#tote critical

[antianakin]

I mean. I don't think there IS a "Watsonian" reason that works. I just don't. If I did, this wouldn't bother me as much as it does. If there was one that I thought actually worked, the writing would probably have simply been better. Sometimes, a Watsonian explanation simply DOESN'T WORK and you just need to settle for the explanation that the writers probably entirely forgot about how important it is that the chip DOES NOT CARE about the technicality of a former Jedi because Palpatine wants them all dead without exceptions, especially within that first night. The ones who end up getting captured later to become Inquisitors should theoretically be spared specifically because they AREN'T captured by clones or something (maybe it's stormtroopers, or the Grand Inquisitor himself, who initially brings them in).

This is also just such a small line in the episode that I doubt anybody really thought about it as much as I did. It's a throwaway line, more intended to foreshadow that she's going to be a Jedi again by the next episode than anything else. If they'd just left the line out and we never saw a clone speak to her at all, that would've been one thing, we could've just all come up with our random headcanons as to why Barriss was spared. But they GAVE us a reason and the reason is exceptionally stupid and contradicts information we've been given previously. So now there's no way to headcanon around it, you cannot make a Watsonian explanation that works because it just... doesn't. It doesn't work.

But sure. Let's look at this new headcanon and talk about why it doesn't work, either. Obviously if you like it enough to keep it and it's important to you to have it because you loved TOTE and what it did with Barriss, more power to you, but I hope you don't mind that I'm going to analyze it and break down why it doesn't work on this post about why this line is exceptionally stupid anyway.

Ahsoka ISN'T actually made a general, she's officially a civilian consultant during the Mandalore mission. The only reason she's able to act like a general/commander is because Rex and the 332nd know her and choose to give her that kind of authority over them, but technically, REX is in charge and Ahsoka's only real contribution is that she understands more about the mission at hand. The clones really aren't all that confused about what Ahsoka's actual status is here, they know she's not officially a Jedi, and their loyalty to her presumably does not come from whether she's a Jedi or not.

It also just doesn't work for me that the chip allows for the clones to MAKE their own exceptions like that. If it gives that much leeway, this could be a massive problem for Palpatine. Like if the clones COULD just logic their way out of killing one of them somehow, it opens the door for some of them to survive and escape. And also, the whole point of the TCW scene is to show us that the chip CAN'T be worked around through logic. It should not allow for the clones to be able to even CONSIDER what Barriss did or didn't do and whether this does or does not make her a Jedi anymore. TBB chooses to give the clones a little bit more ability to consider their actions later on, once the chip has begun to wear off more, but in the immediate moment of Order 66 and probably the first few days or weeks afterward, the clones should have next to no autonomy over the choice of whether to kill someone that the chip/Order considers a Jedi or not.

It also seems like that would be a really complicated bit of code to try to make it so that the clones only kill people who a) are officially part of the Jedi Order and b) aren't part of the Jedi Order but ARE Force sensitive and act like Jedi sometimes, but NOT c) aren't part of the Jedi Order and ARE Force sensitive but don't always act like Jedi anymore. It's a lot simpler to just say "all Jedi, past and present."

Personally, I feel like the chip should OVERRIDE whatever the clones would've felt about the Jedi in question, not be BASED on what the clones felt about the Jedi in question. That just leaves way too much to chance and I don't see Palpatine being willing to allow that.

So, you know, have your Watsonian explanation if you want it. I'll just still be over here in my corner talking about why TOTE is badly written and makes no sense. I'm not LOOKING for a good explanation, it's not like I WANT to like this show and it's just this one weird line keeping me from enjoying it (honestly if I liked the rest of it and this was the one line I thought was bad, I'd just ignore it or find it amusing probably). I think the show is bad overall and in general anyway, this just happens to be one moment that I thought was particularly stupid. So even if you DID manage to come up with a good enough headcanon to explain it on a Watsonian level, the rest of the show would still be frustrating and upsetting and bad. The stupidity of the line is just an example of the stupidity of the rest of the writing in the show, it's an example of the greater issue with the writing on the show which is that nobody on the writing staff of this show gave a flying shit about writing something that made any sense or was good and meaningful, to the point that they couldn't even do enough homework to know that this kind of exception for Barriss SHOULD NOT HAVE WORKED.

There was an entire major plot element in the Order 66 arc of TCW season 7 about how the chip didn't care that Ahsoka wasn't technically a Jedi anymore and was forcing the clones to want to kill her anyway.

Like.

It's a pretty important part of that whole story that Ahsoka not being in the Jedi Order anymore DOESN'T exempt her from Order 66. It would've been a pretty boring story if that technicality had WORKED.

But somehow the clones guarding Barriss at the prison are totally fine applying that technicality to her.

I guess they just like her better than Rex and the 332nd liked Ahsoka in the end or something. Ironic.

[ghostwise]

kinda wanna redesign the lyrium dagger so it doesn't look like the long tendrils of capitalism lovingly caressed it tip to hilt

[vulpixhoney]

ways they could've kept the theme of the gods punishing people labeled as monsters and it's actually more complicated then that" without including the bullshit sexist Ovid "myth" of Athena and Poseidon:

Athena is still the one that helps Perseus slay Medusa, so it would still make sense for her to hate Athena and by proxy Annabeth. To Medusa she was just out here living her life, her and her sisters were just existing. And then the gods suddenly decided she deserved to die. And in most versions of the myth Perseus was just after her essentially as a spoil of war, to offer her head to a king. Or, as a tool to kill said king. She could be angry about that, angry at Athena for helping a couple of mortals kill her, angry at demigods and men for using her as a tool or prop for their own selfish reasons. Angry that she's still considered a monster in need of slaying, and not a woman, a person. Gorgons were considered powerful, revered even. Their visage in Ancient Greece was used above doorways, on coins and jewelry, as a symbol of protection. Like there's such good material here, that's actually accurate to Greek myths and doesn't perpetrate the writing of some misogynistic Roman poet.

[terrorbirb]

:) getting a good grade in my new division at work :)

[mangooes]

Mirror...Mirror, Run now

It started with an innocent game of “who can toss the coin into the teacup first.”

In their defense, Luke and Kieran had almost managed to keep the chaos contained to the hallway.

Almost.

The glimmering sound of something shattering into a thousand crystalline pieces sent a wave of silence through the manor.

The twins froze mid-competition, eyes wide in horror as they turned in unison to the sight of the ornate, gold-framed vintage mirror lying in shimmering ruins on the living room floor.

“...Wasn’t that the mirror Missus bought from that antique dealer who made her sign a scam contract to own it?” Kieran whispered, voice laced with doom.

“...Yup,” Luke nodded slowly. “The one she called her ‘lucky morning glory mirror’ because it made her feel like a fairy queen.”

Kieran swallowed. “We’re gonna die.”

“We need the boss. Now.”

“You what?” Sylus stood still, jaw tight, crimson eyes twitching slightly as he stared down at the panicked twins.

“It was Kieran’s idea—!”

“Excuse me?! You were the one who said ‘I bet I can flick the coin in better than you!’”

“It was clearly your reckless aim that—!”

“BOTH of you,” Sylus growled, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “Let me get this straight: you broke my wife's favorite mirror. The one she imported. That has sentimental value. And you want me to help you replace it before she finds out?”

Two matching heads nodded like bobbleheads.

“Because if she gets mad—” Luke started.

“She doesn’t just scold us, boss,” Kieran added gravely. “She scorches souls.”

Sylus sighed so hard it might’ve shifted the weather outside. “You’re lucky I love her more than I fear her.”

“...That’s saying a lot,�� Luke muttered under his breath.

Sylus shot them a glare. “Get in the car.”

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

The mission: Operation Mirror Replacement.

The problem: The exact model was discontinued.

Three stores, a phone call to (Name)’s favorite antique dealer, and one shady back-alley antique auction later—they finally found a similar mirror. Almost identical frame. Same soft golden pattern. If you squinted, it even looked aged the same way.

“It's not exact,” Sylus said, eyeing it critically.

“It’s close enough if we dim the lights and pray,” Kieran said, already hauling it to the car.

They returned to the manor in record time, moving like thieves in the night. With extreme care, they replaced the shattered pieces with the new mirror. Sylus even summoned a thin mist of his Evol to darken the lighting around it—just enough to mimic the original's aged glow.

As they stood back to admire their work, the front door clicked open.

Ah, the mother of the house is home.

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

She stepped in humming, carrying a tote bag with fresh peaches. Her curls bounced with every step, and her heels clicked lightly against the floor as she entered.

The boys immediately snapped into casual poses that screamed we’re absolutely hiding something.

(Name)’s eyes scanned the room slowly.

Her gaze landed on Sylus, hair slightly tousled, shirt untucked from where he'd been hauling mirrors into place.

“Sysy,” she greeted sweetly. “Where were you just now? Your hair looks like it wrestled with a thundercloud.”

Sylus opened his mouth, but before he could spin a tale, Luke panicked.

“HE WAS DEFINITELY NOT OUT BUYING A MIRROR, I MEAN—UH—”

Kieran facepalmed so hard he nearly broke his nose.

She blinked.

She looked from Luke… to Sylus… to the new mirror.

Then smiled.

The kind of smile that didn’t reach her eyes.

“Oh,” she said, slipping her heels off. “So that’s why the air smells like panic and desperation.”

Sylus began backing up instinctively.

(Name) bent down, grabbed her slipper from the shoe rack, and turned to face the three grown men standing like guilty puppies in a row.

She raised the slipper like a judge raising a gavel.

“You have five seconds.”

Kieran squeaked.

Luke was already running.

“FIVE—”

Sylus turned on his heel and bolted.

“FOUR!”

“Boss, save yourself!” Kieran cried, diving behind a couch.

“THREE—”

(Name) began advancing, slipper in one hand, peaches still in the other like a poetic contradiction of war and domesticity.

“...Missus, mercy?” Luke called from under the dining table.

“TWO.”

Sylus peeked from behind a hallway wall, grinning far too amused despite himself.

“ONE—!”

Chaos erupted.

The twins screamed.

The slipper flew.

Sylus caught it mid-air.

(Name) blinked, unimpressed.

Sylus smirked, huffed out a laugh. “We need to fix your aim, kitten.”

She marched up to him, arms crossed. “Oh don't you 'kitten' me! You are still guilty, husband.”

“I helped fix it,” he defended.

“You helped cover it up.”

He leaned down and kissed her forehead gently, grinning. “Would do it again if it meant seeing that fire in your eyes.”

She huffed, fighting a smile.

“...Next time,” she warned, “tell me before the twins cry to you like kicked puppies.”

“They threatened to tell Mephisto,” Sylus said with mock horror.

“Oh no,” (Name) deadpanned. “Not Mephisto.” She turned to the couch. “KIERAN I SEE YOU.”

“AAAAHHH—!!”

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

It took exactly four more minutes and a batch of peach tarts to calm the storm.

And as Sylus later lay with (Name) curled into his chest, the mirror reflecting their laughter from across the room, he whispered:

“You had your fun terrorizing the twins?”

She kissed his jaw. “I did. Still, next time if I catch you—”

“Slipper to the face?”

“Twice.”

He laughed, wrapping his arms tighter around her.

“Noted, sweetie. Noted.”

