#that tech could exist for everything

[kuivamustekala]

i keep thinking abt that post abt baldurs gate 3 and the lack of fat bodies and honestly, like. while yes it is true that creating a variety of body types means a lot of work in modeling, and likely some extra rigging work, and adjustments to outfits and armor and whatnot...

how much extra stuff does that game have that maybe five people playing the game will experience and the rest never run into? how many outfits does it have that few people will ever use? because all of those had to be made. all of those took up development time and resources. how many NPCs exist who very few people will ever run into? because someone had to model them.

and that's not to say that all those little details are something that should be cut, necessarily - i love that they exist. but i can't help but wonder how much of that could have been cut without making the game feel different.

[tovaicas]

not me importing my anti-air defense worldbuilding h/cs into ishgard bc I can

[river-taxbird]

AI hasn't improved in 18 months. It's likely that this is it. There is currently no evidence the capabilities of ChatGPT will ever improve. It's time for AI companies to put up or shut up.

I'm just re-iterating this excellent post from Ed Zitron, but it's not left my head since I read it and I want to share it. I'm also taking some talking points from Ed's other posts. So basically:

We keep hearing AI is going to get better and better, but these promises seem to be coming from a mix of companies engaging in wild speculation and lying.

Chatgpt, the industry leading large language model, has not materially improved in 18 months. For something that claims to be getting exponentially better, it sure is the same shit.

Hallucinations appear to be an inherent aspect of the technology. Since it's based on statistics and ai doesn't know anything, it can never know what is true. How could I possibly trust it to get any real work done if I can't rely on it's output? If I have to fact check everything it says I might as well do the work myself.

For "real" ai that does know what is true to exist, it would require us to discover new concepts in psychology, math, and computing, which open ai is not working on, and seemingly no other ai companies are either.

Open ai has already seemingly slurped up all the data from the open web already. Chatgpt 5 would take 5x more training data than chatgpt 4 to train. Where is this data coming from, exactly?

Since improvement appears to have ground to a halt, what if this is it? What if Chatgpt 4 is as good as LLMs can ever be? What use is it?

As Jim Covello, a leading semiconductor analyst at Goldman Sachs said (on page 10, and that's big finance so you know they only care about money): if tech companies are spending a trillion dollars to build up the infrastructure to support ai, what trillion dollar problem is it meant to solve? AI companies have a unique talent for burning venture capital and it's unclear if Open AI will be able to survive more than a few years unless everyone suddenly adopts it all at once. (Hey, didn't crypto and the metaverse also require spontaneous mass adoption to make sense?)

There is no problem that current ai is a solution to. Consumer tech is basically solved, normal people don't need more tech than a laptop and a smartphone. Big tech have run out of innovations, and they are desperately looking for the next thing to sell. It happened with the metaverse and it's happening again.

In summary:

Ai hasn't materially improved since the launch of Chatgpt4, which wasn't that big of an upgrade to 3.

There is currently no technological roadmap for ai to become better than it is. (As Jim Covello said on the Goldman Sachs report, the evolution of smartphones was openly planned years ahead of time.) The current problems are inherent to the current technology and nobody has indicated there is any way to solve them in the pipeline. We have likely reached the limits of what LLMs can do, and they still can't do much.

Don't believe AI companies when they say things are going to improve from where they are now before they provide evidence. It's time for the AI shills to put up, or shut up.

[levi-4uckerman]

just a lil something I’m working on…………….

TW: pregnancy, secret pregnancy

〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️

“Oh,” was all you could say, breathless at the little figure— black and white and barely visible on the screen in front of you. It just barely resembled a human, with a too-big head and little nubs on the side that you could hardly even call arms. It was so stupid, so ridiculously not-real looking, but when the tech moved her wand just right, goddammit, it almost looked like it was moving and if it was moving then it was alive and if it was alive—

“Is it real?” You asked dumbly. “Is… is this real?”

She didn’t laugh at you, surprisingly. She merely smiled and said softly, “Yes, it is. It’s real.”

You tilted your head at the screen, trying to contain your increasing heart rate. “Is it… is it moving?”

This time, she laughed. “It sure is. At this gestation, they’re able to float, bounce, and even swim around a little. You might feel intense twitches every now and then deep in your belly where the fetus is hanging out— that’s totally normal, and just it moving around inside its little sac,” she explained nonchalantly, as if she didn’t just confirm to you that not only were you pregnant, but you were pregnant with a real, tangible, moving thing inside of your body that was put there by—

“Would you like extra copies for Dad? Grandparents, maybe?”

“Yes,” you said, without thinking. You had no intention of sharing this with Gojo. You had no parents of your own to share it with. But a part of your mind, something so deep and instinctive, wanted every moment of this little creature’s existence captured— on film, on paper, on everything.

Before this day, you’d never once considered having children. Until you knew that those little twitches deep in your stomach had arms, legs, and a heartbeat.

Maybe it was the fact that you lacked a purpose, just like Yaga had always told you. You fought well, but it felt like a performance— like you were just copying the movements of others. Why did you do it? Why did you fight? The answer to the question had always been unclear. You were born with a gift, and you sought to use it. Did you really need a reason?

Your hands went to cup your tummy, the creature inside non-palpable, of course. This was… incredible. In all of your life as a sorceress, nothing felt quite as magical as the little thing growing inside of you.

You tried not to think about its potential to throw the entire jujutsu community into chaos.

Gojo Satoru. It always came back to Gojo.

[zylev-blog]

Tucker dug himself in quite a deep hole.

At first, it started because he was bored. He also wanted to test his skills in tech, since he was trained by Technus to use technology in a way nobody living could even do. He first did some simple probing, learning about the system that Batman used and learned how to keep his tracks hidden. He honestly thought breaking into the White House or NASA would be harder than breaking into Batman’s files, but it wasn’t. Everything was absurdly easy to get to. He could see the workarounds in the code just as easily as he could breathe.

Once he learned how to erase his tracks completely, he started with basic knowledge from Batman’s system. Over the course of a month, he read all the police reports, hero and villain reports, and the contingency plans that Batman had. Boy was Batman a paranoid man.

Then he delved deeper. He learned everything there was to know from over a decade of vigilante work. Then he used the Batcomputer (he had found out that it was actually called that from Nightwing himself. He had camera access, of course he was going to spy on the bats.) to hack into the Justice League system. He had to stop the manic chuckle that threatened to spill past his lips. He was just like the ghosts in a way that he loved to indulge his obsessions. And stalking vigilantes had become one of his.

Danny and Sam knew about what he was doing and never tried to stop him. The reason was simple: Tucker had warded against Amity Park so thickly, that not even magic users knew of the town’s existence. It wouldn’t show up on a map, or in books, or in history. Tucker might have used Clockwork for the last part, but the time ghost allowed him to hide Amity Park from the world. So there must have been a reason the ghost had allowed it.

After Tucker gained access to the Justice League files, he had become worried. There was a lot that they didn’t tell the public. The more he read, the more resentful he got. Failed alien invasions, kidnapping, mind control, cloning… the list went on and on.

If he didn’t know that the Justice League were the good guys… he might think they were the villains.

But they were the good guys, right?

He wasn’t so sure anymore.

It had been almost four months since he had first hacked Batman’s computer. From what he could tell after hacking Bruce Wayne’s cell phone, nobody knew that he was inside their systems. Nobody was that good of an actor. He would watch the Justice League briefings, watch their day to day, learn all the gossip, and then he would check Batman’s computer. It was a ritual he had started. A way to keep Amity Park safe should the Justice League turn against them or the world. He made his own contingency plans based off of Batman’s plans. The exception being that as a last resort, his plans would be fatal to anyone who struck against him. He just hoped that the day would never come.

Everything changed when Pariah Dark stole Amity Park. It had taken the Justice League almost two days to realize that there was a gigantic crater in Illinois. Nobody knew what had happened. When the city reappeared, the borders that had once protected it were also stripped away. The systems had been damaged in the fight, and in the teleportation process. There were so many that had died in the battle, so many more that were now homeless, or orphans. The city mourned for the dead—and the dead mourned their sacrifice. The evil King had been dethroned, but would Amity Park be the same? The world now knew it existed, and there was no ghost portal for him to run to Clockwork from. They were on their own.

As Tucker watched the Justice League try to help the citizens, he felt anger in the pit of his stomach. These people, these ‘heroes’, what would they learn about his people? Were they going to hurt them like they’ve hurt their own?

No. He was not going to let them hurt anyone from Amity Park.

He solicited all of the teenagers of Amity Park to help him rebuild the borders. Kick out the Justice League. His plan was met with some resistance, but they trusted Tucker. Within 24 hours, they had gotten the borders back online. The Justice League were then forced out of the town, and the town disappeared from existence once more.

Now if only he could get rid of the Justice League that tried to linger. Batman himself was proving difficult to get rid of. Especially since all of his bats kept trying to come out to play. Well Tucker had an ace up his sleeve too, and two could play that game.

[robertreich]

Who’s to Blame for Out-Of-Control Corporate Power?    

One man is especially to blame for why corporate power is out of control. And I knew him! He was my professor, then my boss. His name… Robert Bork.

Robert Bork was a notorious conservative who believed the only legitimate purpose of antitrust — that is, anti-monopoly — law is to lower prices for consumers, no matter how big corporations get. His philosophy came to dominate the federal courts and conservative economics.

I met him in 1971, when I took his antitrust class at Yale Law School. He was a large, imposing man, with a red beard and a perpetual scowl. He seemed impatient and bored with me and my classmates, who included Bill Clinton and Hillary Rodham, as we challenged him repeatedly on his antitrust views.

We argued with Bork that ever-expanding corporations had too much power. Not only could they undercut rivals with lower prices and suppress wages, but they were using their spoils to influence our politics with campaign contributions. Wasn’t this cause for greater antitrust enforcement?

He had a retort for everything. Undercutting rival businesses with lower prices was a good thing because consumers like lower prices. Suppressing wages didn’t matter because employees are always free to find better jobs. He argued that courts could not possibly measure political power, so why should that matter?

Even in my mid-20s, I knew this was hogwash.

But Bork’s ideology began to spread. A few years after I took his class, he wrote a book called The Antitrust Paradox summarizing his ideas. The book heavily influenced Ronald Reagan and later helped form a basic tenet of Reaganomics — the bogus theory that says government should get out of the way and allow corporations to do as they please, including growing as big and powerful as they want.

Despite our law school sparring, Bork later gave me a job in the Department of Justice when he was solicitor general for Gerald Ford. Even though we didn’t agree on much, I enjoyed his wry sense of humor. I respected his intellect. Hell, I even came to like him.

Once President Reagan appointed Bork as an appeals court judge, his rulings further dismantled antitrust. And while his later Supreme Court nomination failed, his influence over the courts continued to grow.  

Bork’s legacy is the enormous corporate power we see today, whether it’s Ticketmaster and Live Nation consolidating control over live performances, Kroger and Albertsons dominating the grocery market, or Amazon, Google, and Meta taking over the tech world.

It’s not just these high-profile companies either: in most industries, a handful of companies now control more of their markets than they did twenty years ago.

This corporate concentration costs the typical American household an estimated extra $5,000 per year. Companies have been able to jack up prices without losing customers to competitors because there is often no meaningful competition.

And huge corporations also have the power to suppress wages because workers have fewer employers from whom to get better jobs.

And how can we forget the massive flow of money these corporate giants are funneling into politics, rigging our democracy in their favor?

But the tide is beginning to turn under the Biden Administration. The Justice Department and Federal Trade Commission are fighting the monopolization of America in court, and proposing new merger guidelines to protect consumers, workers, and society.

It’s the implementation of the view that I and my law school classmates argued for back in the 1970s — one that sees corporate concentration as a problem that outweighs any theoretical benefits Bork claimed might exist.

Robert Bork would likely regard the Biden administration’s antitrust efforts with the same disdain he had for my arguments in his class all those years ago. But instead of a few outspoken law students, Bork’s philosophy is now being challenged by the full force of the federal government.

The public is waking up to the outsized power corporations wield over our economy and democracy. It’s about time.

[gojonanami]

MEANT TO BE ✴︎ SUGURU GETO

✴︎ summary: when Suguru defects, he asks you to come with him -- but he's not going to take no for an answer. ✴︎ cw: 18+, dead dove, do not eat, smut, dub/con, degradation (use of "monkeys"), kidnapping, hostage, yandere(?)! geto, mentions of violence (no graphic descriptions), fingering, (afab!receiving), oral (afab!receiving), reader is a follow sorcerer at jujutsu tech. ✴︎ wc: 6,046

“Come with me,” when those words left Geto’s mouth, you knew he had truly lost his mind. 

“Come with you?” You repeat, as you turn slowly from your kitchen sink, your muscles tense — your cursed weapon was in your bedroom, your cursed technique wouldn’t be enough to stop him, and your cellphone was on the counter between the two of you, “Suguru, I just got a call from Satoru, not twenty minutes ago about what you’ve done-"

“And what have I done, besides try to do what’s right?” And he steps towards you, one hand in his pocket, and you step back, reaching for your phone that you thought laid on the counter behind your bag, only for him to wave it in front of you, “I thought you of all people would see that,” 

Your face twists in disgust, “You killed innocent people—" 

“I killed monkeys,” he spits through gritted teeth, “I killed monkeys who do nothing but produce curses and kill sorcerers. Why should the strong live subservient to a race of lower beings?” 

