#she can pack a punch and the two have a really terrible rivalry which is really funny

[lukasdoodles]

Misc doodles ft Disco, Aran, and Hondo as well as my gal Kaori hehe

[yinses]

relationship headcanons

gojo satoru x instructor!reader

rating: t

a/n: we all obsess over gojo, now it’s time for him to simp over you

— you’re a teacher over at the sister school and have been rivals with gojo since before your own graduation. you’ve come close but have never bested him, so you’ve put all your frustration into raising the next generation of sorcerers to be stronger than his class ( and ofc to take out curses)

it’s all seriousness for you but fun and games for gojo. not everyone simps for him, believe it or not. the man is challenged on the daily but it’s less of an annoyance when it’s you. maybe because you don’t call him out for it. there is no boisterous demand for a showdown or obsessive rivalry. you bide your time and out your efforts into your students where it matters the most.

he can tell you want to make a bigger point. that the entire jujusu kaisen institution doesn’t need to rely on him to solve their problems. you truly believe that you can bring stronger comrades to the table. the goal of besting him was just a side objective

— you’re attractive. he’s attractive. there is no denying it. maybe under different circumstances he might have already taken you to bed by now but the chase is more thrilling. he’s known you for over a decade now but he doesn’t know the intimacies of your past. it’s a gamble how many people you’ve dated or what your experiences are like, but he does know he definitely has a chance.

the sexual tension is always there. more prominent for gojo because honestly he finds you determination so fucking sexy. the man is dominant but to be pinned down by your thighs ascends him. he has your number and is never not in your inbox. you rarely respond but he knows you read them, especially since he squeezes little updates about his class progress in between romantic poem quotes and blasts from the past.

you never answer his facetime calls but occasionally you’ll indulge a regular call, if only to voice appease him enough to stop him from filling your voicemail box. as you’re preparing dinner in your kitchen, he’s going on and on about little things that shouldn’t matter. but he doesn’t really have anyone else and it shows.

the man is an open book. confessing sprinkles of his frustrations around jesting stories about his cute little students and the bakery he now coined his favorite just two kilometers from his house.

sometimes he reminisces about school. about how visiting the sister school to see you was his favorite part of the semester. but he also delves into his own small class and how he misses the shenanigans the use to raise yaga’s blood pressure frequently. sure shoko is still here but geto- fuck, the guilt cracks in his voice. you don’t say anything still, what could you anyway to a man you shouldn’t adore baring his soul to you? but before a decision can come to head he’s swapped back to his usual self.

‘so that bakery has this delicious tiramisu. why don’t you let me eat it off of you one of these days? i love dessert in bed.’

across the city, gojo smiles so hard his cheeks sting when you hang up on him, shoulders more at ease than they’ve been in days.

— he never shows up for his meetings with yaga, god forbid there be a special invite from the croaking old bastard. but fuck- if you’re there? the man is on time just so he can secure a seat next to you.

you know this guy manspreads. thighs wide enough to align them with yours. you’re not jumpy, reading easily between the lines as you give him a curt glance from the corner of your eye. it’s a useless scold, because you only recieve a cocky grin.

god and does it egg him on. this man feeds on crumbs of your attention. his arm lounging comfortably along the back of the couch, fingertips dancing along the edge of your shoulder and tickling the collar of your neck.

it’s the fact that you’re consensual to it all that keeps him going. sure you bite back and huff with your cute little irritated pout- but you never say no. and that’s all the fuel he needs.

he can hear everyone just fine- like they’re sitting right there. but catch him leaning close, shoulders knocking together while he whispers in your ear. he’ll ask you to repeat things he definitely did not miss. ask you to explain things he obviously comprehends. you roll your eyes but coddle him anyway if only to cure your own boredom.

bonus: off to the side, miwa watches the two adults conspiring, foreheads just a breath away from tapping. she’s rooting for gojo if only for the benefit of seeing him around more. she’s been wanting to ask you to invite gojo-sensei to guest speak for months.

— fighting with you is basically foreplay. he’s never been so intimate with his infinity, absorbing every punch and jab. not enough to hurt terribly , but it’s physical contact from you and he won’t pass it up.

he’s supposed to be showing off for his students. itadori, his biggest fan, front and center as his own personal cheering squad. he can beat you but not demolish. you actually bring a challenge, which is why the two of you are often a treat at the exchange event.

gojo wants nothing more than to pin you down when the two of you grapple close for comfort. he knows he can get away with a nice hard grind or two, even thinks you’ll let him.

but his inner thoughts are his own downfall when you manage to get on top instead. not that he’s complaining. his infinity is strapped tight to his body, just barely keeping you at bay as you try to force your limbs to keep him in place.

this is bad. so bad because you’re leaning close- the hair from your sloppy bun whispering at his cheek. and your face is right there, near enough that he could flinch and you would be touching.

it’s entirely too intimate for a fight between instructors at a public event but damn he’s willing to let his guard down. besides what the fuck is he supposed to do when he can feel your mouth moving against the barrier.

‘is this how our first kiss is going to be? just you, me and the infinity?’

jesus fucking christ if you thought he was strong enough for that. it may as well be ‘pass go’ for gojo. because one second you’re held up by the invisible void and the next you’re tasting something sweet.

he’d just eaten a pack of chocolate covered cherries.

[qqueenofhades]

So like. What if there were a fic of Ivan and Fedyor falling in love? Just saying. Someone could write that...(and could that someone be you?!)

Fedyor Kaminsky is brought to the Little Palace when he is nine years old. Before that, he has lived his whole life in the place he was born: a small village about twenty miles southeast of Kribirsk. It is just close enough for him to be constantly aware of the Shadow Fold, looming like a thunderstorm on a hot summer day, and to know, also, the honor that it is when the examiners arrive, he receives a sharp prick in the arm, some sort of strange result takes place, and he is formally declared to be Grisha. His parents know it too, and are eager to tell him of it. They are not well off, and Fedyor is the sixth of seven children. The payment for their patriotic service will be welcome, and while his mother hugs him tightly and tells him to make the Saints proud, he feels, somehow, that they are not that grieved to see the back of him. He is the only child from his village that has been picked, and they all assemble to see him off. Just think. One of their own, in the Second Army.

Fedyor cries himself to sleep his first night in the dormitories, as most of the children do. But he wakes fully rested, hungry for breakfast, and eager to throw himself into his new life. He has a sunny temperament, a personable nature, that serves him well here, and any talented Grisha can climb high in the ranks, almost as high as the Black General himself. Back home, what did he have to look forward to, aside from the taunts and punches of his brothers, who always saw him as more like one of their sisters than one of them? He is learning things here. Religion and medicine and geography and history. And, of course, the arcane art of the Small Science, the one thing that binds these young people from all across Ravka. Their power, their responsibility, and their upcoming effort in the endless wars.

