. I'm glad I wasn't alone.

But when the Japanese staff came, I had to answer questions in Japanese. I can speak Japanese well enough but that pain. My god that pain. I could hardly breathe, let alone think in another language.

My friend called a Japanese friend to come get us. I stupidly thought we'd go right to the hospital and get me patched up. But it was a Thursday. Silly me breaking my wrist on a Thursday! I quickly learned that hospitals are "closed" on Thursdays. The staff kept saying "it's a bad day for this to happen. You can't go to the hospital on Thursdays. You should be more careful."

I couldn't believe it! What do you mean they're CLOSED? It's a hospital! I found out later that of course they will accept people but only if they go by ambulance. I knew that an American ambulance cost so I thought I had lucked out not going that route in hindsight. Then, I found out an ambulance here is only like $80. Live and learn.

Instead, my Japanese friend drove me to a clinic for x-rays. And boy howdy was it bad. That gave me a temporary cast/splint situation, set up an appointment at the hospital for the next day, and sent me on my way.

At the hospital appointment, I had more imaging to see just how bad it was. The doctor said I needed surgery... but that the schedule was booked up for a week. So, I went home and I waited.

It was so lonely. Nothing like I'd imagined as a kid. As a kid, I thought people could help me 24/7 and honestly I think it might have been like that. Friends and teachers to help you at school and parents to help you at home. But as an adult? My friends have jobs. They couldn't help me for 8+ hours a day. I couldn't go to work so I couldn't get help from coworkers. My family was thousands of miles away. I was so desperately alone.

I sat on my couch for a week. Scratching at my itchy splint, struggling to shower, struggling to eat. I thought surely that was going to be the worst of it. But then the surgery day came.

For better or worse, I was naively unaware of what was in store for me. I knew I was going to have to be awake which worried me at first. But then I figured, if they keep you awake, it must not be that bad, right? So I downloaded music and books on my phone. I pictured it like a tattoo - laying on a bed, one arm stretched out. I listen to some stuff, an hour or so later and boom I'm an fixed up! Like I said, naive.

The nurses were surprised when I said I wasn't nervous or scared. I thought it was silly they thought I would be. This sucked but it was still kind of interesting. Seeing an OR and being in a Japanese hospital! It was going to be such a good story to tell!

But then it was time for surgery. They strapped me down to a table - arms, legs, torso. Covered me in blankets which I thought was odd, it was August after all. I was starting to get nervous. This isn't what I expected after all. But it'd probably still be fine!

It was not fine. It was like torture. That's an hour and a half of my life that I'll never forget. It started well enough. My arm was numb so I couldn't feel anything and there were x ray cameras that I could see showing what they were doing. That was fine, I could just close my eyes after all but the sounds? I couldn't avoid the sounds. Then, idk how long in, I started to feel pain. The numbing was wearing off and I could FEEL them digging around in there. But I'd forgotten how to speak. The doctors didn't know English and I couldn't remember any Japanese. The pain was too much, I was so cold, and I couldn't move. I started to panic. I was scratching at the bed with my good hand and twisting. I tried to speak but I didn't know how to explain what I was feeling. Everyone was panicking trying to understand what this wounded animal wanted to convey. Eventually I got out the word for "hurt" and the doctor started asking me questions. It was easy to say yes or no from there. They gave me more medicine and the pain went away but the fear didn't.

The surgery took longer than estimated but eventually it was done. They took me off the table, sweating but freezing, and put me in a wheelchair. My whole arm was red and purple. I'd never seen anything like it. It didn't belong to me. The nurse went to adjust my sling but the arm escaped, hitting the table with surprising force. They apologized but I couldn't understand why. That wasn't mine after all.

I thought the worst was over. Now I could just go to sleep and when I woke the pain would be much more manageable. But I couldn't sleep. My arm was on fire. It felt like I was clutching the sun to myself. It radiated heat. The night nurse gave me an ice pack and some medicine but it didn't help. What is an ice pack to the sun?

Eventually morning came and I was discharged. The worst was behind me now but there was so so much more ahead of me that I hadn't considered. I had to go to the doctor once a month for x-rays. I had to go to rehab for 3 months, 2/3x a week. All of the doctors were friendly and I got better little by little. But I was so depressed. I just wanted my life back, my time back.

I had friends, doctors, and coworkers to help me but at the end of the day, I was at home alone. That wasn't new, of course, but the pain was, the scar was, the lack of control in my body was. I realized that the desire I had as a kid was so misplaced.

Being sick or injured doesn't give you what you want. It's a fantasy. The reality is painful and scary. I have a support system but it's just that, support. They can't be there 24/7. At the end of the day, I can be alone with my good health or alone with bad health. I'd much rather have the former.

Me: You know how when you were a kid and you’d wish that you’d get sick or injured in a way that would justify why you didn’t live up to your potential?

Everybody, apparently: No?

[yukioos]

Competitive bakugo over a nonchalant y/n😏😏😏😏

competitive katsuki trying to win over nonchalant reader

everyone knew bakugo was competitive, always trying his best and fighting the hardest, no matter who he was against or what situation he was in. he always gave it his all. however, he thought he could do nearly everything on his own, he was incredibly independent, even hating it when people tried to help him with something, not wanting others to see him as weak.

but he did what he had done since middle school; put other people down to make himself feel better. unfortunately, you and midoriya were victims of it, but the two of you had very different reactions.

midoriya was always nervous to stand up for himself until a few months ago, when he became more confident in his abilities, which you applauded him for. bakugo, on the other hand, also made fun of you for god knows what. it was never for a specific reason, just picking on you because he didn’t know how to deal with his feelings for you.

but he was always frustrated with how you’d react. normally, after he would laugh and point a finger at you, you would just shrug and walk over to your friend, talking to them with an emotionless tone. he’d follow you, yell at you, just for you to do it all over again. he hated how you didn’t react in any sort of way.

so when the two of you sparred, and he won a match, he would yell and brag about it, calling you a sore loser and smirking in your face. you responded, looking at a nearby wall for a second, “good job, i guess.”

he frowned, “you guess? what the hell do you mean ‘i guess?’ you lost fair and square, y/n!”

you hummed and shrugged, causing him to march up to you with a scowl. he asked, “why do you always act so damn calm? cry or smile or feel emotions for once! you’re acting like icy hot!”