You blink, “Do you hear yourself, Suguru? What happened to the strong have to protect the weak?” 

“Why should the strong have to watch all the people they care about die, only to die at the hands of the supposed weak?” his gaze is dark, eyebrows knit together, “if you join me—"

“I’m not joining you—"

“—we can be together,” you stare at him, and he steps closer, again, and this time you don’t step away, “in a new world, we could rule over a new age,” 

“Fuck you,” you scoff, as you move towards the door, “I thought Satoru was the one with a god complex, not you,”

And in a moment, he has you pinned against the wall, arms above your head, “I’ve been patient with you, love, but unfortunately I’m not in the business of taking no for an answer,” and he presses a kiss to your neck, making you shiver, “either you come with me, or I’ll let Satoru find your remains splattered against your walls,” 

Your heart lurches, fear slowly settling in, as you realize this wasn’t Suguru - your Suguru who you spent afternoons with messing with Satoru, your Suguru that waited for you with an umbrella to walk back to Jujutsu High when it was raining, your Suguru that gently kissed you in a classroom when you were being far too hard on yourself — no, this was Geto, a special grace curse user. 

“Will you really kill me?” You ask slowly, willing your voice to stay even, “after everything, you’ll make the choice to kill me, and no one else from Jujutsu High,” 

“I don’t want to, sweetheart. There’s no meaning, no meaning without you,” his lips curl in a cruel imitation of what his smile was, “but if you leave me no choice because, I can’t let you live if you’re not by my side,” 

A bitter chuckle leaves your throat, “Is this supposed to be romantic? Am I supposed to fall into your arms at the prospect of living?” you spit in his face, “fuck you.” 

He flinches, his mouth agape, as he wipes the spit from his cheek with his thumb, “I thought you’d say that,” and then the plane of existence is cracked open behind him, as a swirl of curses manifest and you close your eyes, and wait. 

You had no regrets. 

But you do when you wake. 

Your head aches, fuck, and you can’t get your bearings, your ears are ringing — a jolt shoots up your spine, as your eyes adjust to the darkness. A curse? An enemy? 

No, it was both. 

Suguru stands in front of you, hands in his pocket, “Hello my love,” 

“Fuck you,” you spit with as much venom as you can muster, as you struggle to move, your hands chained down in bindings that restricted your cursed energy, “fuck-"

“Don’t be in such a rush, we’ll get to that part,” and his voice is so lilting, it sends a chill down your spine. 

“You touch me, and I’ll break every bone in your body,” you say through gritted teeth, and his lips curl into a smile, a small chuckle parting his lips. 

“And how could you do that, my love?” He steps forward, as his fingers hold your chin, “you’re mine to do with what I wish,” and your voice catches in your throat, as real fear crawls it’s way up your stomach, “but I don’t care to force my affection into you, I’ll have you begging for it soon enough,”  

And your stomach turns, as he steps away from you again, “so what do you call this?” You ask quietly, as you lift your chained wrists. 

“A matter of circumstance,” he frowns, as he holds his head, “I hate to do this, but I must remind you of how much you love me, how much we love each other, and until you remember, I cannot allow you out of those restraints.” 

“I’ll never love you, with or without them,” you surge forward, the  restraints grating against your skin, “I never loved you to begin with,” 

He looks at you, with almost pity, “We both know that’s not true,” you waver under the weight of his gaze and you despise how you can’t deny it, “was the first time we shared a kiss a lie? After we had gone on that mission where we saw far too many horrors for children to see? Was it a lie those nights you came to my dorm to sleep in my arms when you couldn’t otherwise? Was it-“ 

“I loved you,” you whisper, “the you were before - the you that wasn’t a murderer, the you that—"

“The me that was allowing us to live under the thumb of these disgusting monkeys, the ones who kill us and let us be killed for their sake, while the corpses of my friends and sorcerers pile up like sacrifices on a pyre,” and you know he’s talking about Haibara now, “I couldn’t continue to live for a world like that, and I couldn’t allow you to continue living in it either,” 

“Haibara would hate who you’ve become,” you whisper quietly into the darkness, as he glances back at you, no emotion stirring in his expression, as if he’s already thought this a million times before. 

“But at least he would be alive,” your mouth open and closes, as tears burn at your eyes, “and I couldn’t stand to watch a world where more of my comrades would die for a cause that was setting them up for failure — I couldn’t stand for a world where I would lose you—"

His voice breaks, and you shake your head. 

“You lost me sooner, by leaving, by killing innocent people-“ 

“No one is innocent in this world,” he cuts you off, “everyone’s hands are bloodied one way or another - just by living, humans contribute to the death of sorcerers, creating curses that inevitably lead to someone’s demise - whether it’s another human or a sorcerer,” 

“It’s not their fault that they create curses—"

And he gives a bitter laugh, “Then whose fault is it? I never took you to be naive, my love,” 

“Don’t call me that,” and he gives a twisted smile. 

“Why wouldn’t I? When I love you,” he steps closer, holding your chin, “I love you so much I’m willing to risk you despising me, just so I can call you mine,” 

“I’ll never be yours,” and he leans forward, making you squeeze your eyes shut, but he presses his lips to your forehead. 

“You already are,” and he turns to leave, his robes sweeping behind him, “and I’ll get your heart too — one way or another.” 

You only can keep track of the days by Geto’s visits. He is sure to visit you in the evenings, after his work is done. And each day he comes back more bloodied than the one previously. He always washes himself with the sink in your cell, before he turns to you. 

“I want you to see what these people are — nothing more than animals. Animals that make money or curses or both - tools that run their course,” 

“Just because you keep me chained up in here doesn’t mean you have to bore me to death as well,” you hang your head, and he looks at you, tilting your chin up with his fingers. 

And he tries a different tactic, “You have been refusing your food for days, when are you going to eat? You can’t go on like this,” his voice has an edge of concern, “there’s nothing in the food that can harm you,” 

“Says the kidnapper,” you mutter, “I’m not hungry,” and your stomach almost growls on cue, and a chuckle escapes his lips. 

“Your body tends to betray you, my love,” and he  grabs your food, lifting a spoonful of fried rice to your lips, “eat,” 

“I’m not—“ and he raises an eyebrow — and you scowl, “I don’t want to be fed by you,” 

“You didn’t mind before - you insisted I feed you between classes. Always vending machine junk too—" 

“It wasn’t junk—it was—" 

“An acquired taste,” he waves you off, his lips curling into a smile, “well, I always fed you, and I always will, so please?” And he offers you the spoon. You glance at him, before taking the spoonful. 

And you note the bags under his eyes, and the shallowness of his face, “Have you been eating? Or sleeping?” 

And he looks up, offering you another spoon, “I-"

“You haven’t been,” you shake your head, “and yet you have the gall to tell me to eat,” and you take the spoon from his hand, offering it to him, “it’s not poison, right?” 

And he cracks a small smile, taking the spoonful, “you don’t have a poison cursed technique that I don’t know about?” 

“You wouldn’t be alive still if I did,” and he laughs at that, and the sound makes your stomach flip — just like the first time you heard him make it for you when you had one-upped Satoru. The first time that you realized you wanted to be the one to always make him laugh like that. 

Days pass, and his visits become more frequent. He doesn’t tell you of the people he murders - he learns better than to tell you - but the blood on his clothes doesn’t escape your notice. But he tells you of the sorcerers he finds that are oppressed — tells you of the two girls he’s taken under his wing. But each day, he looks more tired than the next, until you call him over to you. 

“Lay down,” and he blinks, “you need to sleep,” 

“I-" 

“You look terrible,” you say bluntly, “lie down,” and he glances at your bed that you sat on the edge of, the chains around your wrists.  

He moves towards the bed, lying down, but his head doesn’t lay on the pillow, but instead your lap, “Geto-"

“Suguru,” he corrects, peering up at you, his eyes barely staying open, “please,” and your resistance breaks, the exhaustion of being alone, the need for human contact, the softness of his body against yours - sends your walls crumbling to dust. Your fingers comb through his dark locks, softly undoing the tangles in them. And his breathing evens with time, as you lie back against the wall. 

“Suguru,” you whisper into the darkness, as your eyes shut as well, and you don’t see his lips curl into a smile. 

You don’t realize you fall asleep as well, until you wake a few hours later, and you’re asleep against his chest, his warm arms engulfing you. And you could swear the two of you were napping in an empty classroom, hiding from Yaga and Satoru, on a warm afternoon. And he’d whisper in your ear, pressing a kiss to your forehead. 

But it wasn’t a classroom, it was a cell. And those hands no longer exorcised curses — they murdered humans. 

But you could pretend. Just this once. You bury your head in his chest, and let yourself drift. But only this one time. 

When you wake next, he’s gone, the only memory of him is the unchained bindings on your wrists, the faint smell of him on your clothes, and the ghost of his touch still clinging to you.

The next few days his visits grew more frequent, but only for sleep, as he nestled beside you, as you pretended to be asleep. It became routine. At first, you would sleep turned away, but by morning, you were sleeping nestled in his chest. And then you dared to ask, “why do you come here to sleep? You must have a better bed somewhere else,” 

And he gives a phantom of a chuckle, “Well, that bed doesn’t have you, does it?” 

And his hand dares to breach your skin before sleep steals away your consciousness, and you can’t help but let it happen — because it hurts too much to pull away. 

And you don’t know why.  

He doesn’t come back for several days. The only interaction you have is one of his followers bringing you food each day, and they don’t answer your questions regarding their ‘lord.’ And each day you grow more anxious, picking at your nerves like you picked at your scabs — incessantly and unnecessarily. 

What if he was dead? What did it matter? All the more quickly you could return to jujutsu high, you could return to your life - a life without Geto. But the same question remained posed in your head — what if he was dead? 

Would you see his dead body before jujutsu high disposed of it? Before they forced Shoko to autopsy it for any secrets the higher ups could lock away - as if he were a failed experiment rather than a person. 

But he had killed so many - wouldn’t death only be right? Would that bring justice? Would that be peace? But the question remained, hanging in the forefront of your head, like a dead body from the rafters, a rope tied around their neck—

What if he was dead? 

But days later, your door swings open and it’s him — “Suguru,” you nearly all but tumble out of your bed, scrambling to his side as your gaze swept over his form. Scarlet ran down his body, cuts, bruises, and scratches littered what was visible of his skin, “what happened?” 

He doesn’t answer, a blank expression on his face, his hair come loose from his usual bun, bags under his eyes that tell tales of what he saw without him speaking a word of them. You reach for him tentatively, words scattered on the floor of your mind that you were desperately trying to collect, “is this your blood or someone else’s?” 

“Both,” he murmurs, his eyes still far gone, as his gaze shifts to the floor, “I have no right to ask — but can you—I can’t stand to have anyone else touch me—“ and his voice breaks, breaks for the first time — the same voice that didn’t break after Riko’s death, the same voice that didn’t break after Satoru was taken away from him, the same voice that didn’t break after Haibara — it broke. 

And it broke you. 

“Strip,” you say simply, but you undo his robes for him, “I need to see what damage you’ve done to your body,” you busy yourself with undressing him to escape the fact that you’re undressing him. You had seen his body times before, at first in dorm rooms late at night, when you cuddled next to him, desperate for a comfort he could only provide, and then between heated kisses and intimate touches that left you near breathless and needy for him, and then distant embraces that left you feeling more lonely and far from him than before. But this was different. 

He was different. 

You stripped away the clothing to find him bloodied and bruised to an almost impressive, but terrifying extent. The blood smeared on his skin was mostly another’s — you learned once you started to clean his cuts and bruises with a damp rag, “Do you want to talk about it?” 

His eyes slowly glide to you, cold as glaciers, “Do you want to hear about it?” 

“I’m asking, aren't I?” you sigh, as his gaze drops once again, and your hands still, one of your hands drifting to his chin, tilting his eyes to meet yours, “Suguru-” 

And he’s kissing you. 

His lips are soft, just as you remembered. You remember the first moment you noticed his lips — it was when you had fed him a pocky after he had swallowed a curse, his brow scrunching with slight disgust — never quite getting used to the taste, but having grown as accustomed to it as he could (as far as someone could grow accustomed to swallowing what was akin to a vomit soaked rag used clean shit). You sat beside him, a pocky between your lips, as you offered him one in your hand. And his gaze softened, leaning down and biting the one between your lips instead. And then you couldn’t stop staring at his lips — wondering how they felt against yours. 

He tasted like blood now, metallic and sharp as his jaw was now — no longer having the soft curve of childhood it was maybe a year ago. He swallows your gasp eagerly, giving you leeway to pull away, but you don’t. You can’t. Your lips press back into his, and he smirks against your lips, his arm wrapping around the middle of your back, so he was engulfing you even as he sat. His teeth bare down on your bottom lip, making you moan lightly, and his tongue sneaks between your lips with practiced ease, but it's no longer the sweet assault it once was — it's an onslaught, a razing of your defenses, and he knows the weaknesses of each curtain wall and bastion. 