AAA TMRW IS HIS BDY GUYS IM SCARED AND SO EXCITED I LOVE U SYLUS PLS anyways this is one of the drafts i have! I revised it a bit but, a long bday fic is up for tmrw :))

[shariasweet]

˚ ༘ ೀ⋆｡˚ 𝐁oo𝓚𝐦a𝓡ke𝓭

𝓦c ::: 3.k 𐙚 𝓢harinote ::: i've never written something so gross and honestly... I kind of love how extreme it feels (to me) 𐙚 warnin𝓰.ᐟ ::: super super gross, dirty, filthy... call it what you will · dubcon (??? he never asks but she goes along with it... still, there's that grey area! I'm sorrysorrysorry) · lots of degrading (enemies to ???) · jungwon is a bully :( · possessive (?) · voice kink · facial · orgasm denial · unprotected sex (wrap it up guys) · good girl... things like that · spit · f.ᐟreader

“do these stupid little pornos really get you off?” he scoffs. jungwon’s lips curl to form a twisted smirk… something in between disgust and amusement as he dangles the book in front of your face as though it’s something extremely filthy. 

which, arguably, it is… but that’s beside the point.

your breath hitches—catching sharply in your throat. the room feels like it’s closing in on you… is it hot in here? “I…” you trail off, searching for an excuse. “i-it’s not a porno…” you mutter beneath your breath, voice barely audible. mentally, you facepalm… some excuse that was. 

your eyes remain trained on the office's scuffed floor—the cracked door behind him… truthfully, anywhere but him… you’re 99% sure jungwon still had that smug expression painted across his face. 

he snorts. 

it’s a short, humorless laugh. “you know, reading your porn doesn’t make it any less raunchy. if anything, it just makes you look even more pathetic.”

…

yang jungwon… student council president—your number one critic since highschool… maybe even before then.                                                                                        you’re sure somewhere stored in your head is a memory of him pushing you off of a swing in grade school. 

if you told anyone on campus about the things he’s said to you—what he’s done to you—they’d probably laugh in your face. 

to them, jungwon is their perfect golden boy:

star student, co-captain of the soccer team, the ‘super cute volunteer’ who spends his weekends cleaning up after abandoned puppies at the animal shelter… the blonde guy who smiles oh so sweetly at the ladies in the canteen… always making it a point to say please and thank you.

they’d never believe that he has you cornered—backed up against the old, dusty filing cabinets of your forgotten office hidden behind the shelves of your university’s library where you worked.

it’s sort of ironic—working here was supposed to be your break from his torment.

jungwon himself never came here… he was too important, too busy. 

he was always sending his secretary or vp for any sort of books and, or copies needed by the student-council. 

however, it seemed as though you’d gotten too comfortable… forgetting that everywhere was jungwon’s turf—meaning not even your safe haven of the campus library was any exception. 

the day was supposed to be quiet. 

there were no weekend-classes, no school events, study groups, or sports-meetings… the rain had run most students off campus… burrowing in the cozy environment of their apartments and dorms. you were supposed to have this place to yourself… to breathe, to disappear for a little while in the pages of the smutty romance novel you’d shoved into your tote this morning before heading out. 

who’d seriously come to the library in all this rain… on a weekend at that?

he would, of course.

jungwon, like usual, is good at ruining things… particularly things involving your happiness or peace of mind. he’s made a hobby out of it—especially when it comes to you.

one second, you were nose-deep in a particularly dirty scene of your book—the next, his shadow was looming over you, voice laced with some sort of sick amusement.

“what’s this?”

and by the time you looked up, it was too late. 

he’d already pried the book from your hands. “give it back,” you snapped.

you shot up, scrambling to take the book back, completely ignoring the flush coloring your cheeks… but his arms were longer—he was faster. 

jungwon was more than satisfied, with every page he flipped through the sly grin on his face only grew wider and wider. you’d never live this down… this couldn’t get any worse.

Is what you thought… before he started reading.

aloud.

“his eyes were clouded with something much darker than lust as he kissed her hard… his hands hurriedly unbuttoning her blouse as she melted into his touch.’” he grinned wide, eyes darting to meet your own as your stomach sank. 

you stopped jumping, reaching for the copy… what was the use when you’d already been caught? 

“wow, y/n… this is nasty. even for you.” jungwon’s tongue flicked out, swiping across his bottom lip.

you can feel the walls closing in, heat flooding your cheeks, embarrassment pounding in your chest against your ribcage. 

“don’t tell me… do these get you off?” he leans closer, walking towards you as his voice drops incredibly low—the space between you was nearly non-existent now. “are you wet?”

“w-what? you… you can’t be serious, jungwon.” 

he asks you as if it means nothing, like it’s the most casual thing to ask in the world... though to him, it was safe to assume that it didn’t.

“c’mon, y/n.” he was coaxing, almost… definitely mocking. 

he was even closer now—you could feel the heat of his body radiating on to your skin as his hand slipped onto the small of your back, his fingers splayed wide as he pressed his chest against your own. 

you barely had time to gasp before you hit the edge of the desk, papers crinkling beneath you as you tripped, falling back.

“how long have we known each other now?”

he threw the book carelessly onto the floor—the same one he’d humiliated you over—was left on the ground, pages churning aimlessly as it landed on its cover.

“f-forever?” you stammered, recalling your childhood with the boy… he was pushy as ever. your lip trembled as you chewed it raw.

“that’s right.”

his tone was sharp—any hint of playfulness or amusement was long gone. 

jungwon’s other hand caught your jaw in a bruising grip, forcing your face up to meet his… thumb brushing gently against your bottom lip, ripping it from beneath your teeth, feeling how shaky your breath had become under his touch. 

“Is this serious enough for you..? i’m so fucking serious.”

his knee wedged it’s way between your thighs, grinding against your clothed cunt.. firm and demanding… 

and your body, your body was a traitorous thing—a small whimper came bubbling past your lips before you could even help it. your hips bucked forward, chasing the delicious friction of his jeans against your crotch.

“show me,” he murmured, lips inches away from brushing yours. “you are, aren’t you?”

you were. “I mean you’re shaking… chasing to hump my knee like a fucking’ slut, angel.” 

you were soaked—sinfully wet. jungwon was right. 

you were… unbelievably wet—arousal pooled into the fabric of your panties, the cotton sticking uncomfortably to your slick-glazed folds. an aching heat radiated from between your legs, shame sinking in your gut as you dared to look up to meet him once more… slowly nodding your head. 

“what’s that?” he teased. “use your words.”

your throat tightened.

you could feel it—every humiliating bit of it… the mess you’d made of yourself… wet, warm, sticky, slick to the point of no return at his demeaning words.

and from the smug grin curling against your cheek, jungwon knew it too. 

“I’m…” you hesitated.

“your?” he let his finger trace along your jaw—softly, a cruel contrast to how rough he’d been moments prior. he was waiting…  dragging it out.

“I’m wet.” you forced the words to roll off of your tongue and his eyes lit up. “oh, i know that much.” he laughed, pulling away from you as his eyes darkened. “I said show me.” he said, voice thick and dripping with entertainment at your pliable state. 

he leans back, against the office door—not far from the desk, but a reasonable distance, his eyes never leaving yours. 

“well?” he drawls, the space between you thick with heat and a pressuring tension. “don’t make me ask again.” he stands up, walking towards you until he's right back in front of you—knee presuming it’s original spot against your pussy, pressing harder, grinding into you like aother silent demand. 

your hands tremble as they drift down, fingers softly curling around the hem of your skirt. his eyes narrow, not buying it… whatever it may be. “don’t act shy now. it’s a little late for that, isn’t it?” he’s right… so you do it—slowly, shamefully, you hike the fabric up inch by inch until your skirt sits bunched over your hips… your ruined panties are fully on display for the man before you. 

his breath catches, just slightly as he keeps his unfazed composure. 

“look at you,” he murmurs, more to himself than to you. “fuck. you’re dripping through them.” you could hardly speak, let alone even look away. “happy now?” you whisper harshly, voice still slightly shaking. his hand returns to your face, fingers cradling your chin almost tenderly. “no,” he says simply. “not yet. but we’re getting there.” 

“i should’ve known,” he speaks up again. “you’ve probably been soaking through your panties all semester… and i bet no one else even noticed.”

he leans in, mouth brushing your ear as his teeth nip at your earlobe.

“but i did… you were just ‘gonna sit in here all alone, reading your filthy little book, getting off like some desperate pervert while you’re on the clock?”

you nod… just barely, still embarrassed and flushed with heat. “filthy..” he scoffs. 

you collapse forward, body trembling, chest pressed to his as your knees threaten to fall with you. but jungwon doesn’t let you—not completely. 

he holds you steady with one arm around your waist, the other slipping lower… fingers dragging lazily through the mess between your thighs. his hand absentmindedly plays with the hem of your panties, fingers tracing the outline of your clit before scrunching the fabric aside. 

then—without any warning—two of his fingers dip inside.

you cry out, voice breaking weakly as you call out his name. “j-jungwon!”

your arms immediately clasp around his shoulders, clutching onto him for balance, for something, support—anything to anchor yourself with. your breath hitches, eyes fluttering shut as you gasp, hips stuttering against his hand.

he hums, low and pleased with his fingers curling inside you, just once… just enough to make you jolt.

“louder,” he says. “say my name again, angel.”

you do. even if you hate him, you can’t help it. “jungwon—!” you cry.

he clicks his tongue… condescending as always.

“mm, still not good enough…” he withdraws his fingers just slightly, dragging them along your gummy walls until only the tips of his fingers remain. “you like getting finger-fucked, don’t you?” he murmurs. “but i bet you like being told to be a good little whore even more… just like in your little porno book.” he pushes his fingers back into you halfheartedly. “go on, angel… moan like this is all it takes to get you off… so easy aren't you?”

your skin burns and your throat tightens for what feels like the umpteenth time this evening. he leans back just enough to reach behind you—grabbing the book he’d thrown to the floor just minutes ago. 

“since you’re so into words…” he flips it open, scanning until he finds the passage that started all of this earlier. “here.”

he hands it to you, one hand still between your thighs, his fingers completely slipping back inside of you with a slow, wet push.

“read it.”

you freeze.

he tuts softly, teasing your clit with the pad of his thumb as he picks up his pace… fingers plunging into you with a scissoring motion.

“go on,” he says. “you wanted to get off to it, right? let’s see how it sounds when you say it out loud.”

your fingers shake as you hold the book, eyes blurring as you search for the line—the one he read earlier.

“his… his eyes were clouded with something darker than lust,” you begin, voice trembling. “as he kissed her hard… his hands unbuttoning her blouse—”

his fingers curl.

you choke on your words, moaning into the crook of his neck.

“keep going,” jungwon breathes, his voice hot against your ear, egging you on. “i’ll stop if you don’t.”

“she… she melted into his touch,” you push it out, jaw clenched as your hips roll into his palm. “he—he—”

you can’t finish. you just, can’t.

not when he’s fucking his fingers into you, so deep and precise, curling them just right. the slender girth of his middle and ring finger is just too brain-numbing.

not when your body is betraying you entirely—not when you’re squirming, dripping, and unraveling around him.

“look at you,” he murmurs. “can’t even read your own dirty book without creaming all over my fingers.”

you can barely even hold the book anymore.

“keep reading,” jungwon murmurs, teeth grazing your ear.

you try.

you try so, so, so hard—eyes skimming the page, lips parting, but the words blur and they melt into nothing.

“i—I can’t—” you whisper, your voice is horace and raw.

he pulls his fingers out without a second thought.

your mewl is sharp, pained… it’s damn near a sob choked out from between your teeth as you instinctively roll your hips forward, chasing your high via his fingers.

“that’s not what i asked for,” he says calmly. “try again.”

your head drops against his shoulder. your pride is splintering, dignity dissolving with every second he leaves you empty.

“please,” you whisper. “please what?” his sticky thumb drags along your inner thigh, just barely brushing the edge of your soaked, stretched panties. 

it’s cruel. it’s calculated. you bite your lip. hard… swallowing any of your remaining pride. 

“please let me cum.”