His first few years pass rather well, all things considered. When he is thirteen, it is officially declared that he will be taken onto the Order of Corporalniks, and – somewhat to everyone’s surprise, including his – he is best suited not as a Healer, but a Heartrender. It turns out that unassuming, smiling, friendly Fedyor, who knows everyone’s name and is always given an indulgent second portion of dessert from the doting canteen ladies, packs quite a punch.

It’s here where he first puts Ivan Sakharov on his back, and his whole life changes.

Fedyor and Ivan have known of each other, ever since they arrived in the same class of recruits. Ivan is a tough, taciturn northern boy from Chernast, skinny and scowling and always displeased about something, no matter what. Fedyor once saw him brood through the whole Winter Fete, and he has taken it as a professional challenge to get Ivan to smile. Once Fedyor plays a practical joke on him, to the awe of the entire dormitory, who would not dare to even imagine such things themselves. Ivan scowls at him like the Black Heretic himself, and stomps off to have his important life problems somewhere else. But now they’re both thirteen, Ivan is shooting up like a weed and channeling all that pent-up resentment into some really effective Heartrending, and Fedyor is regretting all his previous liberties. As they face each other and bow, thus to commence the duel on Botkin’s word, he thinks, Please don’t kill me. Please don’t kill me.

Then he remembers that he’s the same Order, he has the same red kefta awaiting him when he finishes his trials, that he has as much right to be here as some tight-arse bastard from the frozen northern wastes, and that is why, thirty seconds after the duel has begun, Ivan is flat on his back and looking astonished. Everyone is applauding, and Fedyor feels somewhat confused. He strides over to his fallen adversary and offers him a hand. “Good job.”

Ivan glares at him, exquisitely sensitive to the possibility that he’s being mocked. “You’ll regret this, Kaminsky,” he says, low-voiced. “Mark my words.”

After that, for several months, Fedyor lives in terror of going anywhere in the Little Palace alone, lest Ivan suddenly leap out from behind a shrubbery and murder him. He and Ivan spar in their classes, in practice, in trying to outdo each other in Baghra’s ridiculous lessons, throwing all their effort into the sort of stupid, pointless rivalry that can only be maintained by teenage boys with too much pride and too little sense. They start to look for each other wherever they go, waste no opportunity to glare heatedly, and they are sixteen years old when Fedyor notices to his extreme vexation that during all this time spent staring at him until he has memorized his face, Ivan has gotten a little… handsome.

(What? No? Ivan? Horrifying.)

Fedyor himself isn’t exactly cursed in the face department, once a persistent bout of acne clears up. With his wavy hair, dark eyes, and easy smile, he provokes his fair share of sighs and pining among the female Corporalniks, but he is oddly uninterested in reciprocating their advances. Then he and Ivan get paired together on some training exercise that goes horribly wrong, they are trapped in the woods for hours until someone comes to find them, and with nothing else to do, they are forced to actually talk. Ivan has that northern chip on his shoulder that they all seem to, and probably started fighting Fjerdans when he was two years old, but what he says next takes Fedyor completely aback. “You’re… not that bad,” he says grudgingly. “You’re the only one who’s brave enough to actually talk to me, not just tiptoe like a mouse.”

“Well.” Fedyor throws a stick of wood at him. “Have you considered being less of a total grouch all the time?”

Ivan scoffs, lunges at him, and they end up wrestling in the leaf mold, an exercise that both of them enjoy a bit too much and take extreme care that the other not notice. By the time the search party from the Little Palace comes to retrieve them, they have forgotten all about being lost. In fact, as they were lying on the ground together, tangled up and panting and staring at the stars, Fedyor had the strangest thought that it was the best night of his life, and he doesn’t have a clue what he should make of that.

After that, an even stranger thing happens: they become friends. Well, sort of. Ivan maintains his default posture of appearing to hate everything and everyone, but Fedyor is the only person he tolerates, or allows to yank his chain in any way. And in turn, though Ivan Sakharov is the last person who would seem to need any kind of protection, the favor is returned. Once, when a city boy from Os Alta starts going on about how savage northerners are, staring pointedly at Ivan the whole time, Fedyor launches him halfway across the room. He gets in trouble, but it’s worth it. And they do undoubtedly work better together, Fedyor fighting right-handed and Ivan fighting left. They cover each other’s weak sides, learn to anticipate each other’s moves, and…

It’s a deeply inconvenient fact of life that when you are a Heartrender, and are exquisitely sensitive to pulse rates, you notice when yours starts going consistently haywire around certain people. Especially when, the year they turn eighteen, they are assigned to room together. The Little Palace is spacious, but not enough for every Grisha to have his or her own room, and since they’re no longer children, they’re not expected to share with the entire class. So Fedyor and Ivan end up in a garret room of their very own, and it is here, to his extreme consternation, that the next phase of Fedyor’s torment re: Ivan begins.

It is difficult to share a small room with Ivan and not want to look at him, and unless he is much mistaken, Ivan always seems to be concentrating a little too hard on his books whenever Fedyor is changing clothes. Fedyor is self-aware enough by this point to know that he prefers men, but he has absolutely no idea as to Ivan. Do they do this sort of thing in Chernast, or does it distract from arm-wrestling bears and shooting drüskelle? Ivan is so constantly unwilling to admit any kind of weakness or effeminacy that Fedyor figures gloomily he’s just doomed to suffer in silence. Naturally.

Except then both of them start rejecting any other romantic overtures, and they even go to the Summer Fete dance together, and Fedyor is taken aback when Zoya Nazyalensky asks bluntly the next day, “So, you and Ivan? Really?”

“What?” Fedyor is aware that Zoya and Ivan cordially hate each other, though she and Fedyor have always gotten on. “We’re not – Zoya, it’s not like that!”

He pauses.

“At least,” he adds guiltily. “It’s not like that as far as we’ve said?”

Zoya gives him a look silently agreeing that for the sake of their friendship, they will never mention Fedyor’s terrible taste in men again, though that doesn’t mean she has to like it. As for her, she’s pining after Kirigan, as almost all Grisha do at some point. Fedyor did so himself – the Black General is gorgeous, all right, shoot him – but he cares about nothing except finding the mythical Sun Summoner and engaging in a busy schedule of brooding even more intense than Ivan’s. Ivan, for that matter, seems to have struck it off with him, as Kirigan always values talent, and Fedyor has to fight down an unbecoming surge of jealousy. It’s not like they’re something. Not really.