“Suguru, wait—” but he’s impatient, he’s always so impatient — the first time you had kissed, he couldn’t stop at just one kiss, he needed your lips to be kiss bitten red until he was satisfied. His hands are so large and calloused, gliding up your sides, as he pulls you into his lap, “we were talking,” you protest, but he empties the words from your head with his lips pressed to your jaw, “Why are you—” 

“I don’t want to talk,” his raven locks fall in front of his face, his eyes somehow even darker, “I just want you, please,” 

And your heart squeezes and breaks, the walls crumbling to nothing, as you lean in and kiss him this time, fingers threading through his his hair, while your other hand rests on his bare chest, if only to feel his heartbeat under your touch. 

He was alive. Alive. 

“Please,” you sigh, as he toys with the hem of your shirt, “don’t tease me,” 

“Like you haven’t teased me with your existence each and every day I’ve known you, my love,” he chuckles, a noise deep from his chest that rumbles against your palm and sends a shiver down your spine, and he lifts your hand, kissing your wrist, his nose pressed against your pulse, “Do you know how much I want you? How much I need you?” and he answers the question for you, as he leans forward, his teeth graze your neck, pain and pleasure mixing in a twisted way. 

“Suguru—“ 

He rises from his seat, looming over you, his arms sweeping — one behind you and the other holding your chin — it sends a chill down your spine, “I just arrived at a village where a child was being held - said to be cursed. But those monkeys were the ones who were—“ he cuts off, “I came too late. They had killed her - sacrificed her to purge their village of their curses - a five year old girl,” he frowns, his gaze falling, “they failed to realize they were the true curses. So I purged the world of their existence,” 

You’re quiet for a moment, as he speaks, “she was a child and they ripped her to shreds,” and a tear slips down his cheek. 

Your fingers brush away his tear, before you lean up and kiss him. Your lips glide against his lightly, “it’s not your fault,” 

“I am always too late - I was there - I couldn’t-“ and you know he isn’t just talking about the girl anymore. 

Or at least this one. 

“What happened to Riko wasn’t-" 

“He shot her right through the head in front of me,” 

“You couldn’t sense him - Satoru could barely sense him with his six eyes—"

“Satoru could have stopped it—" 

“Satoru died and came back trying to stop Toji,” you crush your lips to Suguru, if only to get him to stop talking, “there was nothing more you could do,” 

“But I couldn’t stay,” he whispered, “I couldn’t watch more people die - more of my friends die, piled up like offerings on a pyre for animals who only kill us in the end,” 

“I know,” you whisper, “I know-" 

“You don’t,” his voice breaks, “all I could think about was finding your dead body one day,” you cup his cheeks again, pressing your lips to his forehead. 

“I’m right here, I’m not going anywhere,” you murmur, and he kisses you — and he tastes less like blood and more like him — his arms wrapping around your waist, as he pulls you closer, “Suguru,” you shouldn’t be doing this. 

“I just want to feel good,” he murmurs, his eyes lidded with lust, “let me make you feel good, love,” 

His lips brush yours, and the ravine between you shrinks to a crack, as your bodies bridge the gap, before tumbling over the cliff. 

His hands are everywhere. His hands have mapped your body times before, but the gentle and awkwardness had all but faded, only leaving hunger. Already, his fingers are sliding under your shirt, calloused hands sliding over your bare skin. 

His lips only pause when his hands run over a new scar you had gotten right before he had gone rogue, “How did you get this?” 

And his eyes are dark, “I was on that mission, with Nanami and Haibara,” your gaze falls, as his fingers trace the scar, raised and angry still - just as he was, “we got separated. There was two grade 1s instead just the one we were told. I got this when it caught me by surprise,” you swallow thickly, “but I was lucky it was all I got,” you squeeze your eyes shut, “I sometimes wish it was me instead of-" 

“Don’t say that,” his words are as sharp as they always were, sharp as his touch, sharp as the curses that he pushed past his lips and the ones that left them, “don’t ever say that,” 

And his palm curls around your neck, “but-" 

He yanks you into a brutal kiss, forcing you swallow his words, and his tongue, as you moan, as he tastes you, “Still the sweetest thing I’ve tasted, even with the stupid things that leave your mouth,” he almost growls, as he lifts you onto the bed. 

“Suguru,” your back hits the mattress, barely bouncing against the springs before he looms over you - his smile was the same as it always was, but it sent a shiver down your spine - because you realize now how predatory it was, “are we—" 

“You’re mine, love,” his lips hover over yours, teasingly so, as his fingers cup your chin and his breath warms your skin, sending heat to the tips to your already curling toes, “even if I did, we’d find our way back; one way or another,” his lips brush gently over the nape of your neck, “I’d always come for you — one way or another,” 

Your lips meet again, and again, as his hands slide up your sides, but this time bringing your shirt with them, as he lifts it over your head. Your skin prickles at the cold air in the room and at his hot gaze dragging up your body. 

“You’re still the most beautiful things I’ve ever seen,” he whispers, as his hands gently traces the curves of your body, and it makes you shiver - the hands that had slaughtered people earlier today could be this gentle with you. 

“And I still think you’re far more beautiful than I am,” your fingers run through his jet-black locks, “everyone had a crush on you,” 

He snorts, “Everyone?” 

“You should have seen the looks you and Satoru always got,” you roll your eyes, “the two princes of Jujutsu High - and you, you had the personality to match,”

“Well I wasn’t concerned about everyone,” his hands slip over his waist, “I only had eyes for one other,” 

“Satoru?” And he rolls his eyes. 

“Okay two others,” and your hand reaches to smack him, but he’s got both your hands pinned, before he’s leaning down to kiss your neck, “so temperamental,” he chides, “what am I going to do with you, Princess?” 

His other hand slips down your body, past the waistband of your shorts, ripping a gasp from your lips, “already so wet f’me,” his voice rasps with a chuckle, “you’ve been needing me for a while, haven’t you, baby?” 

“Suguru—“ and his fingers between to tease your leaking folds, making you squirm under his touch. 

“So perfect,” his long and lithe finger teases your lips apart, “I’m surprised you haven’t soaked through your shorts, probably thought about me every night I slept next to you - you were waiting for me to roll over and take you, weren’t you, baby?” And his finger finally slips in, your back arching and mouth in a silent ‘o.’ 

And he hums, as he begins to pump his finger, slowly at first, but it isn’t long before another joins, scissoring and stretching you, “you’re soaking the sheets, baby, such a dirty girl,” He leans down taking a nipple between his teeth, sucking harshly. 

“Please,” it was too much, too soon, and he’s grinning as his teeth dig into your soft skin, a soft groan as he feels you clench around his fingers. He holds your legs down in place, humming as they shake under his touch. 

“So fucking tight, can’t wait to feel you around my cock, Princess,” and you’re so fuckin’ close - wound too tight by his touch, by his presence, by him - and when his thumb rubs circles on your clit, your hips begin to ride his fingers. He chuckles, as he leans down to kiss you, “what would the people at Jujutsu High think? Seeing you ride my fingers like a slut? Probably think you’re locked away, waiting for them to save you, not begging for me to fuck you,” 

“Sugu,” and he curls his fingers just right, just as he bends down to suck on your clit. You moan his name, as you fall apart, back arching as you make a mess all over his hand, but his mouth is there to clean it up. His hot breath is the only warning you get before his tongue begins to lap at your drenched folds. 

“Never get enough of you creamin’ all over my fingers for me, pretty girl,” the noises he made as he licked, slurped, and sucked were enough to make you a mess, his lips shiny with your release, “how did I go so long without tasting you, baby? Almost makes swallowing curses worth it if I can eat you out after,” his words were as lewd as the sounds you made, your hips involuntarily fucking his mouth, as he moved his mouth to your clit again, and slipped two fingers in, “tasted so good the first time, gotta have another taste baby,” 

And your initial whine turns into a moan, your fingers finding refuge in the soft locks of his hair, tugging him impossibly closer, as he’s bullying your overstimulated clit with his mouth. And he enjoys it as much as you do, grinding his aching erection into the mattress, his jaw aching as he’s desperate to taste every inch of you and slurp every drop of your pussy will give him. Your thighs close in on him, as he tongue fucks you over and over, gushing as he draws another orgasm from you. 

“Sugu, oh my god-“ and that’s all the warning he gets before your back arches and your toes curl. He’s grinning against your folds as he eagerly swallows your release. The tension snapped like a wire that had been on the last fringes of holding you together, and you fell completely apart. 

Luckily, Suguru was there to put you back together. 

You’re panting, utterly blissed out as you watch him tug off his boxers, his dick already red and so pretty, pearly white bead of pre cum nearly dripping from the tip. You lick your lips looking at him, and he smiles, so sweetly that it sent a shiver down your spine. 

“So needy for me, the man you had refused to love, and now look at you,” he leans down to kiss you, letting you taste the sweet and bitter taste of your release, “such a little slut for me, aren’t you sweetheart? What happened to that mouth on you?” 

He drags his thumb down your bottom lip, as your eyes flutter down to his cock again, “I have better uses for my mouth,” you kiss his chest, teasing his skin with your tongue. 

And then he’s shifting you, your legs pushed up and over his shoulders, as he drags his tip over your dripping folds, “I think I’ll have you use my mouth after I use this naughty cunt, let you clean our cum off me,”

“Sugu, please, fuck,” you cry, and god he can’t wait to see your pretty face cry, as he stuffs your mouth with his dick, but he had patience. He could wait - he had waited long enough. 

“Gonna need you to beg for it,” he murmurs, groaning as your cunt nearly sucking his cock in, “you fought me so long and so hard and now here you are, so pliant f’me, so I need to hear it — who do you belong to?” 

“Suguru—“ and his lips press to yours, sloppily and rough, as if he wants to steal the logic from your mind, but he already had from the moment his lips touched yours, “please,” you whimper, and he’s spanking your cunt. 

“Please, what?” And his lips are curled in a grin as his lips trail kisses along your jaw, “gonna have to hear the words, my filthy girl,” 

And you can’t - you need him, “I’m yours,” your legs lock around his shoulders, “I belong to you, you own me,” 

Your words slip from a whine to a moan, as he sinks his length into you, inch by inch, and it’s enough for him to groan, fuck, it’s enough to make him cum on the spot, “you’re so tight, baby - it’s been too long since I’ve had you, gotta make this cunt remember my shape,”

“I wanted you so bad,” you gasp, as his hands grasp at your thighs, fingernails digging into your soft flesh, “but you kept getting farther away from me, and then you were gone,” and his gaze soften, even as you moan when he bottoms out, “I loved you - I love you—" 

“I love you too - I always have,” his teeth drags into his thigh, sucking and soothing the mark, he presses his cheek to the skin, “I left because I didn’t want to hurt you - and I couldn’t rise to your level,” his fingers tilt your chin to meet his, “so I had to drag you down to mine,” 

You moan as he gives a sharp thrust, “Fuck, Sugu,” as his hips slap against yours, all thoughts evaporating from your mind, as he fucks you, hard and fast, any words you knew dissolve away, leaving only his name behind (and a few choice swear words). 

Meanwhile, Suguru can’t stop speaking, “Never gonna want to leave me again, my sweet girl,” he purrs, “look at this sweet cunt, it doesn’t even want let my cock go without sucking me back in,” his words nearly drowned out by the sloppy noises of both of your cum soaked skin meeting together in thrusts, “tell me you’ll never leave, tell me you’ll stay,” and his movements slow to a stop, as you whine, “tell me,” 

“I’ll never leave you, I can’t,” you look up with eyes glassy with need, “can’t ever leave you, I love you,” and he’s fucking you harder, feeling your walls clench around him as you’re moaning his name as you cum. He comes undone too as you squeeze him, painting your insides with his thick cum. And you’re arching your back as you feel yourself full of him - so fucking good and full — as you come down from your high. 

And then all too soon, he’s pulling out, only to flip you over, on all fours, “Not done yet,” he only murmurs, leaning forward over you, as his still hardening cock bumps against your sensitive clit, “gonna make sure you never forget who you belong to,” his fingers collect your mixed cum dripping down your thighs to only shove it back in your still overly sensitive cunt. 

You lurch forward, knees buckling, as his fingers working you, “still so fucking tight even after I fucked you so good, Princess? Your cunt is still so needy for my cock,” he kisses your clit, before slapping it, the wet squelch enough to make you throb, “you ready for me, my love?” He grunts, raspy and raw. 

“Please,” you whine, and he doesn’t sink in slowly this time - your cunt nearly sucks him in, your mixed releases letting him slip in with ease, “f-fuck,” 

And Suguru hums, all too pleased, “Not so defiant now that you’re fucked out for me, baby,” his hips piston into you, and all you can feel, smell, and taste is him, all you can hear is your blood in your ears and the sloppy noises of Suguru fucking you. 

You were so close — you were so stretched out, his thrusts balls deep, as his hand reached around to turn your face to his to kiss your lips. It was sloppy, his calloused hand gripping your neck, lightly squeezing, as his tongue tasted your mouth, intent on having all of you, swallowing your moans eagerly. 