“mm,” he hums, pretending to consider it. “and what do you think you’ve done to deserve that?”

your throat bobs, trying to swallow the lump forming. you can’t answer.

you don’t deserve it—not with the way he’s playing this, not when you can’t even do the one thing he told you to.

“start from the top of the paragraph,” he instructs, fingers hovering just over your pussy again. “and if you stop this time… i won’t touch you or your desperate little cunt for the rest of the evening, yeah?”

you shiver.

your eyes find the words, though they smear behind the haze of lust clouding your vision.

“his eyes… were clouded with something darker than lust,” you begin, voice cracking. “as he kissed her hard… h-his hands unbuttoning—”

he pushes his fingers back in, all at once. three this time. and it makes for a delicious stretch. 

you choke, moaning into the page. you grip the book so tightly that the spine creaks.

“don’t stop,” he growls. “you want to cum? earn it.”

you force yourself to keep reading—stumbling over every word, moaning and gasping through the lines, body twitching as his fingers fuck you slow and deep. your slick squelches around his fingers, cream lathering around the dexterous muscles with every thrust of his fingers.

“she melted into his touch,” you gasp, blinking tears from your lashes. “n-needed him like— like she needed air—”

“like you need me,” he corrects, thumb circling your clit again.

you cry out.

your legs start to shake. your stomach tightens, your pleasure rises fast, the waves of an orgasm threatening to crash. 

you’re so close it hurts — everything inside you begging to let go.

but he stops.

again.

“n-no!” your voice cracks, a guttural whine ripped from somewhere deep within your chest. “jungwon, please—!”

“then beg,” he demands, his tone is flat and merciless. 

“for real this time. i want to hear just how filthy you can get… i’ll even help you.”

his fingers slip out of you, leaving you aching, empty. he takes not of the adorable pout plastered on your face, glazed over eyes and bruised lips.

without another word, he fiddles with his belt, yanking his jeans and boxers down just enough for his cock to spring free. 

he places his hand in front of your face, his eyes burning holes into your own.

“spit.”

you hesitate for a heartbeat, then obeying—a thick glob of saliva landing in his palm. he takes it without hesitation, dragging his hand down the length of his shaft.

your mouth waters at the sight, drool gathering at the corners of your lips, your throat suddenly dry.

“stop ogling and read,” he deadpans. 

his free hand grabs your face, squishing your cheeks together teasingly with an unforgiving strength.

you flinch but comply, your eyes treading the page, stuttering as you pick up where you left off.

“o-okay…” you whimper, trying to steady yourself. “t-tell me you want me…” you stutter, the words falling out of you with unsteady breath.

and before you can finish, jungwon thrusts into you without warning, the sudden invasion knocking he air out of your lungs. “h-he says—”

“ah! fuck…” you gasp as he shoves himself all the way in, his hands tightening their grip on you.

“keep. fucking. reading,” he orders, each word punctuated with a brutal thrust, hard and fast into your sopping cunt. “now.” 

tears prick your eyes as you push through… the overwhelming waves of pleasure, your ruined orgasms clouding your thoughts, drowning you as jungwon pounds into you relentlessly. 

his hips snap against yours, each careless thrust sending sparks through your body, his cock sinking deeper and deeper with each punishing thrust.

he bites down on your neck, sucking at the tender skin, marking you as his. “tell m-me…” he groans, voice rough and needy, pushing you further, “tell me how badly you want it...” you choke out the last line. “he brings h-her hand t-to cup his…ohmygod!”

“shit, jungwon, please!” you sob, your chest tightening as it rises up and down… overwhelmed with desperation… the tears finally break free, streaming down your face, streaking your flushed cheeks as you beg him for release.

you can feel him everywhere—deep inside you, his cock pressing relentlessly up into your g-spot, each thrust sends a wave of tender pain and pleasure through you. the bulge of his cock digs into your stomach, and every time he drills in, the tip of his cock kisses your cervix, slamming into it with hard force. 

“fuck,” he swears, pulling away from the nape of your neck, only to catch sight of the wrecked expression on your face—eyes glassy, lips parted, flushed and trembling beneath him… something he could get used to. “y-you’re lucky you’re so damn…” he groans, breath hitching as he feels your cunt clench tight around him.

“agh—fuck.” he shudders, hips stuttering for a moment as his orgasm looms closer. “that’s it… you’re close already?” he laughs, breathless, even as he keeps driving into you without missing a beat.

you sob into his shoulder, voice cracking. “close…”

the knot in your stomach coils impossibly tight, tension burning through your entire body. 

every thrust sends you spiraling closer, the pressure is unbearable and your eyes roll into the back of your head.

“oh my god—fuck!” you yelp, voice breaking as your orgasm collides into you, thighs shaking violently as you clamp around him.

jungwon grins—proud, far more than satisfied as he lets you ride out his high. somehow managing to hold himself back, fucking you through said high without letting go of his own.

“on your knees.”

you try to move, limbs trembling, breath still caught in your throat. you stagger, legs giving out beneath yo —dropping in front of him, dazed, as he stands tall above you, fist pumping around his shaft.

“fuck… keep looking at me. just like that,” he growls, his voice thick and cracked as he jerks himself standing over you.

then with a single strained moan, he cums—thick ropes of milky-white semen painting your face. it drips down your cheeks, your lips, your chin… warm and messy and impossible to ignore (much like before).

you can feel yourself leaking all over again at the feeling. thighs sticky, arousal flooding your spent cunt at the feeling of his release splattered across your skin, his angry-red tip twitching as he smears the last of it over your cheek.

you barely manage to blink the haze from your eyes before he’s kneeling too—hands gently cradling your face as he leans in and licks at your lips, tasting himself and kissing you deep. your tongues swirl around each other, the taste of salty cum infused against your tongues.

you melt into it, mouths molded against each other’s flesh, the taste of him lingering.

after a long, dizzying moment that feels like forever, he pulls away with a soft chuckle.

“you’re insane.”

your reply comes out rough, almost hoarse. “you’re one to talk.”

you’re still catching your breath, lips swollen from the kiss, cum cooling on your cheeks, when jungwon finally leans back on his heels and surveys the mess he’s made of you with a lazy, smug grin… wiping your face with an old rag he’d found.

“so,” he says, brushing his thumb along your jaw like it’s the most natural thing in the world, “do those stupid little pornos really get you off?”

you blink at him, shocked. “they’re novels, asshole.”

he laughs—full-on, that boyish lilt breaking through. “right, right. real literature, i’m sure… forgive me.” he plucks the abandoned book from the floor, flips it open to a crumpled page, and clears his throat with exaggerated drama.

“‘his eyes were clouded with something much darker than lust…’” he reads aloud in a mocking tone, eyes flicking to yours, playful and dangerous all at once. 

you groan, hiding your face in your hands, but he just laughs again and leans in to nuzzle against your temple.

“no need to be shy,” he murmurs. “next time, just ask me to… and we can act it out.”

[heich0e]

tobio enjoys spending his days off watching the baby and doing chores around the house.

it's a small thing, but it makes him happy to be able to do his part like this. he keeps the baby strapped to his chest while he vacuums, with the little boy contributing to the effort every so often by adding more crumbs to the floor from the rice cracker he's gnawing on. baby sits strapped into his high chair in the kitchen while papa does dishes, with his very own sponge to wave around cheerfully in support.

everything is going really well!

until tobio loses the baby.

maybe lose isn't quite the right word for it. there are only so many places a thirteen-month-old can go in a two bedroom apartment, after all—especially considering he's far too small to reach a door knob, let alone to unlock a door. but even that certain knowledge does little to calm tobio's racing thoughts as he searches high and low for his son, moving from one room to the next at a frantic pace. he retraces his steps, practically from the moment he'd woken up that morning, but it's all to no avail: he'd only left the boy alone for a moment in the living room to put some freshly folded towels in the linen closet down the hall, but when he'd returned the baby was nowhere to be seen.

at the end of his fruitless efforts, tobio's left standing in the living room with his hands gripping his hair, nearly ready to call for help—to you, or the police, or even sugawara-san—when all of the sudden a soft noise catches him off guard. it's a quiet sound. a familiarly sweet one. a sleepy little yawn.

tobio's eyes turn to the laundry basket he'd abandoned in his search for his son, half-full of clean laundry ready to be folded, resting in a patch of sun on the floor where the light is streaming in through the open windows.

he approaches the basket hesitantly, and then with one great, almighty exhale, all the fear he'd felt a moment prior slips from his body. a warm wash of relief overtakes him.

there, in the basket, his son is curled up in a freshly-washed blanket, his tiny little fingers tucked between his perfect, pouty lips, his eyes shut tight while he snoozes.

tobio crouches down beside the basket, breathing out again—halfway to a sigh of relief, and halfway to a laugh.

"there you are," he murmurs quietly, slipping a deft hand underneath his little boy to scoop him up out of the basket. the baby hardly stirs, used to the feeling of his papa wrapping him up in his arms and holding him tight to his chest.

the little boy's eyes flutter open, but tobio can tell he's not really awake—not fully anyway, and certainly not for long. just conscious enough to recognize his father's face and gurgle happily, before nuzzling his little button nose into the man's shoulder.

"you must be tired from all that cleaning," tobio remarks, bouncing the little boy gently in his arms. "rest is critical to maintain peak performance."

he totes the little boy over to the couch with him, sitting down slowly as to not jostle him too much, still cradling the baby to his chest. the laundry can wait, tobio thinks, as he stares down at the sweet little boy in his arms. so can everything else.

(when you arrive home, you find the two of them dozing on the sofa, stretched out languidly in the warmth of the afternoon sun. you fold the last of the forgotten laundry, and then kneel beside the sofa to quietly admire your two boys while they're sleeping so peacefully. you fall asleep like that too.)

[octaneink]

Easy Love

Will Lenney x Reader

Summary: The Reader tries a new scent, Will definitely notices. Warnings: None! Notes: Not an ask, just a random idea I thought would be cute ☺️☺️☺️

You'd been meaning to reorganise the junk drawer all week.

It was a task that nags at you every time you fish for a pen and come up with nothing but dried-out pens and a handful of foreign coins. Today, the mess had reached critical mass when you'd been searching for the spare key to your place and instead unearthed three dead AA batteries and what might have been a receipt from 2019.

So at 2 PM on Sunday, with golden afternoon light pooling across the kitchen tiles, you'd upended the entire drawer onto the counter. The contents formed a sad little monument to domestic chaos: twisted phone chargers, a single cufflink, half a dozen IKEA Allen wrenches, and at least three pens that definitely didn't work.

Will had watched this from his throne in the living room armchair, one eyebrow arched over the top of his novel. "Spring cleaning?" he'd asked, already knowing the answer.

"It's making me itchy just looking at it," you'd grumbled, aggressively untangling a knot of cables. "How do we even accumulate this much crap?”

That was an hour ago.

Now you're kneeling on the kitchen floor, elbow-deep under the sink, fingers brushing against the cold pipe as you search for the trash bags you could have sworn you bought last week. The cabinet smells faintly of lemon cleaner and something metallic, and you're fairly certain your jumper is collecting dust bunnies the size of tumbleweeds.

"Will," you call, voice slightly muffled by the cabinet, "did you move the—"

The only response is the soft whisper of a page turning. You twist to see him through the doorway, still curled in the armchair with his book propped against his knees. Afternoon light gilds the curve of his shoulders, catching in his hair where it's fallen across his forehead. His thumb moves absently along the edge of the page, but his eyes never leave the text.

"Will?" You try again, louder this time, knocking your knuckles against the cabinet door for emphasis.

"Hm?" It's the kind of distracted noise people make when they're only physically present, their mind still wrapped around a plot twist or character's fate.