“i do feel emotions, bakugo, i just don’t show them that well. you should learn from me and be calmer, it especially helps in fights.” you almost smirked at the end, teasing him.

he grumbled, “teach me then.”

you raised your eyebrow and hesitantly asked, “really?” you didn’t believe him, assuming it was a trick.

“yes, dumbass. and call me katsuki or whatever, i don’t care.”

“seems like you do care if you’re correcting me.” you retorted, tilting your head and looking up at him.

the tips of his ears pinkened, and his face felt warmer than usual. he grumbled, “shut the hell up,” and used a small explosion near your feet, causing the ground to rumble underneath you.

of course, katsuki didn’t realize his reactions were very readable, and how dark his cheeks became once you teased him.

hope you liked this, it was fun to write!

[glitter-stained]

Are the people who keep complaining that jason got away with what he did completely unscathed actually okay? Like, did we read the same comics? There's extremely little I can think of that didn't happen to Jason as "punishment"

like why are the people who want him to be punished forever not happy he is already getting punished forever what else do you want

[cameronsbabydoll]

Can you make a fic of dealer!Rafe and Cook!Reader (not this type of Kook)but a type of Cook that can make Rafe favorite drugs…reader is super smart like knows how to make anytype of drug but she needs a dealer to sell her product……..

chemical lust ۶ৎ

dealer!rafe cameron x cook!reader

warnings: drugs, illegal activity, all fictional

wc: 570 — a/n: this is such a cool concept bby!

the garage doesn’t look like much from the outside. that’s the point.

you don’t want it to.

the rusted tin roof, the faded “CLOSED” sign dangling crooked on the door, the smell of oil and burnt metal — it all does a good job of keeping people away. people, but not him.

you hear the car pull up. the engine’s too nice for this part of town. expensive. showy. loud in a way that makes your fingers itch for the silence of your lab.

then the door slams, just as arrogant as you pictured. he doesn’t knock. just walks in like he owns the place, like he owns you.

“you rafe?” you ask, not even looking up from your burner. you’re mid-pour, and your hands are steady, precise — unlike his loud, booted steps behind you.

“that depends,” he says, voice smooth and cocky. “you the chemist?”

you smirk, eyes still on the clear liquid shifting in the beaker. “didn’t expect your new plug to be a girl, did you?”

“i didn’t expect her to sound like she’s already sick of me.”

“i am,” you reply simply. “now shut up. this part’s delicate.”

it goes quiet. not silent — you still hear him moving behind you, taking in the setup, the gear, the controlled chaos you live in. most guys would’ve made a joke by now. not him. not yet.

when you finally turn around, you size him up. tall. tan. sunglasses pushed back into his hair. sharp jaw and even sharper eyes, the kind that watch everything. a guy used to getting his way.

“sit,” you say, motioning to the metal stool across the table.

he does, slowly, eyes scanning the space like he's still trying to figure you out. "so what is this, exactly? your little science project?"

you slide the sealed container across the table toward him. “this is your product. 98% purity. clean. stable. better than anything your little beach boys have touched.”

he opens it, lifts the container to his nose. his pupils dilate. his tongue runs across the edge of his teeth. “no way you made this here.”

“i made it in my head first,” you say. “then here. don’t underestimate me just because i don’t run around with a glock and a gold chain.”

he leans back, eyes locked on yours. “and what do you want from me?”

“i don’t sell. i cook. i need someone with connections, someone with muscle. you in? it’s 60/40, i cook, you move. don’t ask questions, and don’t fuck it up.”

there’s a beat of silence. you see the smirk before it fully forms.

“and if i want more than that?”

you raise a brow. “then you can take your dick and your attitude and find some other genius willing to make you millions.”

he laughs, low and warm, but there’s something hungry underneath it. you don’t like that. you don’t like him. but you need him. for now.

“so that’s how it is,” he says, drumming his fingers on the table. “no flirting. no touching. no fun?”

you lean in just slightly, voice cold. “you want a cook, not a girlfriend. and i want a dealer, not a babysitter. you don’t touch my setup, and you don’t touch me.”

that seems to amuse him more than it should. “sure, sweetheart,” he says, pushing the container back to you. “but let’s see how long that rule lasts.”

[consistantly-changing]

[Image descriptions in order: a Reddit post titled "AITAH for “training” a guy "like a dog"?" The post says "I (23F) have recently started seeing this guy (26M). he's super pretty, but he's kind of emotionally unavailable and he's alluded to an unstable/unhealthy childhood.

for context, i also work w socializing abused and neglected dogs at a local shelter and i think how much time i spend w the dogs is impacting the way i interact w ppl.

when we were on a date i started subconsciously making mental notes abt him like the notes id make abt a dog. for example, i noticed when we went out to dinner i noticed he ate really quickly and was very anti-sharing (resource guarding) but when i offered to pay and suggested dessert it seemed to make him really happy and a little calmer (food-motivated); he's really particular about his car (territorial/crate aggression); he likes when i pick where we go/what we do (eager to please), etc. so, ive started using the tactics id use on a dog w similar problems.

recently a friend (22F) pointed out that it's weird that i keep peanut M&Ms on me w the specific purpose of offering the guy one when i see him, and offering them again whenever i can tell he feels vulnerable. she said that im being an asshole bc he's a person, not a dog so i shouldn't be “training him like one.”

i don't think that's fair, im not trying to control him or anything, i just want him to feel comfortable w me the same way i need the animals im helping to be comfortable w me. humans and animals aren't THAT diff after all, we all just want to feel safe and cared for. the guy hasn't noticed yet as far as i can tell. the problem is, my “technique” is yielding really positive results.

AITAH? should i stop?"]