“Doing so well for me, Princess,” he praises, his jaw set as your walls clench at his cock, “such a fucking good girl for me,” It was as lewd as his other hand reaching around to to rub roughly at your folds, “need you to squirt for me, need you to drench me,” and it’s too much for you. 

You moan his name, shaking as you cum, squirting all over his cock as your release slides down your thighs, and Suguru follows shortly after, with a few rough thrusts, his hands grabbing your shaking hips to hold in place as he spurts his cum again inside you. 

He’s panting and groaning, as he slips from you, a swear leaving his lips as he pulls out, his seed dripping down your thighs as well. 

And you’re slumping on the bed, your sheets sticky with your release and sweat, as he gently turns you over, your chest rising and falling as he settles on top of you. His fingers brush your hair from your face, “Can we discuss moving you to the main house with me now?” He asks softly, as he presses sweet kisses to your flushed skin. 

“Yes,” you murmur, your lips slowly meeting his in a soft kiss, “as much as I don’t agree with your methods still, I can’t live a day without you,” and he smiles, “I can’t help but be drawn to you,” 

“And that’s why I couldn’t let you go - there has to have been a meaning to this,” he smiles, his fingers tracing the curve of your jaw, before he’s guiding your body so that you’re settled between his thighs, his cock brushing against your lips, “and now there always will be.”

✴︎ a/n: so this was inspired by a character ai (which i wanted to credit the creator but i can't find), but this was dark, so read the content warnings. i'm trying out different formats for my fics so excuse the changes. also i never was into geto until season 2 straight up hit me like the isekai truck.

[luna-azzurra]

World-Building Tips

Make Your World Feel Real

Your story's world should feel like it exists even when the characters aren’t in the room. Think about what your characters eat, how they dress, what kind of slang they use, and what’s considered "normal" in their society. You don’t have to include every tiny detail, but just knowing this stuff will help your world feel richer and more immersive. Does everyone have breakfast or skip it? Is fashion important, or do people not care? Little things like that will make your world come to life.

Set Rules for Magic or Tech

If you’ve got magic or futuristic tech in your story, you need clear rules. What can and can’t magic do? What happens when someone pushes the limits of your technology? The worst thing you can do is let magic or tech become a convenient fix for every problem. Readers want to know there are consequences, limits, and logic behind it. If a character can suddenly do something that breaks all the rules, it pulls people out of the story. So, keep it consistent!

Geography Affects Everything

Where your story is set can influence everything about how your world works. A city in the mountains might be hard to reach and isolated, so they’re super independent and maybe even suspicious of outsiders. A coastal town, on the other hand, could be a hub of trade with tons of different cultures blending together. Think about how geography, weather, and natural resources shape not only the setting but the way people live, what they value, and how they interact with others. Is your world full of deserts or dense forests? Does the ocean provide food, or are the people more focused on mining or agriculture? Geography shapes culture, so use it to your advantage!

[kugisakiss]

as promised, the spy x fam parody AU

I had some fun thinking about this like 2 years ago and only made a couple of sketches at the time.. but then I started cleaning them up last month and before I knew it, it spiraled out of control to become this monstrosity. I can't help it, as you can all tell by now, I love coming up with scenarios to get all my little guys interacting with each other

some details i didn't put in:

the Kudou parents are absent like in the show

whatever is happening on Haibara's end is probably super messed up but I haven't thought of any of the details

Akai gets fancy tech stuff, like the voice changer, from Agasa. Agasa comes to help babysit Conan sometimes and he gives him all his little gadgets. Akai hasn't said anything about it but figures he could use it considering the amount of crime he comes across

the facility shinichi was in is like in the original story, it exists to research esp to create super soldiers which is why he knows everything he knows

Conan regularly eavesdrops on Akai and Rei's top secret phone calls which is how he learns their real names. He can't help it, he has really good hearing

Conan and Subaru have different last names because Conan thinks "Okiya" is lame and wants to keep the one he made up on the spot. Their story is that when Subaru and Conan's mother (Edogawa Fumiyo) married, they both kept their own last names and Conan was given Edogawa when he was born. They've kept it this way to "remember Conan's dead mother"

[cordeliawhohung]

In Limbo [Chapter 6]

mafia!141 masterlist | In Limbo masterlist | general masterlist | taglist | playlist

mafia!Simon Riley x fem!Reader

no good deed ever goes unpunished

cw: minor depictions of violence, shady activities, non-con touching/groping, non-con kissing, a lot of hurt, no comfort, playfully shitting on people from Birmingham.

wc: 5k

Small chunks of salt stick to the tips of Simon’s fingers, dusting them like fresh snow. You were right; a simple order of chips really isn’t enough to keep him going throughout the night. 

If anything, the saltiness makes him hungrier. It pummels his stomach until it’s grumbling at an annoying frequency, and it doesn’t do much to help the dryness in his mouth, either. He would have tried to order something if it wasn’t damn near impossible to get anyone to deliver to the club, and god forbid Price actually install a proper kitchen. But there would be no use for any sort of kitchen in a place like that, as it’s not good food that makes people swarm to the club like brainwashed zombies. It’s the booze. The music. A quickie in the stall. 

Shady activities in an alleyway. 

Simon huffs as he tosses the empty chip container in the small bin that sits in the corner of the surveillance room. Monitors upon monitors line the wall on the far side of the room, illuminating the concrete floor with a grey glow as faint music pulses through the air. He hates this room. Small, stuffy, and overheating with the computers and servers; he’d rather be out in the bitter November winter right about now. He’s out of luck tonight, because after nearly two weeks, Johnny’s research has finally bore fruit. 

About time, too. All Simon has been able to think about for the last few days has been you. Sometimes when he closes his eyes, he can still see the outline of your body that’s ingrained in his mind. Your limp, exhausted form as you rested in the conversation pit — too overwhelmed to keep conscious. He doesn’t know why you haunt him so terribly. Perhaps Mrs. Price is to blame; she knows how he never likes leaving a job half done. 

Or maybe it’s because you’re so… peculiar. For a woman he could only describe as being a skittish cat, you’ve suddenly melted into some other version of yourself. Your dislike of his proximity to you was obvious. Short words, awkward exchanges, yet the impulsive need to constantly get even with him, like you were trying to sweep up the breadcrumbs that lead to your door so he couldn’t follow you home. 

However, when he visited you a few days ago to check on your hands — as promised — you seemed to be a whole new person. Well, not entirely. If you were the world’s most skittish cat before, you had now become the feral stray that would maybe eat out of the palm of his hand if he didn’t look at you while you did it. He would ask you questions and you would respond with something more than simple words or an uneasy, anxiety induced joke. 

I’m just… glad you’re not doing it just for me.

He still wonders what you meant by that.

“Hey, you paying attention?” Johnny quips.

Simon blinks the glaze out of his eyes — one which still carries a now greenish-yellow hue around his cheekbone — and pushes the thoughts of you out of his mind as his attention fully settles on the monitors in front of him. A chair squeaks as Johnny settles back against worn, faux leather. He’s already got everything loaded up for whatever presentation he’s about to give. 

“Waitin’ on you, Johnny,” Simon playfully retorts. 

“Right,” he replies, rubbing his hands together, “so I’ve been trying to do some research on your dance partner here, and he’s a slippery fucker. Whoever he is, he’s good at covering his tracks up. At least through the methods I use to find people. Nothin’ on the media or anythin’ like that. Might as well not exist at all in the tech world.” 

A hum rumbles in Simon’s throat as he crosses his arms. “You drag me in here just to tell me you found nothing?” 

Johnny’s neck cranes to the side where he then looks up at him with a smirk. “Come on, Riley, when have I ever wasted your time?” 

Both men turn their attention back to the monitor as Johnny begins to wind and rewind through footage from a few days ago. Everything happens fast; speedy bodies darting across view, and the comedic speed up of light snow falling on the ground, but not sticking. Static streaks across the screen as the footage warps, before it suddenly pauses again. 

“Since I wasn’t able to find anything on this guy, I decided to sleuth through this video again, and I found something a little odd about this bloke here,” Johnny explains as he points to a male figure. Whoever it is, they’re faced away from the camera with their hands shoved deep into their pockets to stave off the cold. “He enters the alley before your pal does…”

The video plays at normal speed, and the faceless man vanishes behind the brick corner of the building a few meters down, just as Johnny described. He fast forwards, and everything plays at triple speed. Simon’s seen it all before. The man who accosted you enters the alleyway, and then you unfortunately come across him a bit later, but then something happens that he hadn’t bothered to pay attention to before. 

The man Johnny pointed out leaves the alley, this time facing the camera. He’s fiddling with something in his hands, and upon closer inspection, Simon’s able to tell it’s a wad of cash. It’s quickly stowed away in his pocket, and that’s when Johnny pauses the video. 

“He leaves as soon as Chip arrives, shovin’ cash into his pocket like he struck a deal,” he concludes. 

Tense fingers grip the back of the office chair as Simon leans over Johnny’s shoulder, squinting at the face on the screen. He scrutinizes every detail possible through the fuzzy footage, and his jaw flexes as he huffs. Square jaw, visible stubble, and eyes just as shifty as his character. 

“He looks familiar,” Simon mutters. 

“He outta. Fucker works here,” Johnny drops. 

A rancid, sour taste floods the back of Simon’s throat at that revelation, and his fingers tense to the point the imitation leather of the chair threatens to crack beneath his grip. Fury rises in the dark irises of his eyes as he leans back and grumbles. It seems like such a simple detail to miss. Something that he should have caught on to the other night, even in his sleep deprived state. If he had, he would have been several leaps closer to the real issue ages ago. 

“Who is he?” Simon demands. 

“Marcel Wylder,” Johnny answers as he twists in his chair to face him. “Works part time as one of the bartenders in the VIP lounge. Only really works on weekends, and according to the floor manager, he’s a good kid. Only twenty three years old. Always shows up on time, things of that sort.”

“Good kids don’t meddle with men who like to scare women in alleyways,” Simon retorts. 

Johnny shrugs. “Guess we all have our dark sides… some more dark than others.” 

It takes a few more moments for Simon to finally get himself to look away from the screen, and his eyes land on Johnny with a malice not meant for him. He’s not quite sure why this revelation angers him so. The sting of failure pricks at his skin too violently for him to ignore it. 

“He here tonight?” he then asks. 

“Yeah, he’s working on the second floor right now. Or, at least that’s where he was last, according to the cameras,” Johnny answers. He pauses to lick his lips and tilt his head at Simon. “You’re brewing something up in that head of yours. None of it looks too cheerful.” 

Swarthy eyes glare back at the monitor as Simon commits this new face and name to memory. Marcel Wylder. Twenty three. Square jaw. Stubble. Thin eyes. 

“Thanks for the intel, Johnny,” is all Simon says as he turns on his heels and walks towards the exit. 

A high pitched squeak echoes off the dull white walls of the room as Johnny spins in his chair to watch him leave. All he can make out are straight set shoulders, clenched fists, and an aura that demands blood. 

“Go easy on the kid!” Johnny calls after him, his voice too saccharine to truly mean it. 

There are very rare times when Simon Riley feels like a savior, but he can’t deny the fact that he feels like Moses when he’s walking through John’s club. All it takes is a single glance or a firm hand on someone’s shoulder, and the mass of pulsing bodies splits for him like the Red Sea. 

This trend continues as he jogs up the wrought iron spiral staircase that leads up to the second floor, and his path to Marcel is highlighted by the mob of patrons crowding the bar. He looks nicer tonight than he did the other night, and his square jaw almost appears defined now that he’s shaved that fuzz off of his face. Pristine dress clothes mark him as a perfect employee as he quickly fills orders and stuffs tips in his pocket all with a thankful smile. Doesn’t look like he’s doing half bad for himself, considering there’s a near topless woman serving booze next to him.

“Marcel!”

Simon’s voice booms louder than the bass of the music, and is so sharp all other sounds nearly seem to cease for a moment. That pathetic sod glances up from his work like a schoolboy being scolded, and his face grows pallid. All it takes is a simple gesture of his fore and middle fingers to get the man to slip from behind the bar and join him in the crowd. Smart kid. Everyone knows not to mess with Riley. 

He leads the boy out behind the building like a lamb to slaughter. Just like a good offering, he’s quiet. Hardly questions anything besides an is everything alright? to which Simon doesn’t respond. Frigid wind attempts to cut through the formidable fabric of Simon’s clothes, but it seems to really do a number on Marcel. Hardly even ten seconds out the door and the poor boy is wrapping his arms around himself and trying hard not to shiver lest he look pathetic in front of the head of security. 

A flickering security light is the only source of illumination in the shady alley, and even in the bleakness of the winter the garbage spoils and festers with a stomach-churning odor. Marcel stands cornered with his back to the wall, and he watches with trepidation as Simon’s hand dives into his pocket. Relief doesn’t fill his face until he realizes it was only a pack of cigarettes he was searching for, and not something nefarious. 

The cancer-stick sits at home between Simon’s lips as he lights it and puffs out a steady stream of smoke until it’s well lit. A gentle breeze whisks it away into the air where it quickly dissipates among the smog smothered stars. Once he’s satisfied, he holds the pack out toward Marcel. 