You give up with a huff, the cabinet door swinging shut with a hollow thud as you rock back on your heels. The floor had left angry red impressions on your knees, and your shoulders ached from being hunched in that cramped space for so long. When you finally straighten up, your spine cracks in three distinct places—the kind of satisfying pops that make you feel both ancient and temporarily relieved. The clock above the stove reads 3:07—if you leave now, you can make it before everything closes at 4.

"I'm running to the shop before it closes," you announce, brushing dust from your clothes. "Need to grab milk anyway. I'll pick you up a snack for work tomorrow—want anything specific? Those protein bars you like, or should I see if they have more of those weird spicy nuts?"

Will makes a noncommittal noise, but you’re already heading for the hallway, stripping off your dust-streaked jumper as you go.

In the bedroom, you tug on a fresh top and pause, eyeing the little glass bottle on your dresser. The perfume was a gift from a friend last month—“It’s so you,” they’d insisted—but you’d barely used it. Today feels as good a time to use it for the first time. You spritz it on, the scent blooming: vanilla, bright and sweet at first, then something deeper, spicier, like amber melting into skin.

You give your wrist an absentminded sniff. Nice. Maybe your friend was right, it does suit you. Leaving your bedroom, you walk to the door and grab your tote from the hook, digging through its depths for your keys. They jangle somewhere near the bottom, buried under crumpled receipts and a pack of gum.

That’s when you notice it.

The silence.

No rustling pages. No absent tap of Will’s fingers against the armrest. Just the weight of someone’s gaze, like a touch between your shoulder blades.

You turn.

Will hasn’t moved from his chair, but his book lies forgotten in his lap, spine bent at an unnatural angle. His eyes lock onto yours, then drop—slow, deliberate—to the curve of your neck. His throat bobs as he swallows.

“Going out?” Will asks again, his voice gravel-dipped. It’s not really a question. There’s an edge to it, a tension that makes your pulse skip. You finally fish out your keys with a triumphant jingle. "Yes, Sherlock," you say, shooting him an amused look over your shoulder. "Like I said five minutes ago when you were too busy with your book to listen."

His abandoned novel lies splayed on the armrest like a wounded bird, pages crumpled under his restless fingers. The sight gives you pause, Will never treats books this way. “Want anything else?”

His answer comes in movement rather than words. He rises with sudden purpose, the book tumbling to the rug as he crosses the space between you in three long strides. Before you can react, he's shrugging into his coat with uncharacteristic haste, the wool collar sitting askew, his hair mussed from where he'd raked an impatient hand through it.

"I'm coming with you," he says, his voice low and rough around the edges.

You blink. "Since when do you volunteer for grocery runs?" The tease in your voice falters as he steps closer, shrinking the hallway with his presence. The heat of him radiates through the scant space between you, his hand brushing the small of your back as he reaches past you for the door. His touch lingers just a beat too long, sending an unexpected shiver up your spine.

The intensity in his storm-grey eyes betrays his usual calm—something restless simmers beneath the surface. You notice the faint tremor in his fingers as he holds the door open, the taut line of his forearm muscles as he gestures you through.

Outside, the evening is crisp, the streetlamps casting honeyed pools of light on the pavement. Will walks closer than usual, his shoulder bumping yours whenever you round a corner. You catch him staring again, his gaze snagging on your throat, your wrists, and the pulse point behind your ear. When the wind tosses your hair, he inhales sharply, as if stealing a secret.

“You’re quiet today,” you say, half-turning to face him.

He stops short, his eyes darkening. For a heartbeat, you think he might say something—do something—his breath warm against your cheek. But then he steps back, shoving his hands into his pockets. “Just thinking,” he says, the words rough, like they’ve been dragged through gravel.

What’s got into him?

The shop's sign buzzes louder as you approach, flickering in the gathering dusk. Will lingers by the door just long enough to hold it open for you, his arm brushing yours as you pass through. The warmth of his body lingers where he touched you, even as he falls into step beside you.

You grab a plastic basket from the stack near the entrance, its handle creaking in your grip. Will reaches for the same one too, his fingers briefly overlapping yours before you both pull away. There's a charged moment where neither of you move—just stand there in the harsh light, baskets in hand, breathing the same air.

You tug one free, its grip creaking under your fingers. Behind you, Will shifts closer than necessary—his chest nearly grazing your shoulder—as if drawn by some magnetic pull. Out of the corner of your eye, you catch his hand twitch forward, fingertips skimming the air just above yours before curling into a fist.

For a heartbeat, neither of you move. The fluorescent lights hum overhead, bleaching the linoleum into a sterile white. You can feel the heat of him against your back, smell the faint cedar of his shampoo mixed with something sharper, almost feral.

“Right,” you say, clearing your throat, pivoting toward the dairy aisle, "Milk first."

The aisles are narrow enough that Will has to walk behind you, his presence a constant warmth at your back. When you stop to examine expiration dates on the milk cartons, he crowds closer than necessary, reaching past you to grab one. His chest brushes against your shoulder, solid and warm.

"Got it," he murmurs, his breath stirring the hair at your temple. The milk carton drops into your basket with a dull thud, but neither of you move away immediately.

At the coffee display, the rich, roasted scent wraps around you both as you survey the options. You reach for your usual blend at the same moment Will does, his hand covering yours completely. His skin is warm, his fingers slightly rough against yours. Instead of pulling away, his thumb strokes once—slow, deliberate—across your inner wrist where your pulse jumps.

"Sorry," he says, though his voice is anything but apologetic. His eyes drop to your mouth for a heartbeat too long before he finally steps back, leaving your skin tingling where he touched you.

You swallow hard, focusing on the coffee labels with sudden intensity. "S'alright," you manage, dropping a bag into your basket with slightly unsteady hands. When you glance up, Will's watching you with that same dark intensity, his fingers flexing at his sides like he's resisting the urge to reach for you again.

The moment stretches, thick with something unspoken, until Will clears his throat and reaches past you for the sugar. His arm brushes against yours, his chest nearly pressing into your shoulder as he leans in. His breath ghosts warm over the shell of your ear, sending an involuntary shiver down your spine.

"Forgot we were out of this," he says, voice pitched low just for you. The words vibrate through you, and you're suddenly hyperaware of every point of contact between you.

At the checkout, the cashier—an old woman with a knowing smirk—watches with undisguised interest as Will crowds into your space while you unload the basket. His fingers keep brushing yours as you both reach for items, each accidental (or not-so-accidental) touch sending little electric jolts up your arms.

When your hand trembles slightly while handing over cash, Will's fingers cover yours again, ostensibly to help but really just another excuse to touch. "I've got it." he says, his deep voice resonating in your chest as he stands close enough that you can smell the faint remnants of his cologne mixed with something uniquely Will.

The cashier arches an eyebrow as she hands back your change, her eyes flicking between you two with amusement. You can feel the heat rising in your cheeks, your pulse hammering in your throat, as Will's hand finds the small of your back to guide you toward the exit.

Outside, the cool evening air does little to calm your racing heart, especially when Will's fingers slide down to tangle briefly with yours before he seems to think better of it and shoves his hands in his pockets instead. The charged silence between you is louder than any words could be.

The walk home stretches taut between you, the grocery bag’s handles digging into Will’s palm as he walks just a half-step too close. His sleeve brushes your arm with every other stride—cotton whispering against cotton—and each incidental contact lingers like a brand. The city sounds fade into background static: a distant ambulance siren, the click-clack of a dog’s nails on pavement, the hum of a faulty neon sign above a shuttered laundromat. All of it feels muffled, drowned out by the rhythm of Will’s restless energy.

When you pass beneath a flickering streetlamp, its sickly yellow light catches the sheen of sweat at his temples. His gaze flicks to your neck again, lingering on the damp tendril of hair clinging to your skin. You watch his throat work as he swallows, the sharp line of his jaw flexing like he’s biting back words.

“You’re being weirdly intense today,” you say, nudging him with your elbow. The gesture aims for lightness, but your voice betrays you—it comes out breathier than intended, almost a challenge.

Will’s laugh is a rough scrape of sound. “Am I?” He shifts the grocery bag to his other hand, plastic crinkling like cellophane fire. His free arm swings briefly toward yours, fingers grazing your knuckles before he shoves both hands into his coat pockets. The fleeting touch leaves your skin buzzing.

You slow your pace, studying him. Moonlight bleeds through the clouds, silvering the tension in his shoulders, the way his collar sits crooked against his throat. There’s something feral in his profile—the dilated pupils, the slight flare of his nostrils as the wind shifts—that makes your stomach swoop. For a heartbeat, you think he might press you against the graffiti-tagged brick wall to your left, his body caging yours in the shadows.

But he keeps walking.

Three more steps, then he stops dead. You nearly collide with him, catching yourself on his forearm. The muscle beneath his sleeve jumps at your touch.

“Will—?”

He doesn’t turn. Just stands there, head bowed, breathing audibly through his nose. The grocery bag hangs forgotten at his side, a litre of milk threatening to slip free. When he finally speaks, his voice is ground glass. “You should’ve worn a jacket.”

You blink. “It’s not that cold.”

A beat. Then his coat hits your shoulders before you can protest, his hands linger at your collarbones, adjusting the lapels with unnecessary focus. His thumbs brush the hollow of your throat, once, twice, before he steps back.

“Better,” he mutters, already striding ahead like he can outpace whatever’s clawing at his ribs.

You hurry to catch up, the coat sleeves swallowing your hands whole. Up close, you notice what you missed before—the tremor in his left hand, the way his pulse thunders visibly at his neck. When he catches you staring, he angles his body away, jaw clenched tight enough to crack walnuts.

The remaining blocks pass in a fever dream. Every rustle of fabric, every shared glance, every time his shoulder bumps yours feels amplified. By the time your building comes into view, you’re both breathing like you’ve run a marathon, though neither of you will admit it.

At the front door, Will fumbles the keys twice before managing the lock. His hand covers yours on the doorknob, pressing down hard enough to feel the ridges bite into your palm.

“After you,” he says, but doesn’t move aside—just crowds you through the doorway, his chest grazing your back, his breath hot on your nape.

You tell yourself it’s relief that makes your knees weak when he finally retreats to the kitchen, the grocery bag abandoned on the counter. But as you hang up his coat, you press your shoulder to hide the wide grin on your face.

Dinner unfolds in a series of fractured moments. Will stands at the counter, chopping carrots, each thwack echoing off the tiled walls. You sit at the kitchen table, sorting through the junk drawer’s survivors: paperclips glinting like insect legs and rubber bands coiled tight as nerves.

The air smells of ginger and soy sauce. Every time you glance up, his eyes snap back to the cutting board, shoulders rigid. He’s wearing that grey Henley with the stretched collar, the one that exposes the hollow of his throat when he leans forward. You notice sweat dampening the fabric between his shoulder blades.

“You’re hovering,” you say, louder than intended.

He doesn’t answer. Just sets down the knife with exaggerated care and reaches for the kettle. You track his movements—the flex of his forearms as he fills it, the way his thumb rubs compulsively over the handle’s curve. Steam rises as he pours boiling water into two mugs.

The tea appears at your elbow without warning, Earl Grey swirling amber in your favourite mug he’d bought for you last winter. His pinky grazes yours as he withdraws, a spark of contact that lingers.

“Movie tonight?” he asks, leaning back against the sink. His arms cross over his chest, biceps straining the sleeves. Will leans back against the sink, the edge of the counter biting into his hip, but he doesn’t seem to notice. The sleeves of his Henley strain against his biceps, fabric pulling taut where his muscles flex unconsciously. A droplet of water slides down his wrist, tracing the ropy veins of his forearm before disappearing under his rolled cuff. You track its path, hypnotised by the way it catches the flickering kitchen light, until his throat bobs with a hard swallow.