[Two screenshots of an update post or edit, which say, "UPDATES/ CLARIFICATIONS

for everyone asking me if i've seen the big bang theory ep w this plotline: i have not

for everyone saying they think i am autistic: probably, yeah. i haven't been tested but maybe i should

i do not have loose m&ms in my pocket bc then they'd get all melty and gross — i keep them in a bag in my purse

ik the title was clickbait-y so i want to make some things clear. i didn't think of it as “training" til my friend said it was like i was training him, and that made me feel weird (and it's why i made the post)

i am not and never have been trying to "modify" behavior. what i noticed in him and what i notice in animals were stress responses. we only get aggressive over our food if we believe someone's gonna take it away. we get defensive over our spaces if we reasonably feel like they'll be violated. applies to both animals and ppl. i was trying to establish trust the way i best know how to lol

if he never shared fries and never wanted to park next to a car w wide doors again, that'd be fine w me tbh. i know he's not a dog, so he's not at risk of being euthanized or something]

["ON TO THE UPDATE PROPER YAY!

so, to all the ppl who told me i should tell him what im doing — you were right and that's what i did. turns out i was VERY WRONG abt him not noticing what i was doing — he apparently put two and two together pretty quickly after i started doing it. he didn't tell me he was on to me tho, bc he liked it and was worried id get embarrassed and stop if i knew that he knew. so we talked it out and it ended up not being a very big deal at all and im probably gonna keep having m&ms bc they're good. that's all i got for yall lol"]

sickens me to my stomach. how dare this guy get to live my dream.

[quipxotic]

So many people are watching these first three episodes of Andor Season 2 and not understanding the point of the Cassian storyline (spoilers below obviously).

Cassian is an amazing pilot. That was established in Season 1. He struggles with the tie fighter he's stealing because it's experimental and so very different than what's gone before it. It's also because the intel on its systems he was given to study before the mission was wrong! He tells Kleya this in the third episode. All of this is also why the rebel cell members who take him prisoner at the drop off point have no hope at flying it. Those scenes are meant to power scale Cassian's capabilities against your average rebel fighter.

And yes, the rebel cell members are played for laughs, but those scenes are also meant to give us insight into the state of the rebellion before the formation of the Rebel Alliance. Fractured. Unprofessional. Lacking in trust, resources, and internal structure. These individual cells aren't all like Saw's crew, which is drawn from people with prior insurgency or military experience. In some cases rebel groups are probably made up of just regular folks who hate the Empire, but don't know what they're doing and are rightfully paranoid about security because there is no standardized training or formalized Rebel Intelligence to provide information security. We know Cassian is going to be a Rebel Intelligence officer, so it's a good bet he's going to play a major role in fixing some of these issues going forward.

Those scenes are also meant to show us how much Cassian has grown as an operative since Season 1. He's calm and in control even after his capture. When it becomes clear he can't convince them he's not a Imperial test pilot, he starts taking steps to secure his own survival and probe the cracks in their relationships and trust among themselves. He points out things they should be doing, things he has learned from experience. He makes sure he's hydrated, even if there is no food. He questions who is in charge, which helps brings that conflict to a crisis point. He watches and waits for his chance to make a successful escape. Early Season 1 Cassian was too much of a hothead to have the patience for that sort of thing.

Plus, this season is also about the history of the Yavin 4 base, the place where the Rebel Alliance is born. It'll be interesting to see if Cassian, after this experience there, is the one who suggests Yavin 4 as a location for the Massassi Rebel group, one of the precursors to and members of the Rebel Alliance.

[wonderjanga]

Free Me From These Shackles

The first time the JL met Marvel was during an alien invasion in Metropolis. The hero was new, and quite cheery whenever they interacted with him. He was like Superman 2.0., but more red and somehow more of a Boy Scout. In fact, speaking of Superman, the meshed together like peanut butter and jelly. Anyways, back to the point, when they first met him he was new and seemingly, emphasis on seemingly, naïve and inexperienced.

So, they tried to help him, much to Billy’s hidden annoyance. And he was annoyed! He won’t deny that. They were treating him like a newbie!

Like, the time Superman came to Fawcett and started critiquing every single thing he did in a fight against Captain Nazi.

Marvel and Captain Nazi(CN): *fighting*

Supes: *just hovering to the side*

CN: *throws a car*

Marvel: *catches it and puts it down*

Supes: “You know, you could’ve thrown that back at him?”

Marvel: “What?” *gets distracted and last minute dodges a punch, proceeds to fly far away from Captain Nazi*

Supes: *follows after him* “I’m saying you could’ve thrown the car back at him. Or the lamppost he threw you earlier. Or the hotdog stand.”

Marvel: “Why would I do that?”

CN: *flying after him*

Marvel: “What if he breaks it? That’s someone’s stuff. Or what if he deflects it? Property damage can kick your behind. How do you not know that?”

Supes: “Does your city not pay for it? Then again…”

…he was new, Clark thought. It would make sense for the city not to cover him yet.

Marvel: “What? Why would they? Wouldn’t that mess up taxes?”

Supes: “Now that I think about it, it really should.”

Clark was amazed as to how his taxes or rent never went up, no matter how much destruction happened in Metropolis.

Or the time Batman tried helping him diffuse a bomb even though Billy has had plenty experience already. They were at an alien site and trying to diffuse an alien bomb though so he supposed he could give him the benefit of the doubt.

Even if it was annoying.

Marvel: *squats down and rips off bomb lid*

Batman: “Careful.”

Marvel: “Careful what?” *looking at a bunch of wires*

Batman: *peers over his shoulder* “We don’t have enough informa—��

Marvel: “Uh huh uh huh.” *barely listening and snaps a blue wire with his fingers*

Solomon: *blabbling instructions*

Batman: *startles and jumps back*

Marvel: *gives him a look before snapping another two wires*

Batman: *baffled at how they aren’t literally dead, and wondering if Billy’s run into this tech before*

Marvel: *snaps one more wire and bomb powers off* “Alright.” *stands back up* “Man, I am starving. Your city has his joint called Bat-Burger, right? Is it good?”