“You smoke?” he asks. 

“Yes sir,” Marcel answers. 

Simon shakes the pack, and a smile pulls at the boy’s lips.

“Cheers.” 

As Marcel’s trembling hands work on igniting the lighter, Simon takes a better look at him. There’s hardly a single scar on him, and his hands are much too soft to truly be a part of any violent syndicate. Still, anyone can be a mole, even if they’re a smoothed face kid. Besides, he’s got a Brummie accent, and Simon fucking hates Birmingham. 

“What d’ya do outside of workin’ here?” Simon asks. It’s kind enough. Simple, polite conversation — but there’s nothing civil about the look in his eyes as he chews on the filter of his cigarette. 

“School, mostly,” Marcel replies. 

Simon hums. “Uni?”

“Greenwich.”

“Smart.” 

Another exhale of smoke dances between Simon’s lips as he huffs, dark eyes still trained on Marcel. He’s damn near shivering out of his skin as the black fabric of his uniform is designed to whisk away sweat and keep you cool in warm, humid temperatures. No matter, the boy can warm up soon enough — Simon intends for this interaction to be quick. 

“Since you’re a smart kid, you’ll do well to be truthful with me then, yeah?” Simon prompts as he flicks a bit of ash onto the ground. “That bloke you met up with the other night? Who is he?”

Trembling muscles suddenly freeze, and the cigarette seems stuck against Marcel’s lips. There’s no exhale of smoke, or the embers brightening at the tip to show he’s inhaling; there’s nothing. 

“Bloke?” he repeats. 

“The fucker you met up with in the alley a week or two ago,” Simon snaps, already impatient. 

Marcel jumps and the cigarette falls free from between his lips and fingers. It sputters and whines on the ground, where the boy quickly puts it out of its misery by stomping on the embers until they’re no longer glowing. 

“Right, erm, Andrei I think it was.”

“And what did he want?” Simon presses. 

“Well, he had this picture of someone. Some bitch he didn’t want hanging around here I suppose. Was asking me questions about her and stuff,” Marcel replies earnestly. 

A bright pink dusts the tips of Simon’s ears, but it’s impossible to tell if it’s from the cold biting his skin, or the rage boiling through his veins. “What did she look like?” 

“She was dressed mostly in black, kind of similar to our serving uniforms. It looked like it was taken through the window of some restaurant, but I don’t know which one, I swear.” 

Sapori. Teeth nearly cut through the filter of the cigarette as Simon’s jaw clenches, and he rips the thing out of his mouth to toss it on the ground, not even bothering to stomp it out. This man — this Andrei — is getting too close to you for comfort. He thinks back to the way you reacted in the alley; how petrified you were. A terrible thought plagues his mind as he wonders what else has been done to you to get you to fear someone so terribly. 

Simon doesn’t like where his mind is wandering. 

“What questions did he ask about her?” Simon continues.

“Dunno, just regular stuff? I suppose? Like when she was here and who she was with. Things like that,” Marcel answers.

Simon raises an eyebrow. “And?”

“And I told him the truth. About how she was here on Halloween. I mean, I didn’t see much of her so there wasn’t a lot I could tell him. Honest. I think he was mostly looking for confirmation that she was here at all. He didn’t ask for anything else after that and sent me on my way.” 

Acid eats away at Simon’s stomach as the chips he ate before this seem to have a hard time settling with the heavy ire disrupting his mood. Dense feet scrape against the ground as he takes a few steps closer to Marcel, who puts his hands up in defense as if that’s going to do anything against the raging storm barreling straight for him.

“That’s it, that’s everything, honest! I swear!” he pleads. 

“I know. I believe you,” Simon says through gritted teeth. 

Worn knuckles crash into the tense flesh just underneath Marcel’s sternum, stealing the very breath from his lungs. He sputters miserably as his back crashes against the brick wall behind him, but no matter how hard he tries, he can’t breathe. A deep purple hue stains his face as his body begins to jolt and spasm uncontrollably. It’s impossible to keep himself upright with the wind knocked out of him, and he slowly slides onto the ground with his hands over his stomach like he’s trying to stop blood flowing through a wound. 

“You’re a smart boy, so listen close,” Simon says as he crouches to Marcel’s new height. “Be careful who you call a bitch ‘round here, because if I hear you refer to a woman like that again, I’ll knock your goddamn teeth out, ya hear?” 

Still sputtering and heaving, Marcel nods.

“Good. Now, that woman Andrei showed you? Forget her. She doesn’t exist to you. If he comes ‘round here again askin’ about it, you tell him you haven’t seen her, because you won’t. You’ve got nothin’ for him, yeah? Nod,” Simon continues, and Marcel complies. “If anyone ever starts askin’ about any of our patrons or workers, you bring that shit right to me. Don’t you ever go ‘round behind my fuckin’ back again. You think there’s anything that happens here that I don’t know about? Huh?” 

After an eternity of struggle, Marcel is finally able to get a good gasp in, and a few subsequent breaths after that. That bright purple begins to fade from the paleness of his face, and he quivers and shakes his head. 

“N-No sir,” he stutters. “Sor-ry…” 

“Good, and don’t fuckin’ forget that.” 

Simon pushes himself up to his feet and looks down at Marcel as he writhes and chokes on his achy diaphragm. He haphazardly digs around his pocket for his pack before he retrieves a single cigarette and tosses it toward the pathetic lump of a man at his feet. It bounces on the slimy ground before rolling to a stop with specks of dirt sticking to the filter — a shitty attempt at an apology.

“Take a breather, then get back to work,” he orders while he turns to leave, but Simon only gets a few steps away before he pauses. A stiff finger points at Marcel as his attention is quickly brought back to the boy. “Keep in mind, that’s not even half of what I’ve got.” 

Marcel’s pathetic response is drowned out by the uproar of music that fills Simon’s ears as he returns back inside of the club. A thick wall of heat melts the frost off of his skin as his brooding figure cuts through the crowd like a hot knife through butter. His blood continues to boil with clenched fists and heavy breaths. It’s all consuming. Swallowing him whole. Simon doesn’t like being angry. He feels too much like his late father, and sometimes he fears that he looks like him, too. 

Violent, angry, sinister — his intimidating build and threatening demeanor have always been something he’s tried to fight against. A stereotype he’s been trying to break. Yet now that he’s gotten one step closer to uncovering the monsters hiding in your shadows, he’s grateful for it. For once, it’s a tool he can use to his advantage. 

Something he can use to help you. 

Except while Simon is busy taking baby steps through this web of lies, you’re already in the maw of the beast. Frayed string tangles around your fingers as trembling hands attempt to keep themselves busy with a solo game of Cat’s Cradle. It’s already the 25th again, and just like every other month, you’re in perfect position. Sitting properly on a bench with a wad of cash tucked neatly into the envelope that sits inconspicuously on your lap. This is a dance you know well. A dance you don’t think you’ll ever be free from.

Washers and dryers hum around you and clash terribly with the ringing of your ears and the violent pounding of your heart. Trepidation plagues you worse than it usually does on your payment days because you don’t know how Marco is going to react about what Simon did to Andrei. You keep going through possibilities in your mind. Things you need to say to keep him off of Simon’s trail. Ways to apologize to keep him from getting upset. You’ve gone through every option your mind can come up with, yet it doesn’t feel like it’s enough. There’s something you’re still missing. 

But you’ve run out of time. 

Frosty air slices through the warmth of the laundromat and you try your best not to shiver even though you’re already shaking. Marco's cologne drifts along the air, mixing in dissonance with the fragrance of soap and fabric softener. Green eyes scan the small room as he takes note of the single mom folding clothes in the back of the building as her young son watches videos on her phone. It should be comforting to know that you’re not alone — but you’ve learned that you’re never safe, not even when all the cameras in the city are trained on you. 

Your attention stays firmly on your hands as Marco waltzes up and makes himself at home next to you on the bench. The scent of him scorches your nose as his arm wraps around your shoulders. You try not to jump as he involuntarily pulls you closer to him, and you find your fingers clamping down hard on the string in your hands. 

“Long time, no see,” he greets. 

He’s friendlier than he normally is, and that terrifies you. His thumb rubs at your arm through the fabric of your jumper and you feel your heart leap up into your throat. He knows. He knows, and you’re about to pay for it. 

“Did you hear about our good friend, Andrei? Got scuffed up pretty bad the other night,” Marco then prompts.

You swallow your heart down your throat and back into your chest. “Is he alright?” 

“Define alright,” he hums. Long legs spread apart and bump into your thigh, crowding you further like he’s trying to lock you in a cage of flesh. “Busted lip, broken nose. Face is so goddamn swollen he sounds like he’s got a cold.” 

Images of Andrei’s face from the other night sear your mind. Bright red blood trickling down his lips, an appalled expression on his face as if he had never met anyone able to put him in his place before. You should have known then that you wouldn’t walk away unscathed from something like that. You never do.

“What were you even doing there, anyway? At that club?” Marco then asks. 

“I was delivering food,” you answer truthfully. 

“You a delivery driver now? Thought you were a waitress,” he digs. 

“Hostess…” you correct. 

“Who were you delivering to?”

“My friend… her husband owns the club and she was hungry… so… I, well…” you lie. 

Firm fingers dig into your arm as Marco pulls you closer, and you try to keep your bottom lip from trembling. “Ah, right. John fucking Price.”

Shocked, you finally bring yourself to look at him. There’s faint amusement on his face as he stares at the washers in front of him. A mixture of soapy water and colorful clothes dance around in the machine as it gently spins and agitates the fabric. 

“You know him?” you venture to ask. 

A smirk pulls on his lips as he turns his attention to you, and your blood screams at how close his face is to yours. “Don’t worry about that, babe.” 

His eyes capture yours in a way that makes it impossible to look away, like you’re an unfortunate deer caught in the headlights of a car. He wanders down. Down, down, down until he catches sight of the unmarked envelope on your thighs. He grabs it and isn’t at all courteous about where his fingers brush in the process. 

“How did that guy even know you were in that alley? The man who fought with Andrei?” Marco asks.

As he waits for your response, he hits the envelope against the top of your thigh as if he’s bored. Tap, tap, tap. Each time it touches you, you feel your stomach twist. 

“I, uhm, asked the same thing. Said he heard us. Thought I needed help. Guess he was the bouncer outside the VIP entrance during that time. M-My friend said he’s the head of security,” you reply, weaving truth and lies seamlessly together. 

“Yeah, I know who the bastard is,” Marco mutters in reply. 

Something in you wants to press him for an explanation of what he means, but you keep your lips sealed as he folds up the envelope and shoves it into the pocket of his jeans. Your gaze finally breaks away from him as you glance down at your hands. They’re almost fully healed — nothing but faint scars and scabs. You untangle the string from your fingers as you begin to wind it up, hopeful that he’ll leave soon. 

“Well, it doesn't matter. I’m sure it was all one big misunderstanding. No use in getting worked up over it, pet,” he sighs. A pause follows his words, one that’s interrupted by quiet giggling of the child still playing on his mothers phone as she folds clothes somewhere to your right. “Still, some damage was done. Andrei’s been an annoying fuck ever since the altercation. As much as I would love to let you get off easy, it doesn’t really look too good if I’m letting some sweet, pretty thing walk all over me, now does it?” 

Your eyes flutter shut as he speaks, and you attempt to mentally prepare yourself for whatever blow he’s about to deal to you. Of course it was naive to think you’d get out of this easily. In fact, you had planned to be hurt in some type of way. All you wanted to do was throw Marco off of Simon’s trail, and though it feels like you’ve succeeded for now, you’re not quite sure if you even accomplished that much. 

“It doesn’t,” you pitifully agree. 

Marco smirks. “Because of that, your monthly payments will be increased by five hundred starting next month.” 

The very blood coursing through your veins turns to ice, and tears blur your vision when you open your eyes. Five hundred. A brutal panic wreaks havoc in your chest. You want to sob, and scream, and thrash but his hand is still on your arm, keeping you chained to him. Gluttonous fingers stain your skin and his leg is still pressed against yours and you can feel the disgusting warmth of his body and you can’t. You can’t. You want to rage, but you’re cornered and trapped, and there’s nothing you can do about it. 

“B-But that’s… that’s fifteen hundred a month, I… I’ve hardly- I can’t make that.”

You’re crying now, and you hate it. Hate how weak and pathetic you are. White hot tears cook your cheeks as they travel down your face, and you’re trying your best not to hiccup. Suddenly, you’re a kid all over again. Fawning, trying not to flinch as his hand reaches for your jaw to turn your face to him. His breath smells minty as it fans across the wet streaks on your face — he’s so close you can almost taste the menthol. There’s a small frown on his lips, something that almost looks sincere, but his eyes are too hungry for it to be real. 

“Look at you,” he shushes. His hand moves up to cup your cheek as his arm keeps steady and firm around your shoulders.“Getting all upset over this? If it means that much to you, we can always negotiate lower, babe.” 

It takes an eternity for his lips to meet yours, and once they do, everything freezes. The only thing you can comprehend is the ringing in your ears and warm shame on your skin. It’s degrading. Humiliating. A terrible reminder that you’ve never really belonged to yourself. Never really belonged to anyone or anything but him.