(Though not for lack of wanting.)

After that, an even stranger thing happens, which is that people start assuming that Fedyor and Ivan are, in fact, a couple. Fedyor gets asked how his boyfriend is doing (sometimes sardonically, sometimes in a tone that turns genuinely surprised when he hastens to correct them) and he minds it less and less. Of course, for his part, Ivan is utterly oblivious. They’re sitting in a sunny hallway one day, Ivan tolerantly letting Fedyor play with his hair (though he keeps it military-short and it’s not like there’s that much of it) when Genya Safin walks by, glances at them archly, and says, “You know, Ivan, you’re much nicer now that you’re going out with him.”

Ivan turns such a deep shade of purple that Fedyor’s afraid he’s going to blow a gasket. “What?!” he splutters. “We are not – we are not – we are not going out! Never! I don’t – what are you talking – I don’t even like him!”

Fedyor’s lip quivers, despite himself. “Come on,” he says, failing to make it entirely lighthearted, wounded deeper than he wants to admit. “You don’t mean that, right?”

Ivan turns to him, flustered. “No,” he says convulsively. “Don’t look sad. Don’t look at me like that. Shh. Of course I like you.”

Fedyor brightens.

Genya gives them an obnoxiously knowing look and walks away.

By now, they’re twenty-one, old enough to be properly deployed as soldiers to the front, and Fedyor can’t help but thinking about where Ivan is, what he’s doing, if he’s all right, whenever they’re apart. He doesn’t like it, it feels wrong and unnatural, they always did better side by side anyway. Finally, they both get back to the Little Palace after a grueling campaign of many months away, Ivan against the Fjerdans and Fedyor against the Shu Han. They see each other, and it’s like lightning, rooting them to the ground. They’re dusty, dirty, banged up, bruised and bloody, but they know as a simple truth, beyond any doubt or questioning, that Fedyor will be coming to Ivan’s room tonight, and that Ivan will sit up and wait for him.

And that, therefore, is what happens. Fedyor can barely concentrate on washing up and fetching supper because he is so fixated on the knowledge of what’s coming later. He goes through the motions, barely hears his friends, barely tastes what he’s eating. He scarcely manages to wait until it’s dark. Then he gets up, slips through the corridors – they no longer bunk together, but he knows the way – and reaches the door. Fights a final attack of nerves, about how long he’s been waiting and how it might go wrong – then knocks.

“It’s open,” Ivan calls from inside, his voice dark with wanting. Of course it is.

Fedyor steps inside, and looks at him. After all this time, it feels like he should make a speech, have something more grand to say, or perhaps even an I-told-you-so. He doesn’t get around to any of that. He can’t stand it. Instead he shucks his kefta in a quick, practiced movement. Runs across the room, and climbs, claws, into Ivan’s arms.

Their kiss is rough and wet and wild, mouths open, teeth dragging, tongues scraping, trying to get as close as they possibly can, and then closer. Ivan’s hands, deft and eager, rough with calluses, spread across Fedyor’s arms and shoulders, the neat muscled column of his torso. “You should have let me do that,” he scolds between kisses, evidently referring to the business of undressing Fedyor. “I’ve been waiting long enough.”

“You’ve been waiting long enough – ?!” Fedyor Kaminsky really does love this man, but Saints help him, he is dense. “You could have said something!”

Ivan looks at him with pure wickedness in his eyes. “I thought I just did.”

Fedyor groans, grabs Ivan’s head to kiss him again, and they roll down onto the covers together, tearing at the remaining clothes in their way. It’s raw and agonized and real, this coming together, this needing, this consummation and completion, and afterward, as Fedyor lies gasping on Ivan’s chest and Ivan sleepily strokes his hair with a tenderness that seems totally inconceivable to anyone who has met him at literally any other moment, Fedyor knows, in some way, he will never truly leave this room again. That he’s here. Home.

(Later, Fedyor finds out that Ivan actually asked his boss for help with his romantic quandary, and Kirigan’s advice was evidently so terrible that Ivan decided to just give up and go for it with Fedyor rather than trying that again. Even if Aleksander Kirigan is the Black General, the Shadow Summoner, the most powerful Grisha in the world, Ivan does not intend to let him forget it. They are all fortunate that Aleksander thinks it’s funny.)

[armybratjames]

• James Murphy  • Rudy Pankow  • 22  • Kingscrest Knight  • works at Buck’s Cinema  • heterosexual/heteromantic  •  Birthday: August 10 •

tw: parental death, alcohol abuse, abuse

Then:

Until he was thirteen, the most James ever heard from his father was the occasional post card, and his yearly Christmas visits. Jim grew up near Newry in Ireland, in County Armagh with his mum. He understood that his father had to travel a lot for work, as he was an American soldier, but in the still moments that he was alone, James couldn’t help feel the abandonment. He threw himself into sports to avoid the silence; any time of day he could be found playing footie with his friends, sparring with sticks as swords, or playing rugby on the school pitch. But at thirteen, his mum fell sick, and the two of them moved to Kauai where his father was stationed. There was a whole other sense of loss at that, leaving behind his home and friends, and James took up surfing. He became a regular beach bum, and spent most of his days by the shore. He lived and would die for his friends, which often got him in trouble at home, and with local authority. 

One night, while at a party, James got the phone call that his mom had gone into the hospital. By the time he found a friend that was sober enough to drive him there, it was too late. He arrived at the waiting room to find his father crumpled forward in a chair. James was seventeen at the time. He and his dad brought Brigid’s ashes back to Ireland so she could be buried in the family plot, and while he was there, James decided that he wanted to stay. He told his father after the wake, but Rodney wouldn’t have it. It was during this argument that his father informed him that he’d been stationed in Colorado, and that he’d have to start all over again. Determined to stay with his aunt in Armagh, Jamie packed his rucksack with the few outfits he had brought, and headed out to leave. This was the first time his dad struck him, and would be far from the last. 

When he first arrived in Kingscrest, James was determined to hate it. He kept mostly to himself, rejecting any attempts at friendship from his peers. He wasn’t planning on being there long anyway, why get close to anyone?; he’d leave in a year and never look back. 

It wasn’t until his gym teacher heard of his surfing past, and encouraged James to take up snowboarding that changed things. When Murphy fell in love with that, and revealed that he actually quite missed sports in general, his gym teacher suggested he try out for one of the school teams. After forming friendships with his teammates, and found an outlet for his pent up anger and angst, the grand ideas of leaving town after he turned eighteen all but melted away. 