Batman: “…Yes.” *somehow had a blank face but still conveying that he thinks Marvel is crazy*

Billy honestly didn’t know why he thought so. Sivana’s had more complicated stuff fit for random Tuesdays instead of long, dastardly plots or invasions.

Free Billy from these shackles of people thinking he’s a newbie as if he hasn’t done this longer than them.

[vatelixx]

The cage is open, you can walk out anytime you want (Why are you still here?),

S2!Post!Hankel Spencer Reid x gn!BAU!reader

Angst (hurt/comfort). Autistic Spencer (you know the drill). Perhaps some traces of fluff if you’re like…. masochistic. Heavily implied happy ending.

— Explorations of Spencer’s (very glossed over) addiction. Love confessions? Half love confessions? Spencer admits it mentally, Reader implies it through actions. What am I saying? They’re sooooooo in love it pains me.

Warnings: *cracks knuckles,* okay…. —heavy depictions of drug addiction, mentions and allusions of suicide, previous mentions of being held hostage (Hankel). PACKED with Greek mythology references (sue me, i study classics as a degree), perhaps some light biblical imagery? Spencer being at rock-bottom. he’s kinda bitchy. he also disses hotlines (they do save lives, don’t listen to Spencer!!! he’s being a dick). mentions of childhood bullying.

w.c: 3.2k

a/n: title so long it’s basically a midwestern emo song.

────────────

There’s intimacy in being fragile. Spencer knows firsthand, has romanticised his Glass delusion. The fear of shattering, fragmenting on impact, like jagged, sliced glass. He thinks of Charles VI, (1380’s King of France), what he felt when he refused touch. When he reinforced himself, shielding behind excess clothing, in the fallacious fear of dismantling.

Spencer does the same, hides behind fabric, shies away from human contact. Because— because being careful is better than being impetuous. If he can make himself so small he no longer takes up space then maybe they’ll be kind to him.

Monachopis. Has he always been this out of place? Has it always felt this way? Will it ever stop?

12 years old. Curling inward to shield himself from the ache of cracked fists. You’re not here, you’re not here, you’re not here. He still feels like that kid, the one bleeding across the school yard, smashed glasses, bust lip, new bruises to hide from mom.

Perhaps he should blame genetics. Find something to point the finger at. Mentally distort the truth, until it’s no longer a paling face he sees, drawing the first needle into his arm, forcing him to take what he never asked for. No longer that, but a bigger issue, a concern that cannot be personified, a larger statistic in the minefield of human psychology.

Those with ASD have a doubled risk of substance use.

He never stood a chance. Did he?

So just like Charles, he covers his arms. Veils the track marks that penetrate skin. Pretend they’re not there, pretend you’re okay. Okay? Okay, nobody has stopped to ask him if he is ‘okay’ since ‘the incident.’ When the shock wore off, and attention strayed, everyone lost interest.

He feels like an outlaw to his own team.

How do you move on from being bound, tied, degraded to something beneath human?

How did everyone else?

He understands now— the pull of addiction. The way it mimics, artificially replicates home. Something soft, in that one, life-ruinously warm moment between the first hit and the inevitable come down.

But just like everything good. It dies. Turns ugly. Disfiguring, decaying. What once was simple, a fleeting temptation, a way to starve off lonely withdrawal, has derailed into desperate, insatiable hunger. To reproduce the first time, to appease the way he palpates in the wake of something tiny—

Call it what it is. Not an analgesic agent, not a semi-synthetic, not a simple narcotic utilised in the medical field. It’s an opioid, two to eight times greater than that of morphine. Given to those dying, to help alleviate Cheyne-stokes breathing, to reduce pain before the end.

It binds to the opioid-receptions in the central nervous system.

He is no superior than those on the street. Begging for loose change to shoot up and placate the cold.

2AM. The phone connection is faint. Do you feel like killing yourself? Is the noose already tied, is the rope choking you? Do you need to breathe? Do you even want to? He wonders what it would be like, to call into those bullshit hotlines, to hear the detached, sharp-bladed sympathy of some stranger.

Instead, when the phone picks up, the blaring beep of a dial dissipating, he hears you instead.

“You know how it’s believed that Artemis killed Orion?” He starts. He cannot begin with hi, I’m scared of the dilaudid burning through my veins. Do you still love me? (Presumptuous of him to believe you loved him in the first place, he certainly wouldn’t.)

He doesn’t let you answer. Maybe he’s scared, or maybe he can try and satiate your concern by fact-dumping so extensively that you automatically revert back to oh yeah, boy genius is talking again. “Well— there’s this other interpretation, that she… y’know didn’t. Instead, they were hunting companions, and it was because of the animals he slaughtered on Crete, that Gaia. Mother ea— yeah, you know who I’m referencing. Okay.”

Even at his worst, he is conveniently a social disaster. They could poke holes in his brain, drag the sharp edge of a blade through the tissue lining of his stomach, and his mouth would still find a way to run:

‘You’re missing major arteries here, c’mon — I know you can push harder than that. Aim for my descending aorta, that will do the job correctly.’

It would be funny if he wasn’t the biggest screw up to ever exist. Social ineptitude has never looked worse.

“Anyway, um… so— disturbed by the blood-bath, and feeling repentant — she summoned this scorpion. Humans are no match for the gods, obviously. So any creation with intent will—“ he sighs, finding new ways to hate himself. “Basically he died. Yeah— dead. To… uh, sum it up?”

“And what?” Oh, there you are. He’s surprised you’re listening, that you didn’t hang up the moment his morbid rambling begun. He’s always surprised, surprised that you listen, that you stay, even when you shouldn’t. It would be romantic, if he wasn’t so flawed in believing you could never want someone like him.

“Well— Artemis gathered up the remnants of Orion and placed them in the sky. Yknow,… hence the constellation.”

There’s shuffling — a moment of uneasy silence. “Spencer—“

He keeps going. Shock-horror. “I’m not sure science would agree with that myth. It certainly counters the Big Bang theory. And the whole schtick regarding— look… it doesn’t,… it doesn’t hold any truth, of course. The gods aren’t real,” (if they are, they must spit at the flawed creation of him), “I just— it was on the forefront of my mind. Made me think of you.”