He clears his throat. The sound is sandpaper-rough, startlingly loud in the cramped kitchen. You drag your gaze upward, past the smudge of flour on his collarbone and the damp hair curling at his nape, to find him watching you through his lashes. The fluorescent light overhead buzzes, casting sickly shadows under his eyes. For a heartbeat, he looks almost feral—jaw clenched, nostrils flared, the pulse at his temple throbbing visibly. Then he blinks, and the illusion shatters.

“Sure. Your pick.”

He nods but makes no move to leave the kitchen. His gaze burns a hole through the back of your head as you resume sorting. Rubber bands snap into a jar. Paperclips clink like loose change. The silence stretches, taut and humming, until—

“Casablanca”, he says abruptly.

You blink. “Since when do you like old movies?”

“Since never.” He pushes off the counter, mug abandoned. “But you do.”

The admission hangs between you, fragile as the steam still curling from your tea.

The couch has never felt this small.

Will’s usual sprawl—all loose limbs and careless angles—has been replaced by a coiled tension that makes the cushions dip dangerously toward him. His left arm rests along the back of the sofa, not quite touching your shoulders, but the heat of him bleeds through your thin jumper anyway. On screen, a spaceship disintegrates in silence. Neither of you registered the title when he queued it up, too busy pretending not to track each other’s movements.

His fingers find your hair first.

It starts as a graze—the rough pad of his thumb brushing the nape of your neck as he tucks a stray strand behind your ear. You stiffen, but he doesn’t retreat. Instead, he twirls the lock around his index finger, the motion hypnotically slow. His breathing hitches, audible even over the movie’s sudden explosion of gunfire.

“Will?” you whisper, turning your head just enough to see his profile.

He freezes. Moonlight from the half-open blinds stripes his face, sharpening the hunger in his expression before he can school it into something neutral. His thumb presses harder against your neck, a silent plea for you to stay still.

Then he sniffs.

A slow, deliberate inhale, his nose dragging along your temple. His breath fans hot over your skin, uneven and shallow, as if he’s been running. You feel the flutter of his eyelashes against your cheekbone when he blinks.

“You smell different,” he rasps, lips grazing the shell of your ear. The words vibrate through you, low and frayed at the edges.

Your heart stutters. “I—what?”

He doesn’t answer. Just buries his face in your hair, nuzzling the sensitive spot behind your ear with a low groan that makes your thighs clench. His free hand grips the couch cushion, fabric tearing under his fingernails.

“Your perfume,” he mutters, voice thick. “It’s… new.”

You try to laugh, but it comes out as a gasp. “Since when do you notice my perfume?”

His teeth graze your earlobe—a split-second scrape that might’ve been accidental. “Since it’s this one.” The hand in your hair tightens, tugging just enough to tilt your head back. His other palm lands heavy on your knee, fingers digging into the denim. “What’s in it?”

“I don’t—vanilla? Amber?” You’re babbling, hyperaware of his thumb tracing circles on your inner thigh. “Why?”

Will huffs a laugh against your skin, his arms tightening around you. “Been driving me fucking mental all day.” His voice rumbles through your chest where you’re pressed together, warm and honey-thick with confession.

Heat floods your cheeks. “You—” You twist to face him, but he catches your chin, calloused fingers tilting your head up. His eyes are heavy-lidded and gleaming, the blue-grey irises gone stormy at the edges.

“Yeah,” he admits, unashamed. “Full stalker mode. Followed you around the shop like a starving dog.” His thumb swipes over your bottom lip, daring you to scold him. “Pathetic, really. Nearly growled at that old lady for smirking at us.”

You laugh, swatting his chest. “You’re ridiculous.”

“Guilty.” He nuzzles your jaw, scruff catching on delicate skin as his earlier intensity melts into something softer, sweeter. “Should’ve warned me. That perfume’s a biological weapon.” His nose trails down your neck, inhaling deeply with an exaggerated sniff that sends you into giggles.

“Oh, please,” you snort, tangling your fingers in his hair. “You’re just dramatic.”

“Dramatic?” Will nips your earlobe, gentle this time. “You leaned over the milk cartons. Practically waved your neck under my nose.” His hands slide up your sides, thumbs brushing the underside of your ribs. “Sabotage.”

“I was checking expiration dates!”

“Cruel.” He kisses the offended pout off your lips, slow and lingering. He groans, flopping back against the cushions and dragging you with him in a tangle of limbs. “Going to have words with your friend,” he grumbles, even as his hands settle possessively at your waist. “Gifting chemical warfare disguised as perfume. Criminal negligence.”

“Hey!” You pinch his side, laughing as he jerks away with a yelp. “She has excellent taste!”

“Taste?” Will rolls his eyes, but the smile tugging at his lips betrays him. “That stuff’s lethal. Bet she’s cackling in her evil lair right now.” He tugs your wrist to his nose, breathing deep with a mock-agonised sigh. “Probably spiked it with pheromones.”

You prop yourself up on his chest, smirking down at his ridiculous pout. “Jealous she found my signature scent first?”

“Devastated.” His hands slide up to frame your face, thumbs brushing your cheekbones. For once, there’s no humour in his stormy gaze—just raw, disarming honesty. “Should’ve been me.”

The kiss starts soft, a barely-there press of lips that quickly deepens when your fingers find his hair. Somewhere in the apartment, the forgotten movie’s credits music swells dramatically. Will breaks away first, forehead resting against yours as you both catch your breath.

“For the record,” he murmurs, nose bumping yours, “you’re banned from wearing that to Ikea. Or libraries. Or—”

The protest dies in his throat as you kiss him—really kiss him—your fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt to pull him closer. His lips part instinctively, a low hum of satisfaction vibrating between you as he tilts his head to deepen the angle. There’s nothing tentative about it now: his hands slide up your back, anchoring you against him with a possessiveness that steals your breath.

He tastes like Earl Grey and the dark chocolate bar he’d pocketed at the shop—bitter-sweet, addictive. His stubble scrapes your cheek as he breathes you in, but neither of you care enough to pull away. When your teeth graze his bottom lip, he lets out a ragged groan, fingers tightening in your hair.

“Christ,” he mutters against your mouth, the word more prayer than curse. His thumb brushes the hinge of your jaw, coaxing you to open for him again, and you do—gladly—melding together in a rhythm that feels older than either of you. The couch creaks as he shifts, pressing you into the cushions until there’s no space left between hips, between heartbeats.

Before you can protest, his arms lock around your waist like steel bands, dragging you sideways into his lap. His legs loop over yours, pinning you to the couch in a tangle of limbs. A shudder runs through him as he buries his face in the junction of your neck, nose pressed to your pulse point.

“Will—?”

He doesn’t answer. Just holds you tighter, his breath hot and unsteady against your skin. Slowly, you relax into the vice of his embrace. Your fingers card through his hair, nails scraping gently at his scalp. He lets out a sound, half groan, half sigh, and nuzzles deeper into your neck. The tension bleeds from his shoulders incrementally, his death grip on your waist softening to something almost reverent.

“You’re clingy tonight,” you murmur, smoothing the rumpled hair at his temple.

“M’not,” he mumbles into your collarbone, though his legs immediately tangle with yours, pinning you to the couch. His nose nudges the hollow of your throat, inhaling deeply, as if memorising the scent. “S’your fault. Drugged me.”

You snort, fingertips tracing idle patterns down his spine. “Dramatic to the end.”

He hums, noncommittal, his lips brushing your pulse point. The credits still roll, bathing the room in shifting blue light, but Will’s breathing already slows—deep, even pulls of air that stir the neckline of your shirt. His grip loosens incrementally, heavy limbs going lax as sleep claims him.

You don’t dare move. Not when his lashes flutter against your skin, not when his fingers twitch against your hip in some dream. The weight of him is solid and warm, his heartbeat a steady drum beneath your palm.

“Will?” you whisper.

A soft snore answers, his exhale warming the hollow of your throat. You stretch carefully, fingertips grazing the crumpled throw blanket at the foot of the couch. The fabric whispers as you drag it upward, dust motes swirling gold in the TV’s dying light.

He stirs when the blanket settles—a grumpy murmur vibrating against your collarbone. His arms tighten reflexively, legs cinching around yours like living rope. “Nuh,” he slurs, half-asleep, protest muffled in your skin.

“Octopus”, you accuse under your breath, laughter softening the word.

His only reply is to nuzzle deeper, lips brushing your pulse in unconscious affection. You let your hand drift back to his hair, carding through the messy strands. His sigh is a quiet surrender, breath evening out as he sinks deeper into dreams.

The credits fade to black. In the sudden dark, his heartbeat becomes your compass—steady thuds beneath your palm, syncing with yours until you can’t tell where he ends and you begin. His legs stay stubbornly tangled with yours, a human anchor keeping you grounded.

Sleep comes slowly, tethered to the steady rise and fall of his chest beneath your cheek. His breaths paint the silence—a soft whistle in his nose, the faint tick of a swallowed snore. You press a kiss to the damp hair at his temple, lingering just long enough to memorise the warmth of his skin. Your eyelids grow heavy, the last thing you feel is the weight of his arm across your waist, anchoring you to this moment—to him—as the world dissolves into the slow, heavy pull of sleep.

[cairoblair]

Might i request some love at first sight headcanons for each of the boys with a non MC reader? What would make them fall in love at first sight? Thank you my dear!!!

Because these are a little lengthy, I'm separating this into two parts. I'll link part 2 to this post as soon as I finish it!

Part 1: Rafayel, Xavier, Zayne Part 2: Sylus, Caleb

Rafayel

You were walking through the art exhibition that had just arrived in town. Nothing had really caught your eye yet, but the paintings were beautiful regardless. You stopped in front of one - a huge canvas with shades of pink and blue. It seemed to be a sunset, but more...whimsical. Mysterious, even. You stared at it for what felt like hours. It seemed to be pulling you in, dragging you into its depths like a siren's song. "You like this one?" A man's voice said as a figure appeared beside you. "I do," You replied, not bothering to glance at the owner of the voice. "But...it's missing something." "Missing something?" He almost sounded offended, but more intrigued than anything. You hummed, examining the painting with furrowed brows. The man beside you studied your face, as if he could see the gears turning in your head. "Maybe some darker colors," You finally responded. "It's very...pastel. I think it would be more striking with some dimension." It was his turn to hum. He turned to the painting, observing it for himself. "Maybe you should tell the artist." You scoffed. "Critique a master's work at his own exhibition? I'll pass." "That's unfortunate," He replied, a chuckle underlying his voice. "I should tell you, though, that you just did." You froze, your head finally turning to look at the man beside you. His name tag specified that he was, in fact, the artist who created the paintings in the exhibition. Rafayel. "Ah," You sighed. You could feel the embarrassment rising in your chest, your cheeks warming as you realized what you had done. "I'm sorry, I only-" "No, please," Rafayel interrupted, holding up a hand. "I'm always open to some...constructive criticism. Why don't we have a look at the others? Maybe you have some opinions on those." You could hear the slight sarcasm in his tone, an obviously teasing smirk tugging at the corners of his lips. It probably would've been wise to turn him down...but where's the fun in that? "Maybe I do," You replied, cocking your head to the side. "Shall we, then?" He motioned for you to lead the way, following close behind you as you wandered around the exhibition. He couldn't seem to help the small smile that lingered on his lips, the hint of amusement in his expression as you offered your criticism. His art was interesting, sure. But he was convinced you were much more worthy of his attention.