Now:

James still lives at home despite his father’s explosive temper. Ever since his dad retired, every night that Jamie is at home tends to end up in a fist fight with a drunken version of his father. Generally, instead of being home while his dad is conscious, James spends most of his time in the town and with friends. He doesn’t really understand the whole rivalry between the Knights and the Swans, other than the mild annoyance they can cause when his team wants to use the rink, and is usually good natured around them, other than the occasional teasing. 

Headcanons:

his accent gets heavier when he’s flirting with a girl he fancies

does long stand up comedy from memory

won’t really fight for himself, but if anyone messes with his friends, he’s the first one to throw a punch

likes to sit around in West Vale and speculate to himself about the tourists walking by 

wants very badly to move out of his house, but worries his dad will drink himself to death if he does

will do anything anyone says if they dare him to

never makes his bed/room is a mess of clothes, sports equipment, and comics

terrible at math, and always, always uses a calculator when checking people out at the cinema

doesn’t talk about home life, or about how his mother died. very reserved in that sense; doesn’t open up about anything too much

pushes feelings down and deflects, often throwing himself into snowboarding or hockey practice to block out thoughts

jumps before looking type

thinks he’s an amazing cook, but basically only knows how to make pasta and grill burger

can drink anyone under the table (he told me to add that but idk if that’s true or if he’s just trying to show off)

more to come...

Personality:

+ kind, dedicated, humorous, creative

- careless, hot tempered, self deprecating

ooc:

hi! i’m mary and i don’t know what i’m doing 92% of the time!! 

‘fun’ facts:

i have a lot of family in ireland and basically put that into james’ character bc i miss them and want to go back nearly every day

i have a mustachioed cat that i probably could not live without

tumblr roleplaying is where i met my very best friend in the world and will fight anyone that says online friendships aren’t real

all of my characters share my birthday which is super cool of them bc i have a terrible memory

i know next to nil about hockey but tg for google, right?

peter pan is my favorite story although he is not my favorite character (is he really anyone’s?)

i’m a christian and i gotta tell ya: canon jesus is better than fanon jesus

i love hiking, disney movie maratons, wine, drawing, and hoodies

i nanny for a family with six kids, so i can be a bit scatterbrained pls don’t hate me for it

i almost added three separate bullet points: one for movies, one for shows, and one for musical artists that i like but this is all extra enough 

[gotatext]

by this point im p sure u all know the drill.... i’m nora, 23, she/her, gmt and tonight matthew im going to be greta o’driscoll, a terrible person but a hot one which frankly makes it almost ok. here is her pinterest..... this intro is literally just copied n pasted frm the last time i played her so soz if u’ve read it like 10+ times.... 

「 diana silvers. cis-female. 」have you seen greta o’driscoll around yet? i hear she decided to be in POTENTAS for their SOPHOMORE year as a CRIMINAL PSYCHOLOGY major. the 20 year old SHEPHERD is known to be tenacious, magnetic, capricious and evasive. ➨ the muse is written by nora, she/her, gmt.

was adopted as an infant. had two foster moms and two older sisters so always surrounded by women. lived in a boarding house, very much like the one in 20th century women, with lodgers coming in and out all the time, mostly artsy young women because her gay moms were both high school teachers trying to set up their own arts collective. one of her moms left when she was 4, n she doesn’t really remember her.

while living with entirely women made her super into catlin moran and the guilty feminist, as a teenager she often let boys walk all over her bc she just craved male attention jst bcos she’d never really experienced it. saw it as something aspirational, like sitting in the back of chad’s second-hand truck while he drove you to macdonalds and offered you and his five friends with identical haircuts weed was the height of being cool to greta, she wanted to be their dream girl, even if it meant compromising her beliefs

was always a really sporty bitch. it started with a junior athletics squad, which turned into athletics and cheer, which then became athletics, cheer and hockey until she basically was doing a different activity every night. she came to see her body as a tool that she could make work for her if she trained it up and this attitude’s always kind of stayed with her that as long as her body is strong she is capable of anything. runs every day. 

bubbly bitch but also massive snake. metaphorically and literally, always shedding her skin. loyal to few, ruled by none, out for herself, babey!! every place she goes, she becomes a new character, someone who’s a figment of her imagination, as if each city is repertory theatre and she’s a character actress, so as a result som ppl think she’s called rita, some ppl know her as margot, she just flicks through identities like nobodies business.

left school at 18 n went backpacking around the states making money in the casinos by being a shot girl (yeehaw) and trying to make it as a mysterious 1920s widow with a smoky voice, a dark secret n a heart of gold, looking for love in the big city. all she found was producers and acting agents who’d promise her stardom n actually just fuck her in a motel n then ignore her calls.

TW domestic violence, TW gun, her watershed moment came when she met luke in sioux falls while she was working at a strip club. he was a few years older and had a car, and they kind of went from seeing each other to being that super intense couple who are just necking all the time.

they got engaged like 3 months after they met n rented a flat together, much to her family’s annoyance but she was 19 so there wasn’t much they could do. their relationship was super super intense though, often really heightened and when they fought it could become quite violent, but she’d pass it off as just him being really passionate.

one of their fights got really heated and greta threatened him with the gun he kept in the glove box of his vauxhall corsa, but the safety was off and she accidentally shot him. she pleaded self defence in the trial n cos of the amount of times she’d been hospitalised for various concussions n things like ‘fallling down the stairs’ the police were like yea… pretty watertight evidence that he was a bastard who [chicago voice] had it coming….. 

she’s now under witness protection, rehoused in livingstone as a sports-scholarship student, due to the amount of police involvement in the area, it would mean should one of luke’s family members try to track her down, she’d be relatively safe

massive sports fanatic. plays tennis. on the cheer team. was a track superstar in her high school. honestly just that sporty bitch, you’ll see her doing lines at a party at half four and then on your way to your 9am lecture you see her running across the park like a fresh fucking daisy who is this bitch. maybe it’s maybelline, maybe its coke.

massive feminist. low key quite scared of powerful men bcos of her ex. wants to start a female only lesbian commune bc she misses her childhood in a south dakota boarding house and has endless support for women. honestly annoyed that she is attracted to men, would so be 100% gay if it was a choice. cuffs her jeans and can’t drive. is That bisexual. skateboards. wears backwards caps.  i hate her 

isn’t a foward-planner, however. greta prefers to leave her options open, play the field, live in a spontaneous manners so her study style is mostly cramming a few days before a test, or staying up all night writing an essay on a massive adrenline boost powered by red bull or probably adderall, scribbling (or typing) furiously into the night.