Things get worse when his tongue pushes past your lips. Everything becomes ten times louder — the washers and dryers, the video on that damn phone, Marco’s slight moan against your skin. You make a pitiful attempt to fight back by pressing your hands on his chest, but he only pulls you closer, holding you tight like a coiling snake. 

Something in you demands blood. You feel obligated to bite down, to sink your teeth into his tongue until the mint in your mouth is replaced with iron and copper. When you were a kid, your dad taught you how to throw a punch. You wonder what he would think if he saw you now, too afraid to fight back. 

Once he’s had his fill of your fear, Marco pulls away, but you still can’t breathe. Using his thumb, he wipes a stray tear from your face, and you can tell by his slick snicker that he savors the feeling. 

“For that, we’ll drop it down to three fifty,” he whispers. He places another kiss against your lips — something chaste and quick — before he releases you and stands to his feet. “See you next month, pet.” 

Marco leaves just how he arrived — with a gust of bitter, frigid wind. He’s taken something from you that you won’t get back, and it’s left you feeling empty on that bench. So void, so barren of anything, that you can’t even bring yourself to move. All you can do is sit there and curse yourself for being just as worthless as the day you were when you first got yourself stuck in this mess. 

Shuffling sounds on your right, and you nearly jump out of your skin and look up at the source of the sound. It’s that lady and her son. You’d nearly forgotten about them. A small basket of neatly folded clothes sits on her hip as she’s holding the boy's hand to lead him out of the laundromat. There’s a look of disgust on her face, like she can smell every single sin that’s ever been forced upon you. As if you are at fault for the grotesque display of affection you were made to endure. 

As she exits, you try not to think about why she didn’t help you. If anything, you’re grateful for it. No more favors. No random acts of kindness. It never turns out well. No good deed ever goes unpunished. Instead, you rise to your feet a few minutes after she leaves, wiping your face clean before you brave the cold streets of London to make your way back home. You promise yourself that once you get home, you’ll wash your mouth out with soap, and then call Sapori to see if you can pick up an extra shift for tonight. 

No matter what, you can’t take Marco’s offer — that terrible promise he made you all those years ago. Maybe one day you won’t have a choice, but for now, you’re content on working until your hands bleed.

[buckyalpine]

I'm just throwing out an idea while attending to my garden of boundless wips but just imagine the compound getting attacked and the one area that's the most damaged is the lab. Hackers want to steal all the Stark technology and they stop at nothing, waiting for the team to leave before they destroy the building, blowing the structure till it crumbles. The only one still remaining in the building is the lab tech.

The jet nears the compound; Tony and Steve are already suited up again while Sam adjusts his wings, Nat and Clint armed and ready to go.

Everyone but Bucky.

"Tony was anyone still in the building?" His face is filled with horror, staring at the smoke emitting from the areas that were hit, his heart hammering against his chest.

"My lab tech, y/n, she was still working when we left" Tony ran a hand over his face and the color drains from Bucky's cheeks.

"WHERE IS SHE" Bucky does everything in his power not to lose control, snapping back into soldier mode and strapping his weapons, shoving past Steve so he can jump out first as they near the compound.

"Barnes its okay, we'll find her" Tony reassures him but he can't hide the confusion on his face because why on earth was Bucky this concerned over his lab assistant. They had never spoken a word to each other, in fact he didn't even realize Bucky knew you existed.

"She's pregnant!" Bucky had never sounded so scared in his life, pulling himself together to keep from breaking down.

"What-when-how-how do you know" Tony had never felt more confused in his life while the others all whip their heads around, shocked at what he'd just said.

"That's my wife"

The jet doors open and Bucky is the first one out, sprinting through smoke and flames till he gets to the worst part of what's left, debris and rubble scattered over the floor. Bodies hit the floor as he takes out anyone that he sees without a second guess. He frantically searches, holding back his emotions till he spots the broken glasses first. Dust and crumbles cement cover your unconscious form, blood dripping from you forehead and he doesn't pause to try and wake you up himself.

She's in his arms and he's rushing to the med wing while the rest of the team trail behind him, seeing as he's already killed anyone that broke in. Once your taken in, all he can do is wait, pacing up and down the hall till he's given the all clear to see you. He sits by your bed, desperately holding onto your hand, Steve being the first to check on his best friend while the the others quietly enter after.

No one breathes a word till you finally open your eyes, giving you and Bucky privacy till you're ready to see the others. He's tucked into bed with you as they enter, his arm wrapped around your tummy, rubbing soft circles with his metal hand. You weren't showing much yet, seeing as it was still early on.

"Okay, spill, when did you marry my lab tech" Tony playfully teased while Bucky blushed, hugging you closer.

"Last year" He admitted, while Steve smirked, coming over to check on you.

"Doing okay sweetheart?" The blonde asked, plopping down on a chair beside your bed, smiling when you nodded, "How's my godchild"

"You knew?" Sam wacked Steve's shoulder only to be met with a snicker from both soldiers.

"Who do you think was the bestman" The captain smiled proudly while you giggled, giving Tony a sheepish smile.

"I was gonna tell you Mr. Stark"

"When, did you think I wouldn't notice a little super soldier running around the lab?" He cocked an eyebrow with a smile.

"You knew?" Sam repeated, still deeply offended while Steve shook his head, kissing your forehead before getting up so you could get some rest. The rest of the team followed after, deciding to bombard the two of you with questions after you'd slept.

"YOU KNEW?"

"Give it a rest Sam"

"I'm sorry, Mr. Almighty Captain, Never lies, Sir Honest A Lot, YOU KNEW?"

"Sam"

"YOU KNEW?!"

I'm sorry, this wasn't the most organized drabble, just an idea I wanted to toss out into the world.

[dirtyvulture]

Envy and Venom - Part 3

Heiress!Natasha Romanoff x CEO!Beefy!Fem!Reader

18+ only, read at your own risk

Summary: You are the notorious playboy who just inherited one of the biggest tech companies in the world. Your first move? Sleeping with the heiress of your rival company.

Word count: 4990

AN: Y'all are getting fed with this one. Have fun. :)

Click here for Part 2!

Thanks to @mostlymarvelsstuff for helping with some Russian translations lol.

DAY 34

“Do you have everything ready? Your presentation, your notes?” your dad asks.

“Yes, yes,” you tell him for what feels like the thousandth time. 

“This is where the comeback starts,” your dad says, and sometimes you wish he would just claim back his title. You were sick and tired of his coaching, even if you needed it a little bit. But if Envy Industries had gotten into this mess because of you, then you were the only person who could get them out of it. “I know I can’t be there in person–”

“I know, I know,” you dismiss. You were well aware of his vacation plans to the Maldives with his new girlfriend. Besides Envy, it was the only thing he wanted to talk about nowadays. But you still didn’t even know her name, and were certain he’d find a new one before the end of his trip.

“Tony will be there with you, right? He’ll keep you on track,” your dad continues, inching into sensitive territory now. Even though he denied it every time you confronted him, you knew he was always worried about you stepping into the CEO role because you were a woman. Hearing the doubts from the public and the competition hardly bothered you, but from your own father, it was like a punch to the face. Especially when you were not exactly proving him wrong given how things had played out since your first day.

“Who cares if Tony is there or not?” you snap, losing your patience. “He’s not the one giving the presentation. He’ll just be standing behind the curtain, stealing all the free merch, and–”

“Okay, that’s enough,” your dad cuts you off. “I want you to call me again tomorrow. We’ll run over your presentation again–”

“I’ll think about it.” You slam the handset on the receiver, a satisfying motion that could not be accomplished with modern telephonic devices. You try not to give the upcoming presentation any more thought–it was already stressing you out enough. Maybe an hour in the gym would take your mind off things. 

Your decision made, you step away from your desk to your private walk-in closet, rifling through the selection of workout clothes hanging there. All of them were custom-cut to your exact body dimensions to ensure the best fit and look. Although you were no professional athlete, you treated yourself as if you were one (and you certainly looked the part). 

But right now, you couldn’t care less what you looked like or what you were wearing as you grabbed the first set of clothes you could reach, slipping them on and grabbing your Louis Vuitton gym bag, monogrammed with your initials. You lightly jog out of your office, moving fast enough that people will think you’re in a rush and not stop you. The gym is on the tenth floor of the building, and because it’s just after lunch, most people are back at their desks. But you set your own schedule, so you’re happy to find that it isn’t too crowded and you quickly get warmed up before you start lifting.

In between sets, you check your phone, a bad habit that doesn’t exist when you’re with your training coach, but he’s not around to scold you, so you can do as you please. In the tracking app, Natasha’s red dot blinks in the Upper West Side of Manhattan, hardly three miles away from your current location in Envy Industries. 

She was hanging out at Black Widow Corporation headquarters, just where you expected her to be. She had an unsurprisingly predictable schedule, splitting her time just between work and home, which you discovered was in an apartment just a few blocks down the street from yours. You wonder if she lived on her own or with her father, who was likely paying for her housing either way. 

Natasha was not quite the self-made woman that you were. Her work was significantly more behind the scenes, which was one reason why you had never heard of her before. Alexei Shostakov was the only name you associated with Black Widow Corp. But you had done your own digging on her and her family the past few days. There was frustratingly little about Natasha and you were ready to hire a private investigator due to your lack of results. 

All you had learned was that she had graduated magna cum laude from Virginia Tech with a degree in economics, where she also held a brief internship at the university’s infamous Gamma Lab before it was shut down after the sudden death of its lead researcher. You assumed she had gone immediately to work for Black Widow Corp after her graduation; there was no other work history for her anywhere. No social media, no public interviews. This woman fascinated you more and more. 

After a final set of deadlifts, you re-rack all the weights because you’re not that much of a heathen and check your phone again. Natasha is no longer at Black Widow Corp, her red dot moving steadily through 86th Street that cut through Central Park. Your heart rate jumps, and not because of your workout. You sit down on a bench to steady yourself, watching as the red dot continues through Central Park. When she turns right on Park Avenue, you know exactly where she’s heading.

Hopefully you could intercept her first.

***********************************************************************

“Where are you going?” 

Natasha curses under her breath as she turns around to see Yelena standing in the lobby, her arms crossed over her chest like a scorned mother catching her child sneaking out of the house.

“What?” Natasha rounds on her sister, annoyed that she’s been watching her like a hawk.

“The board of directors meeting starts in seven minutes,” Yelena says, and Natasha curses under her breath because she forgot all about that.

“Dad can handle it without me,” Natasha replies, eager to get the heat off of her as soon as she can.

“They’ll be talking about CES,” Yelena reminds her, referencing the important annual show where the biggest tech companies came together in Vegas to reveal their newest inventions and products.

“You’re not going to CES,” Natasha points out, surprised her sister even knows its proper name. Since the company was going to fall on her shoulders once their father stepped down, Natasha had spent almost the entirety of her adult life learning, training, and breathing business and technology. Yelena had been able to pursue her own hopes and dreams, starting in the private security field until she had enough experience (and enough of Dad’s money) to start her own company. She was happy and thriving, something Natasha was endlessly jealous of.

Yelena had never experienced the pressure of managing billions of dollars in and out the door. She didn’t know what it was like to fight off every insecure man who couldn’t bear to do a business deal with a woman. She hadn’t spent hundreds of hours trying to learn coding languages and complicated mathematics and equations on her own. Yelena didn’t understand what Natasha had spared her from, and Natasha was afraid she would never be grateful for it.

“Yes, but you’re going to CES,” Yelena says.

“You’re not my babysitter,” Natasha snaps, turning away and marching towards the door. 

“You’re going to see her again, aren’t you?”

“What?” Natasha stops. “Who the hell are you talking about?”

“That CEO you’re in love with.”

“Excuse me?” But Natasha’s face is flaming red as she struts over to confront her sister. “I am not in love with anyone. You know that.”

“You seem to be spending an awful lot of time with that CEO.”

“No, I’m not.”

Yelena smirks. “I own a private security company, sestra. You don’t think I know my own sister’s whereabouts and who she’s with?”

Natasha’s heart sinks, but she tries not to let it show. “Why can’t you ever just mind your own fucking business?” she growls, immediately regretting the harshness of her words when she sees her sister’s face fall. But she’s too proud to take it back.

“I don’t think it’s safe if you keep seeing her,” Yelena says. “And you don’t know what it could do for the company–”

“Why do you care about the company so much all of a sudden?” Natasha counters. “Dad’s not giving it to you when he steps down.”

“I don’t want it,” Yelena replies, although she looks hurt. “But to be quite honest, I don’t like what it’s turning you into.”

“Which is what?”

“This!” Yelena waves her arms at Natasha frantically. “It’s always ‘Black Widow this, Black Widow that.’ You don’t have any hobbies anymore. You never eat dinner with the rest of the family. You don’t go out unless it’s to see that CEO–”

Natasha interrupts her with a huff. “You wouldn’t understand, Yelena,” she says, trying a different approach and maintaining complete calm. “You can just stay holed up in your one-windowed office to spy on people and let the real adults go out in the real world and handle real shit.” With that, she spins on her heel and storms out of the building. 