Xavier

It was a beautiful spring day - perfect for a walk in your favorite park just outside the city. Luckily, most people opted to go to the one in the city's center, so crowds never seemed to be an issue. Plus, you had managed to find a lovely little spot hidden away from public view. As far as you knew, no one else had managed to find it. You adjusted your tote bag on your shoulder - full of little snacks, a water bottle, and a couple books you had been meaning to read for ages. The little trail that let to your secret spot was overgrown with vines and bushes, making it a little difficult to navigate. But, once you had managed to make it through, there was a small open area on the bank of the river that ran through the park. Beautiful flowers had started to bloom under the trees, and the recent rain had raised the water level of the river. It was the perfect spot for a little R&R. That is, until you noticed the man slumped up against one of the tree trunks. You almost jumped at the sight - you had never seen anyone else here before. A pang of disappointment hit your chest at the realization that this wasn't your little secret anymore. But, it was only one person. Maybe there was enough room for two. Upon closer investigation, you realized he was asleep. Deciding against waking the stranger up, you simply sighed and sat at the opposite end of the riverbank, putting as much space between the two of you as you could despite the small space. You rummaged through your tote bag, pulling out one of the books and opening to the bookmarked page. This particularly story had been gnawing at you for weeks, so before you knew it, you had already read through several chapters. "When did you get here?" A voice broke the comfortable silence. Your head shot up - the sudden noise had startled you slightly, pulling you out of your reading-induced trance. The man had woken up, but remained sitting against the tree trunk where you had found him. "Um, just a little while ago," You replied, checking the time on your phone. "I didn't want to wake you." He simply nodded in response, his gaze lingering on you for a moment before he glanced around. "I didn't know anyone else knew about this place," You added, lowering your book into your lap. "I've been coming here for a few months," The man replied, his voice still a little groggy from his nap. "So have I," You said. "I'm surprised we haven't run into each other sooner." Another beat of silence passed. It wasn't necessarily an awkward silence, despite the urge you felt to fill it. "I'm (y/n), by the way." You extended a hand towards him. His gaze flicked between your hand and the expectant look on your face. "Xavier," He finally replied, reaching to shake your hand. "It's nice to meet you." "Likewise," You smiled. Satisfied with just an introduction, you turned your attention back to your book. You didn't come to this spot to socialize, after all. "What are you reading?" Xavier asked, tilting his head in an attempt to look at the cover. "Oh, just a fantasy novel," You answered. "Nothing too interesting." He hummed, his eyes still stuck on the book. "May I?" He motioned to the open spot next to you. Your eyebrows raised slightly. "Sure, yeah." Xavier moved from his spot to sit beside you, his shoulder brushing yours as he leaned over to read the page you had stopped on. While this was far from what you had planned on doing today, it wasn't an unwelcome surprise. Perhaps you could learn to share your little hideout. His only condition? Always bring your book.

Zayne

A new bakery had just opened around the corner from your apartment, and you were all too eager to try it out. Even the air around the little shop smelled of baked treats. Inside, glass display cases held various sweets, each one just as mouthwatering as the last. You had managed to miss most of the crowd, save for a few customers who must've been enjoyed an after-dinner dessert. You, however, were just craving a late night treat. Your long day at work had warranted such a thing. After looking over all of the options, your stomach had decided on a small piece of cake topped with various berries. It looked positively divine. "Excuse me-" "Excuse me-"

You glanced over at the voice that had mixed with yours. A man stood a few feet away, his gaze meeting yours. He was dressed in a surgeon's coat, a name tag hanging from the small chest pocket. A small, amused smile lingered on his face. "Ladies first," He offered, motioning for you to go ahead. "Thank you," You replied, offering a nod before turning to the bakery worker and ordering your cake of choice. The man stepped forward after you had finished, his eyes flicking between you and the display case. "Make it two," He said to the worker before moving to the register. "Allow me." "Oh, you don't have to-" A beep from the card reader cut you off. He had paid for both treats before you even had a chance to protest.

Your mouth snapped shut, your brows raised as he simply slipped the card back into his wallet. You had no idea who this stranger was, or why he had paid for your dessert, but you weren't going to complain about it. Who would? "Thank you," You said as he held the small box of cake out to you. "You didn't have to do that." "You have good taste," He replied. "I was still deciding, so I should thank you for making the choice easier." "We're even then," You chuckled, holding out your hand. "I'm (y/n), by the way." He reached out to meet your handshake. "Zayne. It's a pleasure." His hand seemed to linger on yours a moment longer than necessary before he pulled it away. "If you aren't busy," You began tentatively. "Would you like to join me? There are a few tables outside, and it's nice out tonight." Zayne seemed to contemplate the offer for a few seconds before a hint of a smile tugged at the corner of his lips. "I'd love to," He replied. He walked just ahead of you, holding the door to the bakery open as you both stepped outside. There was a small table away from the entrance that you settled on. You were both out of your comfort zones - sharing a dessert with a complete stranger. Well, stranger might have been an overstatement. Something about you was...familiar to him. Perhaps from another lifetime. Or maybe your taste in sweets simply intrigued him.

[indulgentdaydream]

Comparisons Pt.2

Jason Todd x Jealous!Insecure!Fem!Reader || Angst/Fluff || Word Count: 2,730

Part 1

Warnings: insecurities (reader). Bad self esteem (reader). Criticizing oneself in the mirror (reader). Black eye (jason)

Have at ‘er guys.

The first thing you did once you got back into your apartment was throw your bag on the floor. The next thing you did was slump back against the door and slowly slid your way down until you were sitting on the ground, knees to your chest, head tucked into your folded arms.

Your eyes had been burning the entire walk back. Your throat was tight and especially your lungs from how fast you had power-walked.

Now that you were out of the public eye, you let the tears finally fall after trying so hard to hold them back.

Thank the crime for Gotham’s low rent. You didn’t think you’d be able to make it to your bedroom to hide your oncoming sobs if you had been living with roommates.

You were exhausted. You felt entirely stupid, too. As if you weren’t enough for Jason. Artemis had everything. Everything you didn’t and more.

You were beginning to think he had settled for you.

You knew he could pull attractive women. Could pull damn gorgeous women. He was entirely handsome himself, even though he never saw it.

Nearly every time you two were out he would have people coming up to him. Flirting with him. Asking for his number. Even when you were right there, his arm around your shoulders or your waist. Or if he was alone because you had gone to the bathroom. That was when they came out of the woodworks the most. It’s like even they could tell you were subpar for him.

The thing is: Jason would never even look at them. No matter how long they stood there. Usually, when he had ignored them for long enough and was getting annoyed, he would pull you into a deep kiss. He wouldn’t stop until he was sure they had left.

You couldn’t even explain why you felt like this. Jason had done nothing to prove that he didn’t love you.

But if Artemis, someone Jason had very possibly loved before you, was still in his life… what chance did you have at being allowed to stay?

Another sob left your throat. You were never in Jason’s league. Why ever pretend? Especially for this long?

You had overstayed your welcome.

Your phone buzzed in your bag. A call coming through. You sniffled, as you pulled it out of your tote.

Jason’s profile was displayed across the screen. A picture you had taken of him when you had dragged him out to the park a few months ago. You were both smiling at the camera as you took a picture. You had thought he looked so handsome in it. A soft smile, kind eyes looking a little off from the camera, the sun basking him in a sweet early spring glow. You had never liked the way you looked in that photo. When you made it his contact, you had cropped yourself out.

You frowned as your phone kept ringing. You didn’t want to deal with him right now. You set the phone on the ground in front of you, face up, letting it go to voicemail.

Your phone went black again. You started feeling a little guilty. Then, seconds later, it rang again.

You didn’t pick up. Even despite the guilt that began to chew at your stomach lining.

That call only rang four times before ending again.

A minute. Then a text message.

Jason: Just tell me whether or not you made it home, baby. Please?

You stared at it for a moment.

Another text.

Jason: I’m coming by soon either way. We’re talking about this.

You frown. He sounded mad.

Your head pounded lightly. A headache from how hard you’d been crying.

Maybe he was coming here to break up with you.

You’d obviously been delusional the past few weeks. Jason was using a case as an excuse to distant himself from you. To get familiar with Artemis again.

That had to be it.

Another text.

Jason: I know you’re seeing these, love.

Screw him. Screw him and his perfect grammar. And his stupid pet names.

You picked up your phone, opening the messages. You send back a simple “Home.” Before closing your phone again, placing it on the ground.

Jason: Thank you. See you soon.

Tears burned at your eyes again, but you swallowed them back.

You pushed yourself off the floor. No point in letting him see you, huddled in a heap of despair, still in your food splattered work clothes. Making your way to your bedroom, you began to change out of your work clothes. You automatically reached for the grey t shirt hanging off the post at the end of the bed, but hesitated. You stared at it. The far too big for you, men’s t shirt that was worn around the collar and smelled so much like Jason.

Your hand hovered over it before you stepped away.

He’d probably be wanting it back after this.

You stepped towards your dresser, catching a glimpse of yourself in the mirror.

You hate it.

You can’t even see yourself as yourself anymore.

You stand there, picking yourself apart bit by bit. Rifling. Dissecting. Looking to find something good, something likeable, until you’ve tossed every part into the “discard” bin of your mind.

You can’t even do anything about it. All your tears are gone. You simply hang your head as you step into your sweatpants and slip on your t shirt.

You crawl onto your bed, not bothering to climb under the covers. Not bothering to shower.

The sun was still shining in, reminding you of how you were wasting such a beautiful day.

Your mind was working against you. Coming up with reasons for why Jason would be with you. Why he would have done everything that he had ever done with you if he didn’t love you.

The most prominent reason was that he was just taking pity on you. He had the time on his hands to do a favour for the lonely, ugly girl because he had broken up with his gorgeous amazonian warrior girlfriend. He couldn’t be giving out favours anymore now that he had her back.

You laid there on your side, arms hugging yourself. You realized you weren’t out of tears. They continued slip out of your eyes and pool to the pillow below you. The occasional sob leaving you when your mind concocted something else outrageous.

You don’t know how long you laid there for.

In the silence of your apartment, you could hear the lock of your front door click before the door swung open.

You tensed, arms hugging yourself as you laid on your side, back to the door.

You heard Jason slip off his boots, the steel toes he always wore clattering against the floor, signalling his arrival.

Padded footsteps followed, moving down the short hallway. Then the creak of your bedroom door behind you that had already been ajar.

Jason’s voice was soft as he called your name, “You’re not asleep, are ya?”

You simply glanced back at him over your shoulder, twisting. He took up the whole frame. He was dressed the same as earlier. Dark blue jeans, dark grey shirt with a faded brewery logo on it, and his leather jacket that he hadn’t bothered to take off at the door. His sunglasses were gone, showing off the fresh black eye that you hadn’t seen. He held a bouquet of wildflowers in one hand.

Who brings flowers to someone when they’re about to leave them?

You laid your head back down without another word.

More footsteps. The bed dipped behind you, Jason’s weight settling on the mattress, sitting in the crook where your knees bent.

A beat passed before he sighed, “What’s going on in that pretty head of yours, doll?”

His hand reaches down to brush away the hair that was covering your face. The second his fingers brush over your cheek, you flinched back.

Jason draws his hand back, “Talk to me. I know how your mind gets, baby. What happened today?”

You stared straight ahead of you, towards the window Jason would often use to enter your apartment in the middle of night, the sunlight shining through. “Are you going to break up with me?”

Jason’s answer was quick. Honest. “No. Never.”

You should’ve felt more relaxed, but you didn’t. You just felt more stupid, “Did you love her?”

Jason paused, “Artemis?”

You nod.

Jason shifted on the bed, bringing more of his weight onto it before answering, “I thought I did. When I was with her. But… no.” Another pause. “You taught me what love was.”

Stupid, stupid, stupid. You knew Jason loved you.

You felt horrible. began to cry again, your voice cracking.

You just… you just needed to make sure, “Are you only with me because— because you pity me?”