It’s innocent. If you don’t take into account the stored vials he keeps stashed in his cabinet sink. If you pretend you’re just two people, two old, weary friends, who are insomniac and restless. Then again, where Spencer is concerned, everything is innocent. He’ll bare the weight of existence with no expectation of a return favour. So willing to give give give. Always taken for granted. Tossed to the sidelines. You’ve watched the team ignore his plans, call rain check after rain check, incessant excuses for something so diminutive. Even now, they can’t see what’s right in front of them. The blunt of the truth.

The aftermath of the Hankel case.

“Bad night?” You ask. Like you don’t feel it in your ribs.

He sighs, head spilling back against the wall. Throat bared, it would be so easy for hands to wrap around the unmarred skin, to put him down. “Aren’t they all?”

You’ve both been trained to pinpoint human behaviour. Discern threat from over exaggeration. You don’t hesitate, he knows you don’t— he’s seen you behind the weight of a gun. Dominant hand curved around the grip, aligning the front and rear sight. Firing pin striking the primer of the cartridge, no recoil— he’s watched you no more than blink when the bullet penetrates.

He always anticipates a flinch that never comes.

Sometimes, he has this dream, where he’s got the same Hornady branded bullet, lodged through his chest. Sometimes he wakes up and still believes he’s bleeding out.

He can hear your keys, the clattering that fades into the grating, confirmative slam of a door. You’re out of the apartment complex, and what? He’s too busy thinking about some warped manifestation of his subconscious?

Will he ever live outside of his mind?

The call doesn’t end (5 dragging minutes of heavy breathing and awkward silence), until you’re standing right here, flesh and bone, in his kitchen.

He’s making himself small again. Sat against cold tile, he shields his face from view. As if that alone will incrimate him. He knows you know. And it’s scary; to be so raw in the face of someone you love.

When you drop to your knees, it feels like tending to a wounded animal.

“You didn’t need to come,” he mutters, obstinate.

“So what?” You brush it off, ever the hero. Spencer thinks they should marbleise you in the Vatican. “I still did.”

You came. You called. Spencer fucking hates that cliche. Except, no.. no he doesn’t. Sometimes, he wants to make himself sicker, just so you have reason to touch him.

Reaching up, he feels your calloused palm, the way it cups his jaw, coaxing his face to lift. He thinks, knows, you’re disturbed by the sight. Red-rimmed eyes, and waxen features. Skinnier, hollow. If he is Leander, then he prays you don’t suffer the same fate as Hero.

‘Geniuses are never happy,’ they told him as a child. Detailing the cyanide found in Viktor Meyer’s stomach, Wallace Carother’s affinity for Potassium Cyanide. Hans Berger, Valero Legasov, Alan Turning. Some things hurt more than can be described.

Is it really so startling that he turned out the same? When that’s all he’s ever known?

Spencer stares. He tries to look through you, but it doesn’t work. Not when you’re warm, and real, and if the come down is configuring you into reality, and you’re not really here, then so be it. He’ll take what he can get. “You’ll find Dilaudid in my bathroom. Left turn from the hallway. I suggest you call 911. Report drug possession. They’ll take it more seriously if you say my name, emphasise the doctor in the title.”

“No.”

“Yes—“ indignantly, he huffs, “Yes. You will. Otherwise you’re guilty by association. The FBI will fire you, take away your credentials. You’ll be ruined.”

“That’s if they find out.”

He can’t comprehend why you’re covering for him. There’s decency, empathy, general human kindness, and then there’s this. “You’re supposed to be an upholder of the law.”

“Pft,” you scoff, brush it off. “Yknow, in Alabama, you can’t play cards on a Sunday. Alaska, no moose on sidewalks. There’s also a ban on wearing masks in Georgia. California has—“

“I get your point.” He cuts off, “Well— no, I actually don’t. Considering they’re dumb laws that waste time. Drug paraphernalia, in contrast, is not.”

“Even high, you’re a stickler. Guess old habits die hard?” you push up, and he chases your touch. “C’mon, golden boy. You’re getting a cold shower and some water. Gonna flush that shit out of you the old fashioned way.”

“I wasn’t aware there was a modern alternative…”

He doesn’t let you see him naked. Partially because, it’s his body. This vessel that feels so alienated from the better part of him. He’s never let someone undress him before, see behind the meticulous layers. But, mostly.. well, he has a firm belief that the first time you take off his clothes, it will be in better circumstances. If that ever transpires.

You’d probably think him deranged: hi, i’m saving myself for you, because any touch that isn’t yours makes me sick.

He’d rather rot alone than string someone along who could never fill the void of you.

The shower is methodical. Skin recoiling from the harsh rivulets of water. 3 minutes spent standing there, staring outwards not in. Complete disregard for the mirror, he’s all soft features and freshly-washed pyjamas when he pads into the bedroom. Corduroy pants, thermal-wear socks, some dumb science print embellished onto the front of his shirt. (‘Never trust an atom, they MAKE UP everything’ — yeah, he hates himself.)

You don’t talk. Not until he’s consumed his body weight in water. He fights off the urge to warn you about the dilution of sodium content in blood. Hyponatremia. Fatal, with a likelihood of seizuring and long-flight comatose. You’d probably just laugh at him, considering it was two glasses, a litre at best.

He’ll use his intellect to hurt. And you’ll counter him with little regard.

Even at his ugliest, you still stay.

“I’m fine,” he protests— hating the way you look at him when he’s so raw.

It’s that gaze. That same sinking, pity-warped gaze he received when he talked about his mom, about the kids at school. Adolescent meat-heads who pushed him into lockers, and beat him between class. Its— suffocating sympathy that he no longer has room for.

“No you aren’t,” this might be the worst you’ve ever seen him.

Would you have known? If he didn’t make the call? Cassandra complex. Disambiguating. A psychological phenomenon where an accurate prediction of a crisis is dismissed. Silent concern, the intuitive awareness that he never recovered, it was only going to lead to this—

Oh fuck it. You knew. The entire team did. You’re just the only one who cared enough to help.