***********************************************************************

“Why are you into shooting all of a sudden? Have you ever even held a gun before?” Tony asks, staring at you with a dropped jaw.

You shrug. “I need some new hobbies,” you lie.

“You’re not going to shoot someone with it, are you?” he half-jokes, his chuckle quickly dying up when you don’t laugh with him.

“No, of course not,” you mumble unconvincingly.

“Okay, well, when do you need the gun by?” he asks.

“How fast does Bucky work?”

Tony shrugs. “If I call him now, he can have one to me by the end of the day.”

“Okay.” The sooner the better, because it gave you less time to back out of your plan. “That works.”

“So, are we going big-game hunting in Africa this summer?” Tony asks, giving you a sharp nudge before starting his car.

“Maybe, maybe…” But you have a different target in mind.

The gun is surprisingly heavy, oily, and unfamiliar in your palm. Bucky had gone over the four “rules” of gun handling, which shocked you that he even knew:

Treat every gun like it was loaded

Don’t point it at something you aren’t willing to shoot.

Keep your finger off the trigger until you’re ready to shoot.

Be mindful of your target and what’s around it.

He had given you a full box of ammo for “good luck” too, before jumping back into his car and driving away faster than you could read his license plate.

Currently, you sit in the darkness of your apartment, weighing the gun in your hand. Your heart is beating so hard against your ribcage you swear you can hear it. 

You check your phone. Natasha’s just parked her car in the parking garage. It should only take her a few minutes to ride the elevator up. You hadn’t even bothered to change out of your workout clothes, worried that she would arrive at your apartment before you did, but you had just barely made it on time.

Her red dot blinks in place on your screen. She’s in the elevator.

Your eyes flit to the front door, the gun feeling even heavier in your hand. 

The seconds drag on. 

You hold your breath for as long as you can between inhalations, heart pounding, ears straining for any sound of movement outside your apartment door.

Beep, beep.

A key card–yours–registers at the door lock. The handle pushes down from the outside and you snap to attention. 

Don’t miss, you tell yourself.

The door parts open, almost hesitantly, like your uninvited intruder is suddenly unsure of themselves. In the darkness, you see a figure slip through the door and close it behind her. Her body shape gives her away immediately. The thick thighs in black jeans, the curve of her hips leading up to her narrow waist, the fullness of her bosom stretching out the tight shirt she’s wearing.

When Natasha steps into the light, she freezes when she sees you sitting at the kitchen table, gun cocked in her direction.

“It’s about time you showed up,” you greet. “Building security didn’t question you when you used my key card to get in?”

“Clearly not,” Natasha says, her stance tense and wary.

“Come sit down. We should talk,” you invite, gesturing with the gun and breaking Bucky’s rule number one. Natasha stiffly walks towards you, her face an impassive shadow. You’ve never seen her genuinely scared before and it delights you that for once, you have the upper hand on her. You kick out a chair and she sits next to you. 

“Didn’t expect this, did you?” you ask. “Probably thought you could just waltz right in here and steal more of my shit?”

“Y/N–”

“Shut the fuck up.” You’re tired of listening to her excuses. You rest the gun on the table. “Is Black Widow going to CES?”

“Yes,” she says. “Like we do every year–”

“Well, there’s going to be some changes this year,” you interrupt. “Get your phone out. Call your dad. Black Widow Corp is going to be a no-show this year.”

Natasha balks. “That…That won’t be possible.”

You pick the gun back up and point it at her, breaking rule number two. “Then make it possible.”

“You won’t shoot me.”

“You don’t think this is real?” You point the gun at the table. Rule number three. You pull the trigger. Rule number four. The gun bucks in your hand, the blast reverberating around your apartment with enough power to rattle your teeth. Natasha flinches even though you hadn’t aimed anywhere near her. “No one can hear us,” you say with a chuckle. “I had the apartment soundproofed years ago to stop the neighbors from complaining.” 

She stares at the gun.

“Take your phone out now. And call your dad.” You hope you don’t have to ask again.

With shaking hands, she finally obeys, placing her phone on the table. “Put it on speakerphone,” you demand. Natasha presses a few buttons and you hear the dial-up tone.

“Privet, doch',” Alexei booms.

“English,” you hiss.

“Hi, Dad,” Natasha says, side-eyeing you uncertainly. “We, uh…We need to talk about CES.”

“Good, I just got out of the meeting with the board–”

“Black Widow can’t show up this year.”

Alexei’s surprise is palpable. “What, Natasha? What are you talking about?”

“We need to call off our appearance,” she says, her voice shaking. “Just for this year. We’ll go again next year like we normally do–”

“What’s wrong with this year?” Alexei asks.

Natasha looks at you, her eyes begging. You shake the gun to remind her you’re serious. “I…uh…I don’t think our tech is ready for the show,” she says. “You know how disastrous it can be if we unveil something that isn’t completely ready.”

“But we’ve been working on Project Transformer for months, Natasha. It’s plenty ready–”

“No. Dad, please.” She grits her teeth. “I was looking through the code last night with the engineers. There’s a bug in the programming. It’s going to take at least a few weeks to smooth out. We can’t debut right now, Dad.”

Alexei curses in Russian. “Shit. The board really liked our presentation.”

“I know.”

“I wish you would have told me earlier.”

“I know,” Natasha repeats. “But we only just discovered it this week.” 

There is more silence, punctuated by Russian grumblings from Alexei. “Okay, okay. I’ll make a few calls. Too bad we’ll be losing out on our reservation fee too.”

“It’s a small price to pay.” Natasha’s eyes dart to you again. “Sorry for all the trouble, Dad.”

“Where are you?” Alexei asks. “We missed you at the meeting.”

“I’m out.”

“Will you come to dinner tonight?”

“Yes.”

“Good, good. Proshchay, dorogaya.”

“Bye, Dad.” Alexei hangs up first.

You slowly clap your hands. “Good girl. Was that so hard?” Your chest swells with pride at your achievement. Maybe now she would have more respect for you. You know she only saw you as a piece of meat. But you were much, much more than that.

“Fuck you,” Natasha spits.

“Oh, are we still doing that?” You put the gun down on the table, this time facing it away from her. You part your legs slightly, inviting her between them. Natasha glares at you with emerald daggered eyes. “Don’t be shy, baby,” you say, your voice deepening. “I got what I wanted today. It’s only fair you don’t leave here empty-handed too.”

Natasha shoots up and marches over to you. For a second, you think she’s going to hit you, but instead she straddles your lap and kisses you so hard you’re sure she’s bruised your lips. The ferocity is both frightening and arousing as she tears off your workout shirt and shorts. She palms at your left breast roughly, sinking her nails into your abs and dragging them down to your belly button. You groan into her mouth when she bites your bottom lip. She’s never been this aggressive with you before, but you know she’s taking out her frustration on you.

And you absolutely love it.

“Now that I’m done fucking with your company, you want me to fuck you until you can’t walk?” you whisper, shoving your bare thigh between her legs. The friction from her jeans burns your skin, but you hardly register the pain. 

“You’ll have to carry me out,” Natasha says, trailing her fingers down the vein on your bicep.

“Deal.” You kiss her again, slipping your muscular arms under her thighs and standing up with her. You carry her to your bed, leaving her to undress while you grab your strap from its drawer and slip it over your legs. When you turn back, she’s shimmying off her lacy black panties and the feral urge to keep your promise overrides all your senses. 

You pick her back up and she hooks her legs around your waist, her arms circling your neck. She presses her naked chest against yours, both of you moaning in unison when your nipples brush together. You walk with her until Natasha’s back bumps into the wall, shifting her weight off your arms to the wall. You maneuver your right hand to grab onto your strap, lining it up with Natasha’s center. 

“Are you ready for me?” you ask, rubbing the tip of your cock over her soaking entrance. Natasha’s whines at your teasing, her fingers tangling in your hair and jerking at your roots painfully. 

“Fucking ruin me,” she begs.

You slam your hips forward, burying your entire cock in her in one move. Natasha screams, tearing her nails down your back. Your big hands grip onto her waist to hold her in place as you thrust into her tight heat, your abs flexing and tensing. Natasha’s body rolls with yours, her head falling back against the wall, exposing the perfect column of her neck to you. You lean forward to decorate it with your marks, so every time she undresses for the next week, she’ll be reminded of you.

The only item of “clothing” she still wears is a thin silver necklace with a rectangular charm hanging from the chain. It bounces in the hollow of her throat every time you thrust into her.

“Y/N, oh, Y/N,” Natasha chants, music to your ears as you keep your relentless pace. Your thighs, already spent from your gym session, are absolutely on fire now, so you need her to finish quickly before you drop her. You shift the angle of your hips, bumping the top of your cock against her clit with every stroke. Natasha squirms and moans, trying to find a rhythm with you, but she’s so close she can’t match you at all. 

“Tell me when you’re gonna cum, baby,” you pant. 

“Soon,” she moans. “Go harder. Don’t stop.”

You’re afraid you’re going to break her with how hard you’re thrusting into her. But finally, her body tenses in your hands and you know she’s finished all over your cock. You’re grateful to slow your thrusts as she comes down from her high, your entire body sweaty and buzzing with adrenaline. You slip your arms under her quivering thighs and stumble back to the bed, collapsing onto it with your legs hanging off the edge, Natasha panting on top of you. 

You’re not sure who’s more exhausted, you or her. You lay there unmoving, trying to catch your breath, which Natasha does before you. She sits up, slowly pulling your cock out of her and crawling up your body to kiss you messily. Her tongue slips into your mouth, but you’re too tired to return her fervor very much. 

“What’s wrong, sweetheart? Am I too much for you?” she teases, cupping your chest and pinching your nipples. 

“No, just give me a minute,” you grumble. It was rare to meet someone with stamina like hers. And as much as you prided yourself on yours, you feel like you may have met your match with Natasha Romanoff. Your arms and chest are covered in her scratch marks, and your back still stings a little. Natasha traces the scratches gently.

“Mine,” she murmurs.

“Hmm?” you grunt, not sure if you heard her correctly.

She props herself up on your chest to look at you. “I can give you a minute,” she purrs, her voice becoming husky and seductive. Natasha slides down your body, resting her knees on the floor and tugging the harness of your strap down your legs. You can hardly lift your hips high enough off the bed to help her, embarrassed by how tired you are. Natasha grabs your calves to lift your feet up one at a time to remove the harness and throw it to the side. She rubs her hand  across your defined abdomen, stoking the fire in your belly again.

“Don’t move, baby,” she says. “I’ll take care of you.”

“Huh?” You lift your head high enough to see Natasha’s head between your legs, her mouth lowering onto you. It’s like a lightning bolt of pleasure that shoots through your core and you moan loudly in appreciation. Natasha makes eye contact with you as she slips her tongue into you, smiling as you pant and squirm. 

“Oh, God. Fuck me,” you gasp, dropping your head back on the bed. Your hands claw at the sheets as her tongue explores your walls. Natasha pushes apart your muscular thighs to make more room for her, pushing so deep into you her nose bumps against you. Your chest heaves as you struggle to breathe evenly, arching your lower back off the bed in a silent plea for more. 

Natasha eats you out like she’d been starving for a week, her tongue alternating between swirling around your throbbing clit and pushing through your clenching walls.

You finally find the strength to lift your right leg, twisting it sideways at the knee and hooking it around the back of Natasha’s head, pressing your calf against her scalp and dragging her closer. You reach down with your hand to tangle it in Natasha’s flaming red hair, pushing her down so she isn’t tempted to pull away right when you reach the edge of release. 

“Nat,” you whine. “Please, baby. You’re gonna make me cum.”

Natasha hums against you, the vibrations finally causing you to lose control. Your entire body goes limp as Natasha cleans up all the slick between your legs, then climbs back up to rest on you like you’re her personal pillow.

“Gimme a kiss,” you mumble and Natasha presses her lips to yours obediently. She tucks her head in the crook of your collarbone and you stroke her hair absently. “If I fall asleep, are you gonna leave again before I wake up?” you ask, your voice sounding small. 

“Only if you want me to,” Natasha murmurs. 

“I know I’m supposed to hate you, but I don’t know if I can,” you admit.

“Then don’t,” Natasha says. “Because I was thinking about it too, and…I think we should go public.”

“Public? Like us being…” You can’t even finish your own sentence.

“Mhmm.” Natasha nods against your chest.

“You can’t be fucking serious,” you scoff.

“No, I’m fucking you.”

“And you’re done. Right?” Your eyebrows scrunch together at the dual meaning of your words. Natasha doesn’t say anything. “At the very least, you owe me fifteen-billion-dollars before we can go public about anything,” you say, referencing the amount your company lost in the last month when Black Widow Corp pulled the rug out from under your feet.  

“Done.” Natasha searches around your bed for her phone. “What’s your bank account number?” 

“What are you doing? Seriously.” You’re a little lost now. 

“Well, our dads spent all their time fighting each other,” she says.

“Not fucking?” you joke.

“I can’t confirm that,” she says with a smirk. “But I was thinking about it. And I know Envy hasn’t been doing so well lately–”

“Because you sabotaged our contracts and stole our ideas,” you remind her.