“What?” Jason’s hands were suddenly on your shoulders, turning you onto your back. His fingers brushed your hair back and cupped your face. “Of course not!” You met his gaze for a moment through a haze of unshed tears. You’d never seen him more worried. More concerned. More… heartbroken at your words.

His eyes drift to the wet patches on your pillow, then back to your face. He takes in your red eyes and red nose. “Baby… have you been crying over this? Thinking I was going to leave you?”

You look away from him without answering. A silent “yes”.

Jason sighs lightly, “Because of Artemis?” His thumbs begin to stroke your cheeks, “She was just giving me some papers for a shipment. She owed me a favour from a long time ago.”

“How long were you with her?”

“Eight months,” he said, though there was a flit of a questioning tone at the end of it. He corrected himself, “Nine.”

“Why have you never talked about her?” You see him frown, his eyes shutting for a moment. You feel your face burn from embarrassment at all your questions.

Jason takes a breath, “That relationship… wasn’t a good one. It was my second real one, ever.” He shrugs, “It was built off of shared trauma, I guess. Once the Outlaws disbanded we didn’t really have much of a reason to stick around one another.” He pauses. “Now that I think about it, I don’t think I’d even consider it a real relationship. More of a fling.”

There’s a beat. You still don’t look at him.

“You know I love you,” he says. You bite deep into the inside of your cheek. “You know I love you… right?” His words sound so distraught at the idea of him making you feel unloved.

A small breath left your lungs. “I know.” Tears spill over as you talk, your arms still wrapped around yourself, hands squeezing the flesh of your biceps, “But that could’ve been an easy hand over. Five minutes.” You tried taking a deep breath, “Why… why make time to go and have coffee with your ex when you can’t even make time for me?”

Jason cursed quietly under his breath. Your face crumpled, but you tried for keep it together. “She wanted to.” Jason said. “Trust me. I didn’t. But I need that information.” He shuffled more onto the bed, hovering over you. “You have no idea how happy I was when I saw you walking past. You were like some angel coming from heaven. I’m serious.”

The moment replayed in your mind. Your bottom lip wobbled uncontrollably as you remembered his consistent frown every time he had looked at you.

“Then why—“ your voice hitched with a small sob. “You only smiled at her. You just started nitpicking me the second she left. Started when— when she was still there.”

Jason sighed again, his eyes shutting, “I know. I was acting like an asshole. I know. I’m sorry.” He leaned his face closer to yours, thumbs swipes away your tears. “I just get so worried about you sometimes.” He leaned down, pressing his forehead to yours.

You sniffle again, “I’m sorry.”

“No,” Jason mumbled against your forehead before leaning back. “I’m sorry, baby. I was already ticked off that I was wasting time with her.”

You squirmed lightly, still hugging yourself, “I’m still sorry. I know you love me. I do trust you. I just—“

Jason shook his head, “No. Don’t be sorry. I shouldn’t have had coffee with her. I should’ve been picking you up from work.” He moved his hands to gentle grasp onto your hands, “Come on. Sit up for me, yeah?”

You followed his instructions, sitting up, crossing your legs in front of you. Jason grabbed a tissue from your bedside table, handing it to you to blow your nose. You felt like asking whether the case he was working was real or not. You decided against it, realizing his black eye should be proof enough.

Jason brushed your hair back as you blew your nose, clearing your face. “Why did you think I’m with you because I pity you, love?”

You look away, shameful, “Because… because you’re the first guy to ever ask me out.” You shrug lightly, “And… and no one else was wanting to. And I just…” You sniffle again. Jason takes your old tissue and hands you a new one, his other hand on your knee, his thumb stroking the side of it gently. “I saw how pretty she is and—”

“Not as pretty as you,” he gave you a soft smile, lifting your chin up. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to cut you off.”

You gave no reaction.

Jason paused, “…do you not think you’re pretty?”

You try and turn your face away again, shrugging, “I’m just so far out of your league. She’s not.”

“Damn right you’re out of my league,” Jason laughed softly, grasping onto your shoulders as they fell in defeat.

Finally. You thought. He realizes. This is it. This is—

He took one hand and tilted your chin until you were looking at him again. “Love, you’re leagues above me. You hear me? I’m serious. I’m so lucky to have someone as sweet and caring as you.”

You begin to shake your head. Jason firmly yet painlessly pinches your chin between his thumb and forefinger, stopping you. He begins to nod your head. Up and down. Forcing you to agree with him.

He presses his thumb into your bottom lip. He pulls it down and back up over and over again, mimicking speech as if you were some puppet. He pitched up his voice and octave, “Yes, Jason! I’m the most gorgeous girl you’ve ever seen!”

You can’t help it. A smile tugs at your lips. You pull his hand away and hold it with both of your own as you place a kiss to it.

Jason grins, tilting his face down to yours, “There she is. There’s my girl.”

You shake your head at him, “I’m sorry for thinking you were going to leave me for her…”

Jason smiles softly, “No more apologies. I know how your mind is.” He tilts his chin up and pressed another kiss to your forehead. “Evil mind.” He mutters against it, making you giggle.

You hum lightly, leaning into his touch. “What happened to your eye?”

Jason scoffed lightly, “Some thug last night. My helmet was already broken. He got a good right hook in.”

You smile up at him. You sit up straighter, pressing a feather light kiss to the edge of the bruising.

Jason hums in satisfaction, “Thank you, baby.” He smiles again, looking back at you. “What do you want to do now? You’ve got me until nine.”

You perks up, “Nine? But it's already four! Don't you have to read those papers? Don’t you have to—“

Jason smiled and shook his head, cutting you off, "Already did. I just have to intercept that shipment tonight and then you'll have me all day tomorrow, too. I’ve got nothing else but time to spend with my girl.”

Your smile grows a little wider, "Really?"

Jason nods, "I promise."

You play with his fingers as you think it over. Rubbing a thumb over his knuckles, picking up each digit and curling them and straightening them again, "Can we go for a ride?"

Jason grins, "Course, love. Where's your helmet?"

AHHH!! Hope you guys enjoyed!!!!

[jscrawls]

Grave mistakes

Gotham City is full of a lot of characters, criminals, creepy clowns, man eating plants, eccentric billionaires. But all that rolled into one household?

Warning: contains mentions of violence, death, harmful tendencies, general spooky stuff, it's an Addams reader they're gonna be freaky,

Part 2: late night runs

🔹🔹🔹

You've been so busy that you haven't gone shopping for groceries since the move, of course two am is the perfect time to go out and maybe get to know your new home more intimately while you're at it. So you dress in your darkest and head out the door to start up your hearse.

Gothams quite gloomy and unwelcoming looking, looming architecture standing over everyone like unpleasant giants watching the ants crawl, gargoyle statues and symbols of darkness decorate every corner, You love it. People avoid you like the bubonic plague as you stroll through the night market, tote bag on your arm.

“Excuse me, my dear fellow, what's the price on these?” You gesture at the wilted vegetables in baskets under a faded gray canopy booth, the middle aged man looks up from his iPod and gives you a scrutinizing look before Glancing down at the assorted goods, before hauling himself out of his lawn chair with a huff to point at each basket as he speaks.

“thirty percent off everything after ten o'clock, root veggies are two fifty per pound, lettuce and cabbage are two fifty per head, garlic, onion and chives are four dollars per bag, broccoli and peppers are three for three. And before you ask, no I didn't water these out of the harbor and no I didn't steal them. All sales are final so don't try to bring me no rotten shit in a week asking for refunds.”

He straightens up and rests his hand on his hip as he looks you up and down critically, his free hand coming up to scratch at his salt and pepper scruff.

You nod appreciably as you point at the goods you want. “Wonderful, can I have a head of cabbage, five pounds of potatoes, two pounds of carrots, and a bag of onions and one of garlic?”

The man grunts and nods before he starts bagging the goods in paper bags, which he then cushions by stuffing newspaper into the bags to prevent bruising.

“It's gonna run ya twenty five and fifty cents, money first before you get the shit. No running off with my hard work.” The man's voice is gruff as he puts his hands over the bags, paranoid you'll grab and run.

You nod with a smile as you fish your wallet out of your pocket and pull a hundred out, setting it on his hand and then you start to look through the bags.

The man looks at the bill with a raised eyebrow before grabbing a flashlight to shine at the bill to check if it's legit, he hums lowly before looking back up at you. “You need me to break this or something?” He sighs as he starts to open up a metal tin under his booth as he checks if he has enough to break change.

You blink in surprise at the question, you glance down at his hunched over figure with a confused tilt to your head. “No, no my dear friend keep the bill I am perfectly able to break things myself.” You grab your paper bags and set them in your tote before happily strolling back out into the crowds of the night market, not noticing the man gaping after you.

You stop at a few more stands as you go, grabbing a few more essentials and non essentials before you decide your totes getting heavy so you start towards your hearse. Someone bumps shoulders with you as you're walking and then whirls around with an angry look.

“Watch it, spooky.” The person, a young man with dyed blonde hair and a neck tattoo spits between your shoes after all but barking like a dog at you.

“Apologies my friend, I did not watch your path for you when you walked into me.” You smile at him, the man's frown deepens and he takes a step back.

“Punk ass, watch your mouth before someone else watches it for you.” he looks you up and down like he's looking for something, then he scoffs and turns to stalk off, cussing at you under his breath the whole time.

you turn and happily continue on your way after that, making it approximately twelve steps before you’re grabbed by the upper arm and yanked into an alleyway.

two youngish guys brandish knives at you after they shove you into a brick wall, knocking your tote off your arm and dropping it. “run your pockets or we’ll stick you!” the closer one snarls, the other one quickly nudges him roughly with his elbow. “dude, shh! not so loud moron!”

the closer one rolls his eyes before holding his pocket knife up higher. “whatever, you get the idea emo. cough up the green before you end up in a hospital.”

you look between the two men with a smile growing on your face, this city is so exiting! “a hospital? couldn’t you aim for higher aspirations my friends?” the closer man’s lip curls, his grip on his blade tightening. “don’t start with that ‘you could do more with your life’ shit now, you’re not getting out of this with some pinterest quotes.”

“oh you misunderstand, i’m asking you to try for a morgue instead of a hospital. i’ll give you money of course, but i’d like to see some real effort here boys!” at your words the two of them exchange glances, shifting uncomfortably on the balls of their feet.

after a moment of silence the further away one of the two speaks up, “is this a game to you? some weird tactic to make us leave you alone? just give us something so we can all go home for gods sake.”

you pull your wallet out and start pulling money out. “ will you accept gold coins?” they share another look, the closer one leans over and roughly snatches the coins out of your palm. ‘who the fuck carries-you know what nevermind, lets go matt.” they both turn to dart further down the alleyway, but your confused voice stops them. “wait! you didn’t even give me a superficial wound! no jagged cuts that bleed and fester, not even a thrashing?” dissapointment colors your tone as you give them confused looks.

‘….are you like, alright?” before you can respond to the inquiry a dark figure suddenly lands in front of you, getting between you and the two robbers.

‘oh shi-!” the startled shriek is cut off by a swift kick to the sternum, the lithe figure ducks out of the way of the panicked knife swing the one named matt throws at them. the caped figure grabs his wrist and twists his arm until he drops the blade, they then smack him in the back of the neck, somehow knocking him out.

you clap exitedly from where you stand, cheering like this is a play. “good show! that was simply wonderful! me next!” you step closer, exited at the prospect of an attack. to your disappointment they silently grab the coins out of the hand of your would-be mugger and wordlessly hand them to you, no physical harm for you tonight it seems.

the figure is wearing black on black, a stitched up mask completely covers their face while some kind of ears decorates the top, their white lenses stare at you like the eyes of a doll, the yellow bat on their chest being the only splash of color on them. with a sigh you take back your money and start gathering your fallen bags, the quiet figure squats down to help you gather your things while they keep staring at you.