You’re not like the rest of them. Maybe they can blanket suspicion, play pretend, refuse to get their hands dirty. But, there’s a reason you’re better. You don’t sugar-coat reality. You act. You react.

He’ll see your name on a wall one day. An award adorning your efforts.

“You’re exhausted, lie down.”

Spencer fights the urge to scowl. Since when were you in charge? Admittedly, he knows the answer to that: since you spitballed into his apartment, better yet, since you spitballed into his life. So, like the good, propitiated loser he is, he complies. Shock horror…

“What are you gonna do? Tuck me in?”

“You wish.” Instead, you force your way onto the right side of the mattress. “Get comfy, you’ve got your own, free of charge, narcotics anonymous sponsor tonight.”

“You’re not great at the whole ‘tough love’ thing.”

“Then call someone else next time.”

Vulnerability feels like being ripped open at the seams. Like some botched Pygmalion creation — stitched wrong, still breathing. He wants to fall asleep, to just… fade into himself. But— you have this uncanny, accursed ability to make him honest.

You, draped over his bed, does little to appease the sickness in his mind.

“I never asked for this,” he starts, “I didn’t— I didn’t even want it. How is that fair? I never got to decide, I wasn’t even given the anatomy to choose. Now—“

The words rip free like Prometheus’ daily punishment: inevitable, agonizing.

He laughs. Cold. Something ugly that doesn’t belong to him. “Now, if I’m not thinking about my next hit, I’m thinking about how you see me. How the team must see me. It’s— it’s the disappointment. I just— I don’t know why you stay.”

It’s all so tentative. The moments before, when you extend your hand, run it across the curvature of his jaw. All it takes is the touch and he’s crashing into you. Like there is no feasible option but to submit to the basic human need of contact. Face pressed into your shoulder, he feels like dead-weight. Something unworthy of labour.

Stop pushing that boulder up the hill, Sisyphus. Let it fall. Let him fall.

His hand knots tighter in the fabric of your top. Like if he lets go, he’ll spiral into Tartarus itself.

Why? Why would you do this—

“You think I’m going to cut and run just because you’re inconvenient? Pft, i’m too stubborn for that. And, well…” there’s a sigh,… “I care about you too much. Alright? So be inconvenient. Fuck, call at 3AM. Call at 5AM. Make me drop everything and come over. I don’t care. I want to carry the burden. I want to carry your burden.”

His touch lingers near your lower back. Drawing soft halos there, faint and uneven. “I hate you,” comes out muttered, something muffled by skin.

“No you don’t.” you counter, immediately.

“No I don’t,” just like that, he breaks. Cease-fire. How could he ever hate you? The statement was deflective, at best. Some way to make you ache the way he aches. At least then it would be a level paying field.

“I hate who I am when I’m like this. I hate— I hate my mind. It’s not… it’s not accurate, the way people romanticise it. I can’t be what they all expect of me.”

You’re doing that thing. The one where you don’t respond. Where you just listen, without interjecting, without cutting through his incessant monologues.

Sometimes, he feels like he dreamed you up. Like you don’t even exist, a stowaway in his brain, something to re-mantle whenever he’s lonely. Real people aren’t this good — this good to him.

“I don’t get to make mistakes. I need to have the answers every single second of the day. I can’t be me. You’re the only one, how are you the only one who notices? I’ve tried so hard, I’ve been so good—“

He’s tangled into you now, tethered like Daedalus’ forgotten son trying to stitch his broken wings back together mid-fall. If he could, he’d crawl into you. Find somewhere warm to safely exist. Without hurt.

“This isn’t just, I’m not like this just because I need you. Please— please remember that. I miss you always, even when I’m sober. Even before— before everything. I’m not in some—“

“What?” you finally (mercifully) interject. “Some drug-infused decline? Where you‘ll lean on anyone that will give you the time of day?”

Spencer flinches — not because you’re wrong, but because you’ve drawn blood from a wound he didn’t know he still had.

He hates that you’ve distinguished him as some mischaracterised energy vampire. Like you could ever be nothing. Like you’re just the closest fix he can find beyond a chemical high. Designer drugs, manufactured in a lab, they say Heroin feels like a hug from God.

Until your body becomes gluttonous for a hit that never appeases.

You— you are not a hollow high. You are slow and real and catastrophic.

Oh, you’re dependable, a want that morphed into all-encompassing devotion over slow dragging time. “Yes, to the former. No— no, definitely no to the latter. You’re not just some emotional crutch to me. You’re, I don’t know, you’re just… everything.”

Spencer swallows, pulls back, feigning composure. “I should be able to do this alone,” he mutters, “Normal people can. I should be—”

“C’mon, Spence. You’re not a machine. You were never built for that.”

Another sharp laugh. It pierces— you can almost taste the blood this time.

“I’m so tired,” he says in defeat. “I’m so tired of trying to be someone worth saving.”

Pressing your forehead to his, you’re kind to not mention the tears. To just let them occur, free fall. “You don’t have to be anything,” you murmur into his hair. “You just have to be. That’s enough. That’s enough for me, and i’ve got you. Okay? I’ve got you. Always.”

“Will you stay with me?” He doesn’t mean tonight, you know that well enough. “Will you stay with me through it all?”

You’re aware of the burden it would imply, the jagged, ugly reality of withdrawal. The toll, sweat-soaked skin and cold fevers. Irrational begging, pleading for god, just one more fix. The way it would change him, change your untainted perspective of him. When you agree, it is not misguided.

You know what you’re signing up for.

“Yeah. I’ll stay. Through it all.”

If this is love, true unvarnished love, reciprocal and real, then he’s sorry he found you at a bad time. Give it, give me, a few months, he thinks, and i’ll spend the rest of my life giving you everything.