has an addictive personality. seems unable to do anything in a small dose, she has to let it utterly consume her. with sports, she’s fiercely competitive. with alcohol, it’s never a shot, it’s a whole bottle – wine or whiskey – she’ll be table dancing before the night’s up and making out with someone she’ll regret in the morning. 

not afraid to go after what she wants !! ambitious academically and romantically thirsty !! she loves the adrenaline of the chase. when someone’s easy to get, she becomes bored. very bisexual and very proud of it. feminist as fuck nd part of a queer representation in the arts group which holds fortnightly meetings to discuss lgbt representation in film, literature, art etc.

old soul in a young person’s body. all the shit that has gone on has kind of aged her. she’s quite cynical about everything now. always smoking smoking smoking. very edie sedgwick in that way.  little girls skirts bought for next-to-nothing at the market because she’s skinny enough to get away with it, barely long enough to cover your bum, and then the ugliest baggy sweater you’ve ever seen thrown over it.

likes old things. old books, old music, old houses, it reminds her of happier times like when she wasn’t alive. buys all her music on vinyl and has a gramphone because “The Sound quality is Better” kfdsjj.

super into pop art and andy warhol. puts female friendships above everything but at the same time, would fuck her best friends man

her clothing style is like…. vintage thrift store but make it preppy. berets and cute hats, neck scarves, large fluffy cardigans or like those leathery jackets with big suede fringes on them, mini skirts (very 70s), and knee high socks or boots. quite often she’ll be in sports kit, maybe a cute tennis skirt, n when she’s feeling casual she’ll wear like, a talking heads tshirt with a pair of mom jeans and converse, but otherwise, the library is her catwalk.

aesthetics:

a bubble of pink gum on chapped lips, mom jeans, a beaten up pair of adidas, denim jackets, strawberry laces, knee-highs, chapped lips, peeling sticky plasters, split knuckles, bruises you try to cover with concealer, stick and poke tattoos, hot coffee, sleep caught in your eyes on a lazy afternoon, kissing girls, cigarette smoke shrouding you like a veil, alien conspiracy theories and sci-fi paperbacks, doc martens with fraying laces, the red string of a thong peaking out purposely from jeans, leonine arch of your back and that stellar smile that says ‘you have no idea who you’re dealing with’, a rucksack permanently packed for the move, a streak of red across your lips, roller blades, cut knees, not eating your greens, smiling with a mouthful of blood, and piercing your own ears with a safety pin when your mom wouldn’t take you, kate moss posters lining the walls of a teenage bedroom, his name scrawled in rage across the pages of a diary, thumb holes poked through the cuffs of your sleeves, a tennis racket you punched through in a fit of temper, feet pounding the earth until your soles bleed crimson, sleeping in a cherry lip balm and scrunchies to keep the wild locks from your eyes.

wanted plots

frinds !! unlikely friends !! toxic friends !! former best friends separated by sports rivalries ! sporting friends who are on other teams but who she absolutely loves playin against!!! 

since greta literally can’t differentiate between romantic and platonic love, she’s got off with so many of her mates, so i want awkward friendships where they nearly dated, or exes that have now just turned into weird friendships

 girls from the cheer team who she’s like, weirdly intimate with like the shower together but its not a Thing cos the other girls straight !!! what do u mean !! aha just fun !

and I want like, fellow criminology students who are like?? how is this bitch still passing?? i swear she goes out every night?? 

she works part time at a fast food restaurant, i want a mate that just goes and sits in there talking to her until her manager gets angry. 

ppl she did a few modules with ie. art history, bio-med, film studies, before changing course and somehow sort of remaining in touch with

 ppl who she runs track with. 

someone she’s trying to make a zine with. 

here’s a list of plots on her old blog if u want any of them w her.

would love plots of any type, throw them all at me please, i cnt wait to interact w all of u. like this if u want me to message you about connections / plots! xo

full biography if u can be bothered

trigger warnings: drugs, domestic abuse, gun.

you never meant for it to happen. you’d heard the stories, of girls who let their man walk all over them, and thought to yourself “i’ll never be one of those girls…” the kind that eat low-fat yoghurt and drink slim fast to shred a few extra pounds because he said she was getting round in the tummy, or the ones who spent their evenings tied to a kitchen sink drinking wine while him and the boys played poker, wishing god, if only I could get out of here. not you, not you raised by strong women, four bright shining beacons. single mother with her hard-as-nails attitude and her stony glares, elder sisters (twins) one ginger, one blonde, one doctor, one lawyer, both determined to take a bullet to the brain and a hammer to the patriarchy before they let a man touch them without asking. you were always so inferior, so insecure and small, like a bird (like a sparrow) with blonde plaits down your back sucking tropicana whilst your busom buds sucked dick, their lips permanently ripe with stories of their sexual exploits, fake tan and glittered nails whilst you sat in the unbroken egg of virginity wondering what it was like to be loved. one day you found out.

lily milligan’s parents gone and a free house for the night, bottles of ouzo and tequila swiped from your mother’s liquor cabinet thinking she wouldn’t know (she always knew) your legs, hardened from pep squad, slut dropping on a kitchen table because the boys thought it would be fun to get the quiet girl drunk. you’d never had a sip before that night. band t-shirts, denim shorts and the split soles of rotten converse that you refuse to let go of, you still clutched with both hands to your youth, but in a tube top now (borrowed from alice carmichael who had a sister in college) and a short tennis skirt, your feet not in trainers but in thigh-high boots. uncomfy as hell but lily said you needed to look sexy. you didn’t know if you wanted to be sexy. you didn’t know what kind of girl you were, if you were even a girl at all. but robbie looked at you like he knew exactly who you were, like he knew you better than you knew yourself, and his lips had the pink cupid’s bow of a movie star, and his hair was dark locks, curling like a mane. his hands were soft, and suddenly on your waist, and after three more shots his lips were on yours and his name was the only sound in your head and on your lips as you lost it in lily’s college sister’s bedroom beneath the glare of a T-Pain poster. you bled for what seemed like hours, his hand still in yours, kissing on the sofa as truth tellers and dare devils continued to spin a bottle of unprecedented youth. you thought it was love. robbie was the one. he loved you, you knew it, how else could someone be so soft? but soon he grew bored, scrunched up your paper heart and set it alight. then came the tears, the hatred, the ‘fuck robbie, in fact, fuck all boys.’ and that you did.