Again, Natasha does not confirm nor deny this fact. “But what if instead of competing, we…helped each other out?”

“Like a collaboration?” you ask. Your father had specifically warned you against any kind of “collaboration” work with another company. You weren’t running a YouTube channel. You had a multibillion-dollar business. It was your responsibility to look out for the well-being of your company and your company only, damn philanthropic endeavors, personal favors, and relationships.

“We can work something out,” Natasha insists.

“Did you go through all of this just to ask me that?” you ask.

“No.” Now, Natasha looks away from you. “I mean, at first, yes. I thought you would just be a hot one-night stand. And yes, you were–” You raise an eyebrow. “–But you’re also a lot more than that.” Validation burns through your veins to hear this. “You’re smart, you know the tech, and you know how to run a business. And you’re the hottest CEO in the country and the best person who’s ever taken me to bed,” Natasha says. You think you’re going to combust at the praise. “I can’t stop thinking about you. I can’t stop thinking about us. And what we could accomplish together.”

It takes a few seconds to let her words process. “I don’t know how this could work,” you say, the logical side of you taking over for once. “We’re not regular people, Nat. The future of this country is literally in our hands. The public watches our every move and criticizes every decision we make. People like us need whole PR teams to manage their relationships.”

“Fuck the PR teams,” Natasha says. “If we like each other, then why can’t we be together?”

It had been years since you had publicly been in a relationship with someone. After all, it was so much simpler to cycle through partners and not have to worry about commitment or any long-term decisions. But deep down, you were cripplingly lonely and terrified you wouldn’t be able to find someone who would settle with you. 

Because truth be told, your lifestyle was not for many. Most people couldn’t handle the pressure you were subjected to every day. The never-ending torrents of judgment. The borderline-criminal way you were stalked by reporters and paparazzi. The unreal expectations you were held to by people you’d never even met.

But out of all the people you had ever been with, Natasha Romanoff was the one with the best chance of understanding all that. She knew what she was getting herself into, because your life would be her reality the day her father passed on the company. Of course it wouldn’t hurt her to get some practice beforehand.

“I want you to be mine,” Natasha says suddenly. She reaches up to her neck, her fingers brushing the hickeys you left there, before unclipping the silver necklace. She puts it around yours, flipping the charm around so you can see that it reads “Natasha.”

“Baby…” You didn’t even care what your dad’s reaction to hearing the news would be. How would the public react? The consumers? The shareholders? At your level, it was unavoidable crossing the line between professional and personal interests. People would either cheer you on or vow to never use another Envy product again.

But Envy had been tanking ever since you took the helm. Maybe this was what you needed to bounce back…courtesy of the same woman who ruined you in the first place. The math seemed to add up–Natasha would cancel out herself, wouldn’t she?

Natasha interlaces her fingers with yours, distracting your thinking. “We could be the most powerful couple in the tech industry. In the world,” she says. “Isn’t that what you always wanted?”

“Yes,” you sigh, although that’s not really the truth. There was one thing you wanted more than power, money, and fame.

“Then don’t be afraid, sweetheart.” She squeezes your fingers. “With me, you’ll have everything you want and more.”

A rush of emotions suddenly overwhelms you–fear, annoyance, love, envy, and venom. You would kick yourself in the head if you missed out on the chance to be with Natasha, but you also weren’t entirely convinced this was the right move. 

“Y/N.” The way she says your voice is desperate and pleading, like she too can’t be without you.

“Okay.” You make up your mind in an instant. “Okay, baby. Let’s do it.”

Natasha beams, snuggling closer to you. The two of you say nothing further, and her steady breathing quickly lulls you to sleep. Natasha holds onto you even as she feels your body relax under her. She turns her head to look at the gun you left on the table, wondering what it would feel like in her hand, to hold against your head.

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

AN: These two are for real going to be the death of me. 😩

Please like, reblog, and comment! Follow for more content. 🥰

[creature-wizard]

Scams, Hoaxes, Conspiracy Theories, & Cults Everyone Should Know About

Jilly Juice: Jillian Mai Thi Epperly claimed drinking sixteen cups of her super salty cabbage concoction each day could regrow missing limbs and cure everything from cancer to homosexuality. In reality, overdosing on so much salt caused followers a host of health issues that Epperley dismissed as "healing symptoms."

Nonhuman Body Hoax: Jaime Maussan attempted to pass off mummified human remains as nonhuman beings to the Mexican government. (This isn't even Maussan's first hoax, by the way. He has a history.)

Love Has Won: Amy Carlson, a woman who'd walked out on her own children, started a New Age cult in which she presented herself as "Mother God," the creator of the universe. She claimed to be in contact with dead celebrities and alien beings, and taught a conspiratorial worldview. As her health declined, she attempted to treat herself with colloidal silver and alcohol, and her behavior became increasingly abusive. When she finally died, her followers sincerely believed she would return to life and kept her body in a sleeping bag. (She did not return to life.)

Seed Faith Offerings: Reverend Gene Ewing came up with the perfect get-rich-quick scheme to prey on desperate Christian believers: tell believers that if they "sowed seed" by giving money to him, God would bless them with even more money in the future. He made millions of dollars from these donations, while most of his followers never saw the miraculous returns they were promised.

William Walker Atkinson: In the early 20th century, William Walker Atkinson wrote around one hundred books, many of which he wrote under various pseudonyms. Some of these pseudonyms included alleged Hindu mystics. That's right - this guy was practicing literary brownface to sell his mystical ideas.

The LDS Church: In the 19th century, a man named Joseph Smith claimed that an angel had told him where to dig up a set of golden plates that were supposedly written by ancient Hebrews who'd come to North America. Smith even had eleven close associates who vouched for the plates' existence. Yet the script they were allegedly written in bore no relation to actual ancient scripts of the Near East, and the the names the locations in the books he "translated" were very obviously derived from placenames he would have been familiar with. (For example, Oneida/Onidah.) Oh, and actual archaeology and DNA studies have discredited pretty much everything from this guy's weird racist narrative.

Fake Cancer, Fake Cure: Wellness entrepreneur Belle Gibson claimed that she'd cured her brain cancer with natural remedies. Gibson never actually had cancer in the first place.

Medbeds: Back in 2020, QAnons and QAnon-adjacent people started circulating claims that a new form of healing technology was about to become available to the public within the next several months or so. Depending on who you asked, Donald Trump, Elon Musk, and even the Galactic Federation of Light were involved. The time of their supposed unveiling came and went, and what do you know, there are still no functioning medbeds used in actual medicine.

COVID Vaccine Zombies: Conspiracy theorists have been claiming the government practices high-tech mind control for ages now. One recent iteration of this is a conspiracy theory claiming that people who'd received COVID vaccinations would have malicious DNA code activated by 5G on October 4, 2023, turn into zombies, and riot. The time came and went, and no zombie outbreak happened.

Ms.Scribe: In the early 2000s, a Harry Potter fan known as "msscribe" or "Ms.Scribe" faked her own harassment through a number of sockpuppets, with the apparent goal of becoming friends with some Harry Potter fandom bigwigs. She manipulated the fandom for a few years until the deception was finally uncovered.

[vaamins]

𝐘𝐎𝐔 𝐋𝐎𝐕𝐄𝐃 satoru gojo for as long as you had known him. you had been enamoured by his very presence from when you first met him back in your teen years at jujutsu tech.

had you known you would fall such head over heels for him, you would’ve transferred to the sister school in kyoto but you were already in far too deep for your own good so you stayed.

stayed and watched as the days went by and the seasons changed and yet still, your feelings remained unchanged, unmoved. not even having eroded with the passage of time. you deemed yourself love sick for a man who did not, could not, love you.

satoru gojo had eyes on none but his best friend. be it platonically you r romantically, you didn’t know, but everyone knew they were inseparable. like yin and yang. one could not exist without eachother.

when the first petals fell from your mouth after a coughing fit, you shrugged it off as an after effect of fighting a peculiar curse. it was impossible to ignore them there on.

you were coughing wherever, whenever. petals of all colours escaping the crevices of your throat. after the fourth coughing attack, you’d went to the doctors and they’d diagnosed you with hanahaki.

there regrettable looks and pity glances has been too much and that night you’d went and searched it up. oh, how you regretted that now.

coughing over the toilet seat, you could feel something sharp scrape along the inside flesh of your throat sending a stabbing pain down and into your chest. you gagged on something you did not know, a few bloodied petals escaped your mouth throughout the long minutes you lay clutching the toilet.

after what felt like eternity, whatever had been clogging your throat passed through—

a flower.

not just petals. but stem and all.

it was covered in thorns that were covered in blood.

later that night, you coughed some more and the next day, you refused to get out of bed. refused to see any of your friends faces, nonetheless, satoru’s, for fear they would read everything on your face.

days, you stayed in your room. coughing up petals and flowers alike. you started to think you’d grown an entire garden in your stomach. you laughed at the thought as you lay on the cold ground of your room. a thin trail of blood trickled down your mouth and ironically all you could to think about was satoru.

of his white hair and his blue eyes. you twirled the freshest flower you coughed up. it’s bud was still unopened, but you could see through the blood that stained it that the petals were white as snow.

how funny. the one who would kill you was the one you loved the most. a tear fell down your cheek. you didn’t want to die. no, you couldn’t die. you still had so much to do, so much to live for, so much to achieve, to see, to meet. to love.

but you couldn’t stop your eyes from slowly falling closed or even the darkness that crept in through your peripherals but you swore you could hear the sounds of multiple feet running down the hallway. you would be gone before they ever got there.

© VAAMINS 24 do not copy, repost or plagiarise my work.

[im-totally-not-an-alien-2]

Halloween prompts year 2 day 14

Tim was the best thing to ever happen to Danny.

He didn't mean that just because how much of a sappy romantic he was to Tim, but because he literally saved him from his own mind.

Danny was never going to leave Amity Park so long as the portal was open.

The portal would always remain open between his parents practically treating it like thier third child and thier ability to simply make another if anything would have happened to that one. Not to mention the super creep named Vlad.

So Danny would have stayed in Amity forever, cleaning up after his parents and being miserable.

Or ya know. Until they managed to kill him.

But then Tim came into his life and fixed everything. He befriended Danny over nightime rooftop rendezvous and groaning at his dumb (read awesome) puns.

As they got closer Sam and Tucker seemed to get both anxious and angry. Were they jealous? What right did they have after the Gregor incident?! Its true that they'd both been to busy to hand out with Danny for the past few weeks, leaving Danny with only Tim to turn to for company.

Tim pointed out that they may feel threatened knowing someone else knows his secret and Danny couldn't help but agree.

Tim pointed out that Danny was going to be stuck here cleaning up after his parent the rest of his life if he didn't find a way to stop the portal. Danny had nearly broke down at that and admitted he didn't know what else to do, so Tim devised a plan with that big beautiful brain of his.

They created a machine that ran on ectoplasm and magic that could wipe information from both technology and the human brain. They could remove all traces of ghosts ever existing in this town and erase 20 years of knowledge and research from Vlad and the Fentons minds, but it would come at a cost as magic usually does.

They would have to forget Danny existed as well. Tim offered that they could run away together.

Danny decided that was okay. The only person he had left in this town who had cared about him was Jazz and she was better off without him there to get her hurt.

Tim also had a plan to strip Vlad of his powers as well as his knowledge, and Danny was looking forward to not having to deal with him anymore

It was the day after everything went down, Tim was driving the GAV while Danny flew in the Ops Centers Jet form. They had made sure to swipe everything they could from the labs as well as everything the thought they needed to travel to Tims home dimension.

Danny had promised to help Tim uncover the secrets of his past and who he really was and to do that they essentially planned to travel around the Earth being wandering criminals.

Between Tims intellect and Dannys powers they were undefeated and unnoticed. They stole whatever they wanted and did whatever they pleased, making sure no one had to get hurt unless there was no other options.

Of course they stole cash from bank vaults as well as whatever else was in there. They couldn't stop Phantom from entering since anti-meta tech didn't affect him and couldnt track Phantom due to him being whatever he was plus the collar Tim had helped Danny design that covered up his ecto-signature.

They lived like this for over a year, breaking in to abandoned places, having waterfights in large city waterfountains (and running when they heard police sirens), tagging some of the places they'd hit when they wanted to leave a message, long romantic walks at night, lots of laughter, going on dates to restaurants (they never dine & dash. Some places make the wait staff pay which is bull and they might want to return to that establishment at some point), that one time they stole a $900 wedding cake from a homophobic bakery owner, lots of Fake out-Make outs to avoid getting sent to jail, ect.

They were having the time of thier lives up until they stopped in a little 24 hour diner in Bludhaven. They were doing what they usually do, flirting and laughing until the waiter takes thier order, when a guy approached thier table. Tim and Danny exchanged worried looks before the guy held up his hands in mock surrender, "I'm not gonna hurt you, I promise, I'm Dick Grayson." The man held out his hand to Tim, who hesitated before shaking it, "Tim," he answered honestly.

Danny nudged him with his foot under the table.

The man smiled wide, "Like Tim Drake?"

Tim and Danny looked confused, "Like who?" Danny asked and Dicks smile faltered