[griddlewhentheyhark]

We had a lamb like this when I was growing up, only we had a herding dog instead of a livestock guardian. The lamb's name was Spot. I can't remember why he had to be brought in the house and bottle fed, but he was. At night he had his own little space (a large empty water trough with shavings in the bottom) but during the day he was able to toddle about the house, following my mom like the other dogs did. When he was old enough he was moved back in with the sheep. Our farm was set up so they were in the pasture during the day and brought inside for the night. So the first day, Spot had been outside with the sheep all day and saw the border collie come into the field to bring everyone in and got SO EXCITED, because there have been NO OTHER DOGS around and here is a FELLOW DOG, and he frolicked over to her like YESSS DOG TIME! What are we doing fellow dog? Is there a reason we're out here with these sheep? This confused the fuck out of the poor border collie, as it wasn't how sheep should be acting, but she was a Professional and just did her best to ignore this very enthusiastic young ram running around beside her as she brought the sheep in. This became their daily routine. Did Spot ever become good at herding sheep? Absolutely not. But he was a Dog helping to do Do Dog Things for the sheep he lived with and it seemed to make him happy.

Which, given the previous train of thought, I think makes him Sheep Flash.

Additional Spot Story: So Spot transitioned pretty well to living with the sheep with one exception. There was a soap opera my mom watched every day. Cannot remember which one, only that every day at 1 pm she would go watch it in her room (so no one could disturb her) and all the dogs would pile on the bed with her to watch it. While Spot lived in the house, he was included with the dogs in this activity. And while he accepted he didn't live in the house anymore, he was not willing to give up soap opera time and he knew when soap opera time was. He would break out of the pasture (often in new ways as previous break out points were fixed), run to the front of the house, and kick at the door. Once someone opened the door, he would barrel past them, charge up the stairs, and jump into my mom's bed. This took far longer than you'd think to eventually stop happening

So wait are livestock guardian dogs to their flocks like… Clark Kent among the residents of Smallville? He’s been here since he was a baby, we all know him, and he’s… generally one-of-us shaped, uh, approximately. And then when something goes wrong he suddenly leaps into action and does some terrifying impossible shit none of us could do. And then comes back home and settles in like nothing happened and he’s one of us again.

[gyeomsweetgyeom]

[2:59 pm]

(cw: f!reader, alcohol mentioned but not consumed)

a/n: thoughts on the header??? I need validation or I die like tinkerbell

Could there have been a worse store to experience than a Costco on the weekend in the afternoon? Or really, any time of day. You weren't sure how you'd gotten roped into coming to Costco with your boyfriend, fratboy!Johnny. You'd been given a list to stick to and that would have been easy enough if you hadn't also brought Mark and Haechan along.

It was overwhelming enough to get through the doors, but you were sticking right to Johnny's side. There was no way you were losing hold on him with just how crowded it was.

"Alright, we're sticking to the list. Everybody stay close and nothing that's not on the list, got it you two?" Johnny states with a pointed look thrown in Mark and Haechan's direction.

"Fine," they groan in unison as you all make your way down the aisles.

Johnny thankfully keeps a tight hold on your hand, refusing to lose you to the Saturday Costco madness. It's a reassuring hold that helps you stay calm and keeps your anxiety at bay.

The cart starts to fill up soon enough, cleaning products, light bulbs, batteries- "yooooo! Bro, this big ass bottle of vodka is only 15 bucks!"

"We're not getting that Mark, put it back," you sigh, grabbing a few bunches of bananas to set in the cart.

"No, but if you do the math, it's only..." Haechan adds, resting his finger on his chin while he tries to do the math, "whatever, it's cheap!"

Johnny exits the refrigerated section with his arms full of different products. Do his arms always look this good at Costco? You may have to come with him more often.

He doesn't seem to notice your lingering gaze, "we have a list to stick to and alcohol isn't on the list. I say no and Bee says no, so but put it back."

Moving your way through the store, the cart fills up steadily. Finally, you make your way to the opposite side of the store where you can top up the cart with frozen goods and snacks. Johnny tosses a few boxes of ice cream bars, a few bags of frozen chicken, a few bags of coffee among other items that join the mass.

You sigh as you attempt to rearrange the nearly overflowing cart, "I think we should have gotten two carts."

"I'll go get one, Honeybee. Stay right here, alright?" Johnny offers with a soft smile, "Mark and Haechan can stay with you."

You pull a bag of mini chocolate bars out with your brows furrowed with confusion as you set the bag back on one of the shelves, "Mark and Haechan haven't been with us for almost 15 minutes now, lovie."

"They haven't?" Johnny asks with raised brows.

You laugh softly, "yeah, my love. They ran off right after you got the coffee."

"Mother-" Johnny growls, as he pulls out his phone and taps angrily. "Listen here, little shit, we're not here so you can play around. Both of you go get us another cart from outside and meet us in one of the aisles near the pharmacy."

You can barely make out Mark arguing through the speaker, before Johnny cuts him off, "but nothing Mark. You don't listen and now you need to make it up. You guys have four minutes to get back to us or I'm making both of you walk back."

"Be careful!" You call out, leaning up on your toes to be closer to the speaker.

Johnny sighs, tugging you into his arms. He rubs one hand down your back while the other pinches the bridge of his nose, "they stress me the hell out."

"Tell me about it," you laugh, placing a kiss on the left side of the worn t-shirt that covers his chest.

It's only an aisle later and three minutes later when there's a ruckus not too far away. When you look up, you feel like you should be surprised to two guys running toward you, but you don't. Your cheeks heat with embarrassment from everyone looking in your direction as Mark and Haechan come to a stop in front of you and Johnny.

"How long did we take?" Mark pants.

Johnny roughly grabs the cart and tugs it toward you with glare sent in their direction. Haechan smiles brightly, "yeah, what was our time?"

"I wasn't actually timing you idiots!" Johnny scoffs as he transfers some of the items into the empty cart.

"Dude! You suck," Mark groans, "yo, we still get pizza after this right?"

[peachesvault]

Coffee with an old friend

Retired!Dad!Bakugou meets up for coffee with his middle school self

A/n: Currently in a writers block so just wrote this based off the trend bcs it’s cute so def not proofread or good quality!