you were known for being easy. any boy could be yours for a night, as long as he promised to love you for those few short breaths and pants before you cried yourself to sleep. you felt poisoned, but poisonous as well, as if by ensnaring these young boys you were gaining power over them, and not the other way around. soon it started to work. they’d want more, but you’d deny them it, sick of sucking off silly schoolboys, they’d call you a tease, a vixen. maybe you were, but you couldn’t help but want older men. you got the history teacher first time, him bending you over his desk to sneak a hand up your tennis skirt as the after-school clubs carried on next door, unawares. love didn’t exist, not for you. it was nothing but a game for pretty young girls to play, bubble gum in their canines and a hand tugging at the hem of their cheer skirt.

there was so much anger inside of your small body, ‘beware of boys and their hook-like words’. hockey helped. there was something formidable about the feeling of a stick like a weapon in your hands and the thwack it made against thighs in the heat of a scrum - “slipped, sorry!” - you’d utter with a snakeskin smile, millicent quinn knowing that you’d hit her on purpose because she shagged robbie at that party last week. she couldn’t prove it, cobbled acne on her forehead turning green with disgust. ben came into your life like a car crash. two years your senior, with a baseball jacket and shoulders like a god. he became your personal hero. on the pitch, he was lethal. together, you could bring anyone to their ruin. each day after last period he’d be waiting in his car. you’d leap into his arms like a girl-half starved, love me, love me, love me, your heated kisses the envy of every junior girl. he was yours for three blissful years, utterly yours, and you were his, his star-spangled girl, and he was your knight - you were both the same, playing games, always difficult to predict. it was a shock to all when he proposed, high-school sweethearts find love in south dakota.

the engagement was a bittersweet affair; three months – you barely out of your gingham print skirts and into a graduation gown, him, a surly quarterback towering above your sisters, cigarette at his lips and a scowl like a fart in a lift. they hated him. so did you. but you were eighteen and in love, and he fitted the cookie cutter mould. everyone wanted him, and you had him. you had him and you were happy, happy, happy, and he loved you. he said he’d give you the world, anything you wanted hand-picked and given to you. instead, he gave you a jack russell terrier and a flat you couldn’t swing a cat in, wallpaper peeling like the rotten bits inside of you, the bits that only he knew. and you got tireder and tireder of the sad excuse of a life he’d picked out for you, him out doing god knows what to pay the bills, and you dancing on tables to pave your way to stardom, and this was love, this was real, until the shine wore off and your fresh-faced, dimple-cheeked cheerleader facade faded and the ugliness started to reveal itself, the whining, the petulance, the sharp-tempered cruelty, the mind games, the need to always win, win, win. he was dull, he was boring, he was nothing like the boy the girls had said he was and no chiselled six pack could hide his lack of anything remotely interesting, your patience wearing thin until it snapped like rubber, a rucksack on your back, running shoes on your feet and the joint bank account emptied into your eighth grade birthday wallet.

you built your small fortunes working the casinos of sioux falls, a crimson dress and an attitude to match. bookish archie with his little dipper freckles was fun for a month, before he became just as dull and dreary as the rest. a three hour bus and you were in minneapolis, bright eyed and bushy tailed, fresh meat ready for the pickings. a hostel here, a friendly co-worker’s sofa there as you made what you could by taking off your clothes and shaking your ass like you were back in pep squad, doing what you did best. you met your fair share of creeps, and soon it was back on the road to escape a wide-eyed stalker and a restless itch for more. milwaukee, chicago, you made the roads your own. log cabins and lodgings, and the occasional motel, a beaten up pick up truck purchased at a scrap merchants – you got a few miles out of it before it bit the dust, and when you finally set it alight after nights spent lounging across the driver’s seat, a parka tucked over you as a duvet, you were sad to see it go. you’re nomadic by fault, never attaching to place, people or things, creating a new personality in every place you go like a character actress; each town is a different repertory theatre, and you’re the star. a compulsive liar, you even fib about your own name, to some you’re ellen, nineteen, bookish, a law student who likes smoking and cosmos. to someone else you’re rita, you’re twenty five and look young for your age, like smoking, comics and fucking in public places.

in the bright lights of michigan, you found charlie, sweet charlie, too good for you, though you let him spoil you while he thought you were the small town girl of his dreams. next came abigail, who was fun until the jealously kicked in, and then luke, gorgeous luke, dangerous, exciting, who despite his temper, despite the fights, despite bruises down your spine and your teeth marks on his arms, loved you with the strength of a wild fire. there was destruction in your wishbones, a savageness from the field, from the pitch and now somehow in his arms, you were godly. he was cruel, he was careless, and he refused to fall at your feet like so many other boys had, which only you made you want him all the more. you were rage incarnate. you hated him so fiercely you thought you might kill him, so he played the only card you wouldn’t predict; proposed.

the house you shared was a backstreet flat in detroit, you making your name as a downtown singer while he footed the bill with pills. they had a drug for anything these days, to dull the senses, to pick them up, to drive you to insanity or pull you out of the madness hole. the two of you lived like criminals on the run (you never told him that you were, living out your days as the enigma he wanted you to be), you with your voice like caramel and fishnet legs. you were his and his alone until his hand was at your throat and the gun was in your hands screaming at him to stop, stop, stop, until a bullet stoppered his brain, crimson staining linoleum as you cast yourself out like lucifer. self defence was decreed the moment they saw your violet neck, black tears and headlight eyes and mind screaming red, red, red like the pom-poms you shook so willingly in school and the insides of his skull. you were gone, and “you” was born, renamed “greta”, boxed, shipped-out, and next-day delivered to livingstone where under witness protection you were a student, blank slate, fresh-faced in a place where no one knew your name, doing what you always did and starting again.

[ladylynse]

here's another if you're still doing it: "Cracked Image"

Honestly, that sounds like what I would’ve called my scrapped sequel to Mirrored. Where 88 and 89 screw up. And things start to…unravel. We know from Hong Kong Longs that the Huntsclan bases and stuff still exist, despite the fact that they technically never did since they were written out of the timeline, so it’s quite feasible 88 and 89 would get into something.

Time travel is a thing in both shows. So are alternate timelines. But if the current reality started to crack and other bits bled through? It may not be too noticeable at first, the changes may not be very big or last very long, but it would get worse. The closest realities to it start to blend into the current reality, and the period of time that they’re blended for slowly becomes longer and longer. So, Danny comes home and the house is empty, because his family was killed when the Nasty Burger exploded. Or, the only one to be found at the Fenton house is Jack Plasmius. Or suddenly everyone in town knows Danny’s secret and the Guys in White are on his tail because the Freakshow incident didn’t get wiped from everyone’s minds. Or Rose is back in school, or the Huntsclan still exists, or Gramps’s back is injured again after that nasty fall he took. Or, more notably, Jonathan Long knows the family secret. But then everything goes back to normal, leaving the people who realize what’s going on terribly confused. Only magical creatures can identify the shift–and the people at the centre of the blast, poor 88 and 89, who have no idea how to fix what they’ve done, or even know exactly what it is they’ve done.

Failing that, I’d probably still go DP. The title pretty much screams reveal fic for me—though how much and to who could easily be shuffled.

We’ll pick Jack Fenton because I haven’t done one with him for a while. Some important symbolism off the start would be him accidentally knocking off the picture of him, Maddie, and Vlad from their college days and cracking the glass in his enthusiasm to grab some ghost hunting weapons—because it’s nice to get some physical cracking in there. *grins*

But Jack forgets about the photograph, too eager to chase down Phantom who had the audacity to appear right outside their house. Again. It’s downright annoying; he’s basically thumbing his nose at them, showing up in their backyard or on their doorstep so often. Sure, he doesn’t stick around once Jack gets off a few blasts, but he’s taunting them, plain and simple. He’s fast, obviously likes playing chicken more than he fears their weaponry, and discredits their abilities at the same time as he’s trying to appear more likeable to the rest of the town by ‘patrolling’ a residential neighbourhood.

It’s a statement to them, proclaiming that this town is his haunt, and it makes Jack’s blood boil because that ghost is too close to his family, and he knows that’s not a mistake.

He’d worry so much less if Jazz and Danny went hunting with them more often. If he knew they kept their skills sharp, if he believed they could hold their own in a fight, then maybe he wouldn’t worry quite so much about the possibility of them being a target. Or tricked, as is more likely with a ghost like Phantom.

He tells Maddie he wants to take the kids out today—it’s early on in the school year, and Jazz might be in her last year but she shouldn’t be busy already—only to find out that Jazz has gone to the library and Danny is with Sam and Tucker. Jazz being at the library isn’t a terrible surprise, but Jack would’ve thought it was early enough to catch Danny in bed. Tired as he was, it was funny he wouldn’t use the weekend to sleep in before hanging out with his friends.

Maddie’s in the middle of a batch of cookies, so Jack sets off on his own, following Phantom’s general trajectory since he’s not showing up on the portable Fenton Finder yet.

The moment something does ping, Jack narrowly avoids creating more ghosts as he manhandles to Fenton Family Ghost Assault Vehicle in as direct a line to his target as possible.

Correction: targets.

The vehicle isn’t fully stopped by the time Jack is bursting out the door, the Fenton Bazooka whining as it charges. It’s rare to have both Phantom and the former Wisconsin ghost in his sights, and he’s not about to lose that opportunity. He’s never forgiven Plasmius for endangering his family, and though Phantom might’ve helped him once, Jack’s not foolish enough to assume he always will. If these two are colluding—

But they don’t even notice him, too busy exchanging blasts and catcalls just outside of town. The GAV isn’t camouflaged at all—he’s too far from the nearest copse of trees to hope for that—but he crouches in some shrubbery as if it’ll be enough to dull his day glow orange HAZMAT suit.

“You got a cat! Why can’t that be enough for you?”

Phantom’s taunt is accompanied by an ectoblast Plasmius easily counters with a shield. “Daniel, fine a specimen as my Maddie is, she is not—”

“You named her Maddie? Gross. I did not need to know that. You really are some seriously messed up froot loop.” Ice this time, formed into deadly shards that meet their end with Plasmius’s fireball.

That earns Phantom an eye roll, which Jack sees because he has his sights turned on Plasmius. A few more seconds of conversation is all he needs, and then the Fenton Bazooka will be ready to fire. He’s got a few ecto-guns and other less powerful weapons on him if they decided to attack him, of course—he’s always prepared—but the Fenton Bazooka packs a punch, even against powerful ghosts like Phantom and Plasmius.

A sigh. “You and your mother are both very dear to me, Daniel. If you only—”

Jack takes the shot without taking time to double check the setting on the Fenton Bazooka. He’s modified it, added another setting. A lesser version of the Fenton Peeler, the first shot is designed specifically to weaken the stronger ghosts so they could be captured and taken back to study.

It works as well as he expects, easily hitting Plasmius’s shoulder and knocking him down, out of range of Phantom’s most recent blast. Phantom himself pulls back, but while Jack isn’t foolish enough to turn his back on Phantom, he’s not overly worried, either. Phantom and Plasmius have their big rivalry because Plasmius has been trying to encroach on what Phantom believes is his turf. While they have a common enemy, Phantom won’t attack him.

Jack runs, getting closer—but not too close—to his downed prey. Plasmius’s teeth are clenched and he’s clearly fighting, but a bright patch of white has settled on his shoulder where the blast it, and it’s growing.

Plasmius shrieks, and the light explodes.

Plasmius is clutching his arm now, his pristine appearance gone. Green leaks from beneath his fingers. “What is this?” he growls. He looks at Jack and then at Phantom. White light builds again.

“I…I don’t know.” Phantom sounds terrified. His helpless gaze swings to Jack, too, and Jack’s momentarily stunned that he’s landed instead of fleeing, especially once he’s seen the newest modifications.

Jack studies its effects on Plasmius. It’s hard to look where he’d been hit, bright as it is, but—

Why does it look red?

Plasmius lets out an agonizing roar, and the light swallows him again.

When Jack blinks the spots away from his eyes, he’s staring at the sobbing form of his best friend.