Bakugou Katsuki was catching up with an old friend over coffee. His younger self. He came in a couple minutes early dressed in comfortable sweats and oversized shirt. Choosing a seat by a sunny window, he calmly ordered a mocha, and a brownie, letting himself indulge in sweets; something he never used to do. Calmly sipping at his coffee, he didn’t startle when the cafe door opened with a large bang at exactly 3 on the dot, although everybody else in the room did. He already knew who it was. Younger Katsuki strolled over annoyed in his middle school uniform, sitting down opposite him with a menacing glare.

“Couldn’t have chosen somewhere less fucking bright? There’s a perfectly good seat over there.” He complained pointing at a table hidden in the dark corner of the room.

It was funny, Katsuki often beat himself up over how shitty he used to act during high school, but facing his actual younger self, having the opportunity to beat him up, to teach him a lesson, he truly felt nothing but pity. Pity for the people he affected but also pity for younger himself, for being so weak that he used to think it could be covered up. Taking another sip of his mocha, he couldn’t help the way his lips quirked; it was ironic. Pitying the one person who hated pity more than anything: himself. Or what used to be him.

The boy across the table grit his teeth, snapping at a waiter and ordering a straight black.

Katsukis lips quirked again, although in more of a grimace. He remembered the UA days where he would only drink straight black. It was vile really, he didn’t know why he ever did that. Well, he didn’t know why he ever did anything… like the appalling lack of manners.

He could see the judgement in his younger selfs eyes at his choice in drink and food. He ignored it.

“How’ve you been?” He asked, already knowing. How wouldn’t he? He’d already lived through middle school.

It seems his younger self also did, giving him a nasty side eye.

“You should know.”

The silence followed uncomfortably, as Katsuki chuckled to himself.

“I See—“

“So are we the no. 1 hero?” He was cut off by the other.

Taking another long sip of his mocha, Katsuki pondered how to respond. He wasn’t afraid of the reaction, he had peace with himself and some teenage kid wouldn’t change that, even if the kid was him. But the curiosity prickled under his skin, he hadn’t had this conversation before, he didn’t know how his younger opposite would react. He smirked. Curiosity killed the cat didnt it?

“No.”

And satisfaction brought it back. The spluttered outrage, the slam of the hand on the table, the pure unbridled anger. The way his face went red, brows furrowed, the immediate standing in an effort to intimidate. All so predictable.

“THE FUCK-“

The dangerous glint in Katsukis eye silenced him. He may have changed, but he could still hold his own against his fucking teenage self, he was still Dynamight after all.

“Sit.”

He listened. A pleasant surprise.

“Why?”

Such a simple question. Why? Why had he given up on the dreams he had since he was a toddler? Why was he so calm with it, so at peace? Why did he seem to not care that he had thrown everything he worked so hard for away?

He quirked a brow at the younger boy, maybe to tease, maybe to mock, but deep down to see the fight, when he still had any left.

“Why aren’t you first? Are you Atleast second?”

A dry chuckle. Then another.

“I’m not a hero altogether.”

The reaction this time was even worse. Predictable.

The kids knuckles went white, threatening to break the mug he was gripping. He was vibrating and seething from pure rage, indescribably livid. It was a short miracle he hadn’t yet blown this whole building to the ground.

Katsuki reached over, gently unfurling the boys fingers from around the mug, not unlike how he did with his own kids. He couldn’t help the pity simmer at his startled expression, The older knew better than anyone he had never been comforted with a gentle touch and allowed to have emotions (cough Mitsuki) without being shamed for it; well not until you, resulting in the constant anger. The quiet demeanour of the younger was a total 180.

He still hated his past self, but as he squeezed his hand, he realised that this kid, just happened to be unfortunately raised. Yet he was grateful that was the worst he had faced yet.

He got up, going around to sit next to the kid.

Murmured about the future, bout the love of his life, his friends, how he retired, leaving out that it was because the war fucked him up, because he found no worth in being a hero. Everything but the war, the kid didn’t have to worry about it.

“What about shitty deku?”

That snapped Katsuki out of the rose tinted glasses. A bad person was still a bad person and a conversation wouldn’t change that.

Katsuki finished off his mocha. Placing it down and standing up.

“Izuku is my friend.” The kids jaw dropped.

“And you’re a piece of shit” Katsuki murmured to him.

“And that’s coming from yourself.”

It was harsh. He knew that. But the kid needed to realise he was in the wrong, that even his own future self didn’t agree with him.

But he was still that; a kid.

Ruffling his hair Katsuki paid for both the drinks and started walking away.

The boy would learn when the time was right.

© 2025 @Peachesvault - All rights reserved. Do not plagiarise/copy/post on other platforms. || Masterlist

[houseofstarlight]

he has no time for pointless conversation. most of the time when his teammates are bickering, he’s off to the side. he’ll busy himself with his own business, taking off his gear in silence. sometimes he’ll slide an earbud in to play music, and he won’t hide the movement. sometimes he’ll actually get up and leave halfway through a conversation, because he has better things to do. he doesn’t have the energy to engage in boring talks, so he’s tapping out of them. it doesn’t even occur to him that others may find it rude. he’s not interested in the conversation, so why should he stay?

but you’re different. no matter what you talk about, no matter how long you’re there ranting to him, he’s listening. he won’t say anything, or offer any words of comfort, because he’s not really good at that. but if you look up at him at any point during your rant, you’ll find that he’s already looking at you. watching. paying close attention, afraid he’ll miss even the smallest detail of your story.

at one point, early on in your relationship, you worried that your talking annoyed him. you always made a point to tell him about your day, and ask about his; but he doesn’t like to talk, so you always feared that your words were an unwelcome disruption to his silence.

one day, you started telling him about a fight a couple of your coworkers had at work. halfway through you hesitated, before stopping. that was when you looked up at him. he was already looking, eyes wide in a state of innocent focus.

he shifted closer. softly, but firmly; a sentence that broke down the wall between you: “please keep going. i like listening to you talk.”

aone takanobu, kageyama tobio, kozume kenma, sakusa kiyoomi, suna rintarou, tsukishima kei, ushijima wakatoshi

divider credit to @enchanthings-a