(see more fics)

[starspatter]

TimKara

Yay~This is for the domestic SuperBats verse:Send in two (or more) names and I’ll fill all this out about the ship!General:Rate the Ship -  Awful | Ew | No pics pls | I’m not comfortable | Alright | I like it! | Got Pics? | Let’s do it! | Why is this not getting more attention?! | The OTP to rule all other OTPsHow long will they last? - They’d probably get into a lot of fights at first and Kara will fly away and sulk, but Tim always manages to find her and they kiss and make up.  They’ll stay together for life (i.e. as long as Tim lives *cough*).How quickly did/will they fall in love? - Oh it takes them ages for them to realize their feelings for each other, being (sibling) rivals for so many years.  Kara becomes aware of it first, while Tim is too dense to notice her bullying is actually a way to mask her affection.How was their first kiss? - Awkwardly intense and passionate, since Kara just goes “oh the heck with it” and plants one on him out of frustration for his obliviousness.Wedding:Who proposed? - Tim, probably by rigging an altered version of the Bat signal to publicly announce his proposal, earning much embarrassment and a punch from Kara before she happily says yes.Who is the best man/men? - Dick, definitely.  (I’m guessing Conner doesn’t exist in this verse, or else he’d probably be part of the family.)Who is the bride’s maid(s)? - Barbara.  (Maybe Stephanie if she exists, since she and Kara have a close relationship in the comics?  Though it might be awkward between her and Tim so perhaps not lol.)Who did the most planning? - TimWho stressed the most? - KaraHow fancy was the ceremony? - Pretty normal, since even though Bruce wants to spoil them they’re both down-to-earth about it and don’t want to make a huge deal.Back of a pickup truck | 2 | 3 | 4 | Normal Church Wedding | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | Kate and William wish they were this big.Who was specifically not invited to the wedding? - Any rivals for Tim’s affection. XP *shot* Nah, Kara would let Tim invite who he wants, although she’ll watch him like a hawk during the ceremony/reception since she gets jealous easily.Sex:Who is on top? - Kara most of the time.  Tim has to really struggle to dominate her, although she secretly enjoys it when he does.  The bedroom is basically as much of a competition as is everything else between them.Who is the one to instigate things? - Kara, especially when Tim is being a boring workaholic.  She practically has to carry him into the bedroom sometimes.How healthy is their sex life? - Barely touch themselves let alone each other | 2 | 3 | 4 | Once a couple weeks, nothing overboard | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | They are humping each other on the couch right nowHow kinky are they? - Straight missionary with the lights off | 2 | 3 | 4 | Might try some butt stuff and toys | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | Don’t go into the sex dungeon without a horse’s headHow long do they normally last? - Kara can go a lot longer than Tim since she has much more strength and stamina; as much as he tries to keep up with her she’s a hard gal to satisfy.  She appreciates the effort though. =PDo they make sure each person gets an equal amount of orgasms? - Oh it’s a total contest to see who can make the other climax more/fastest.  (Tim usually wins in terms of overall tally count, much to Kara’s chagrin.)How rough are they in bed? - Kara consciously tries to be gentle with Tim since she’s scared of hurting him accidentally, but of course he can tell when she’s holding back and it hurts him more so he ups his own game to let her know it’s okay.Softer than a butterfly on the back of a bunny | 2 | 3 | 4 | The bed’s shaking and squeaking every time | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | Their dirty talk is so vulgar it’d make Dwayne Johnson blush. Also, the wall’s so weak it could collapse the next time they do it.How much cuddling/snuggling do they do? - Kara gets easily embarrassed by any outward display of affection, especially in public.  Tim will thus often initiate just to see her cute flustered reaction.No touching after sex | 2 | 3 | 4 | A little spooning at night, or on the couch, but not in public | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | They snuggle and kiss more often than a teen couple on their fifth date to a pillow factory.Children:How many children will they have naturally? - Maybe a couple superkiddies.  Tim might want more, but I imagine Kara would firmly tell him the shop’s closed after two.How many children will they adopt? - Tim might take after his dad and pick up any orphan who tugs at his heartstrings lol.  I can picture him bringing kids to Kara like stray animals and pleading to keep them with puppy dog eyes.Who gets stuck with the most diapers? - TimWho is the stricter parent? - KaraWho stops the kid(s) from doing dangerous stunts after school? - Kara, since Tim is still a reckless daredevil in his own right and encourages the kids to test the limits of their powers.  Kara often feels exasperated by having to worry about her husband’s safety as much as her children’s, although Tim does make sure they’re always supervised.  (Especially if he did go through a kidnapping experience with the Joker in this verse, albeit for a much shorter period since Kara tore up the town looking for him.)Who remembers to pack the lunch(es)? - KaraWho is the more loved parent? - They both are, although Kara often finds herself having to be the “bad guy” while Tim is the more “fun one”, and it annoys her to no end that it feels like she’s taking care of a bunch of babies.  The whole family knows they’d all likely fall apart without her though.Who is more likely to attend the PTA meetings? Both of them would.Who cried the most at graduation? - KaraWho is more likely to bail the child(ren) out of trouble with the law? - Tim, since he’s still skeptical of the legal system in this world.Cooking:Who does the most cooking? - Kara, although she’s really terrible at it and at first Tim teased her for her lack of feminine traits.  She really tries to improve though, so he pretends to enjoy it for her sake.Who is the most picky in their food choice? - Kara.  I can see her having particularly strange tastes, in part due to her alien tongue.  (Although her cooking can even put Clark out of commission.)Who does the grocery shopping? - Tim, because of the above.  If he’s not careful she’ll end up adding all sorts of strange ingredients to dishes.How often do they bake desserts? - Not very often, since the first time Kara got impatient and tried to speed things up with her Heat Vision, which ended in disaster.Are they more of a meat lover or a salad eater? - Meat lover.Who is more likely to surprise the other(s) with an anniversary dinner? - KaraWho is more likely to suggest going out? - Tim (to tactfully avoid hurting Kara’s feelings)Who is more likely to burn the house down accidentally while cooking? - Kara; see desserts above.Chores:Who cleans the room? - Kara, since it’s the one “wifely” task she’s actually good at.Who is really against chores? - Tim can be lazy sometimes and tries to weasel out by saying how Kara’s faster, but she makes him do his share.Who cleans up after the pets? - The kids are responsible.Who is more likely to sweep everything under the rug? - TimWho stresses the most when guests are coming over? - KaraWho found a dollar between the couch cushions while cleaning? - Kara, thanks to her X-Ray vision.Who takes the longer showers/baths? - Tim, to Kara’s annoyance.Who takes the dog out for a walk? - Tim or the kids.  Krypto stays with Clark, while Kara is mostly in charge of her own cat Streaky.How often do they decorate the room/house for the holidays? - They go all out, and make a game/competition of it with the kids.What are their goals for the relationship? - To look out for each other’s safety and work together as a team (while still maintaining a healthy rivalry ;P).Who is most likely to sleep till noon? - Tim, since he’s still a night owl and if/when he does finally fall asleep Kara ends up having to drag him out of bed.  She can be really cranky in the morning though, so if Tim wakes up before her he has to be really careful getting up.  (Also don’t make fun of her bedhead or she will clobber him.)Who plays the most pranks? - It’s a tie.  They still try to one-up each other any chance they get.