‘….hurt?” eventually they speak, their head tilting up and down as they carefully study your dejected figure.

“unfortunately no, i remain *miserably* unharmed.” the figure tilts their head at that, pausing with a potato in hand. “….you want to hurt?”

“of course, i think there’s no greater thrill in life besides death!” you stand up with the broken tote in hand, trying to balance the groceries in it despite the large split running down the side. the petite figure glances back at the two men on the ground before glancing back at you, again studying your form in silence.

“….okay.” they just nod slightly at that, unsure how to take your answer.

“right, well if i’m to remain physically well then i suppose i’ll head home, thank you for the good show my friend. i like the whole running about in black and brutally attacking people thing, very deranged.” you smile at them and turn to leave, they silently approach you and grab your wrist, when you turn to look at them they tuck a card in your hand before turning away and jumping up to grab a fire escape and climb out of the alleyway.

the card has a little bat on the back, cute. the other side is a help hotline.

🔹🔹🔹

M.list | prev | next

A/n: realistically I know Gotham wouldn't have night markets but just pretend with me y'all 🥹

[achromatophoric]

Kent: B, I’m telling you, I think I’m finally growing on her.

Enid: 😒

Bianca: Kent, the only things that grow on Addams are animosity, annoyance, and resentment.

Kent: I’m being serious! She just complimented me in Creative Writing. C’mon Enid, back me up!

Enid: 😶

Bianca: What exactly did she say?

Kent: Check it. She said I have… *dramatic pause* …a knight’s soul.

Bianca: Knight’s soul? What’s that even mean?

Kent: I figure it’s Addams for chivalrous and shit.

Bianca: *obviously unconvinced* Uh huh.

Kent: Anyways, I gotta jet. This knight’s got more beat poetry to weave.

Bianca: *watches Kent leave, then turns to the oddly silent Enid*

Enid: 😗

Bianca: You’re in their class. What did your girl actually say?

Enid: Um. She said, and I quote—

Enid: *flattens her voice* When I am exposed to your work, a certain medieval concept comes to mind…

Enid: Night soil.

Bianca: 🤨

Bianca: Isn’t that just human…

Enid: Yeah.

Bianca: So she basically called Kent’s poetry shit?

Enid: *winces and nods*

Bianca: I guess that’s an improvement. At least no one got sta—

Freshly-bandaged Xavier: *wanders by*

Bianca: 😒

Bianca: Lemme guess. He criticized Addams’ writing again?

Enid: Yup! Totes. Exactly like last time.

– Earlier in Creative Writing. –

Wednesday: 😑

Xavier: Look, Enid. You can write all the sapphic crap you want. I’m just saying that fan fiction isn’t all that creative.

Enid: *unsheathes claws* Oh yeah? I’ll show YOU creative!

Xavier: OH SHI—

Wednesday: 😐

Wednesday: 🙂

[preposterousjams]

My opinion on the Latino Jason Todd headcanon

While I do understand ppl's criticism of the latino Jason todd headcanon and how its kind of racist to make the kid with parents with drug problems as the latino one, to me its more of a reclamation BECAUSE of DC's racism.

Read any 80s/90s batman issue that covers gang violence and drugs, most if not ALL of the criminals are poc; black people and latinos visibly make up the majority in the poorer neighbourhoods in Gotham. Aside from the caricaturist way they r drawn/speak, its not THAT weird cause its a reflection of irl big cities where immigrants and marginalised ppl are often forced to live in such situations, (like most of my dominican family lives in the bronx... it aint racist to say dominicans tend to flock there), BUT...the weird part is when the second a sympathetic character comes from that area, he's white and has a name thats "too fancy for the streets".

Obviously, Jason was created to look like the old robin, so I can't say that the whole "diamond in the rough" situation was purposely a tad bit racist, but its still a lil weird (especially with bruce's comment).

If Jason were a part of the overwhelming demographic in his area, the good-kid-in-a-bad-area trope has less connotations. DC is currently trying to fix this trope is by making crime alley whiter, which isn't bad but they could've just yk... humanised the non-white residents.

I also feel like the messed up way Jason was treated post-death is what makes him so relatable to latino readers. His tragic story of dying while trying to save his only living relative is turned into a lesson for newer vigilantes. Jason's particular disdain for abusers on a few occasions was twisted (by both writers and characters) into him always being dumb, reckless, cocky, angry and disobedient, always violent, never having been able to get over his upbringing. None of those things were true (he was a normal level of reckless and cocky like every other robin, not more), but its an easier narrative to digest compared to how it was in reality; a kid who worked so hard and loved even harder, died to save a woman who couldn't care less about his existence. He was an emotional AND smart kid who wanted so bad to help others get better but was remembered as too emotional (in a bad way).

THIS is the reality for many latino diasporas in day to day life; Theres no question that Latino culture is passionate and emotive, but people from other cultures assume that it is followed by instead of logical. both can coexist. emotion does not mean u have no logic. Emotions can be irrational but they aren't inherently that way, and I wouldn't say that the moments where Jason lashed out as a teenager were irrational (in og runs, not rewrites post red hood), they were mostly done to protect someone (going crazy on abusers, disobeying batman to save sheila, that time he got into a fight at school to defend his friend).

A lot of euro-centric culture is OBSESSED with the idea that rationality is separate from feelings and emotions, but not crying at a funeral doesn't mean you're better than those who do. Emotions are the basis of human ethics and morals, they define the way we interact as a collective and ignoring them does not mean they are not there. Theres no winner to a contest of who can feel the less. And the way Jason's emotions are treated (pre-rh, hes definitely unhinged afterwards lol) is so in line with how white culture tends to punish those who aren't ashamed to feel.

I TOTES UNDERSTAND that some ppl who headcanon Jason as latino are doing it for the complete opposite of reasons, like "oh here some angry emotional guy with druggie parents, haha must be latino". Its weird. I dont like it. And its only brought up so he can swear in spanish in some rlly bad text post where his emotions are getting out. But to me there's so much potential for metanarrative and commentary on how latinos are treated in media that can be exemplified through the way his character is treated. Being latino would add SO MUCH DEPTH to his character and his dynamic with the others.

[lizzybeeee]

THE ENTIRE DRAGON AGE AMA IS A DUMPSTER FIRE

They avoided all the high-rated questions with genuine criticism (not blind hate!) and went for questions that were safer and allowed them more leeway. After that awful IGN article and that treatment of Davrin...God, just put it down. I have no faith that BioWare will be able to continue Dragon Age or Mass Effect with the respect it deserves.

Edit - They had an opportunity for genuine discussion with fans who were concerned/unhappy with the way Veilguard was -> people unhappy with the story, the marketing, the lack of 'RP' options in an RPG, etc... Instead they just doubled-down even more, avoiding those critical questions, with no real acknowledgement that fans have very reasonable problems with this game.

Some Highlights & My Initial Ramblings Below:

The Executors

"They attempt to manipulate events in the most subtle way they can manage."

So, very clear that they're not simply observers of what is happening in Thedas: they're manipulators...

"Magical Illuminati Confirmed! Lizard People Did 9:30 Dragon!!!!"

All that complexity of character -> his hatred of Orlais, his experience as a general, his relationship with Cailain, and the influence of Howe...all diminished. Any influence from a shadow cabal is too much influence - all the humanity of Loghain's choices/consequences...God, what a waste.

Not to mention what this does to other events/characters in the series -> they imply they've been intervening as far back as the magisters breaking into the golden city. I do not find this compelling! At all!

2. Solas and the Executors

Oh my god, he sounds like such a fucking Mary-Sue I'm so sick of Solas at this point -> "Actually, I know more about the Executors than anyone alive - not even the rest of the Gods know as much as me."

("I'm also, like, an Ancient Elven God, I'm responsible for the Blight and the Veil, and I kind of locked the Gods away cause they were evil - but, like, I'm really sad about it. Also the Herald of Andraste thinks I'm cute <3")

<- Previous comments: massive oversimplification, obviously

But I miss the days when not everything was about Solas. It removes so much interest and wonder in this world when the fucking egg is behind it all. I loved him as a character in DAI and now I just feel this bone deep tiredness when I see his stupid face.

Don't you dare threaten to bring Gareth David-Lloyd back -> keep him away from this mess!

3. The Fate of the Rest of the Evanuris

Yay. I'm so looking forwards to "The Return of the Elves: Electric Boogaloo 2" - it was done so well the first time!

"It was the elves all along!"

The only character with any potential to be interesting is Andruil*, but how they handled all this lore was done so shallowly and so poorly that I find it hard to give a damn anymore. Not to mention that the game literally mentions Ghilan'nain mourning Andruil - so is this a retcon/redirection/or have you confirmed that one of the most interesting members of the Evanuris' is dead?

*interesting in that she's established in lore to potentially have a tonne of really cool things attached to her (the void armour, the great weapon she has etc...). The rest of the evanuris are nowhere near as well established as she is.

4. Southern Thedas, Sociopolitical Issues, and Future Games

NOW YOU WANT TO INCORPORATE GEO-POLITCAL EXPLORATION?? You avoided any meaningful discussion like the plague in DATV but now you're acknowledging it?? OkaY. okAy.

They couldn't even give us the long-term ramifications of the mage/templar war how the hell am I supposed to believe that they will be able to pull off 'elven gods are real' etc...? For a game series that totes : your choices matter -> they have not proven that they have been able to show that in a meaningful way. They literally cleaned the slate with this game to avoid doing that.

So, what, does that mean that the Veil is never going to come down now? Or are you going to have the entirety of Thedas build themselves up again just to have the Veil fall and send things into chaos once more?

What a fatalistic, miserable outcome for Thedas -> why the fuck would anyone bother to live in Thedas if you're going to keep throwing meteorites at them? By all means, change/conflict has to happen for the series to move forwards...but this is just so miserable at this point.

(The Elder Scrolls, at least, gives people room to breathe between crisis' or sets them up in different areas of the world! Bethesda treats past installments/your decisions with greater respect than DATV does.)

Even, then, if the Veil remains up, that means that the spirits are just trapped in the Fade being miserable for the rest of existence. The entire series has been humanizing spirits, from Justice to Cole, and now they're just throwing in the towel? I guess they can stay in the fade now! Problem solved!

What do you mean the Evanuris are not a threat anymore? IN A PREVIOUS QUESTION YOU LITERALLY SAID SOME ARE STILL POTENTIALLY KICKING AROUND THE BLACK CITY?

Weakened, sure, but Solas was 'weak' in DAI. You're giving yourself an out if you decide to go back to the elves again. Please do, I'd love more content on how the elves alone fuck everything up!

5. More Southern Thedas, the Chantry, and Tevinter

Thanks for the confirmation that things in the South are so fucked up that they have to work alongside the 'Slave Capital' of the known world to rebuild!

Slavery was one of the biggest things that caused a rift between the north/south chantry system -> one of the reasons why there were exalted marches -> a uniting belief in the south is that slavery is fucked. They didn't address slavery in DATV - what hopes are there that they will do so effectively in a future game?

Don't tell me that Dorian fixes everything off screen either -> either he solves slavery off-screen or the south is being forced to work the slaver-capitol because their land is nuked and they have no ground to stand on.

I'm so thrilled.

6. Solas and the Idol / The Blight

I will never get over Solas fucking curing the Blight off-screen and no one asking questions/giving a shit. Hello?? The Hero of Ferelden would like a word with you???

So the Blight is calcified in Minrathous, at least, but everywhere further away is still fucked! Once more, the South is doomed to suffer from the long-term effects that regular blights have -> not to mention the red lyrium (which still exists according to the AMA) across the south.

I don't care; it's lame. It's a lame way to conclude the blight and I hate it. This game did not earn 'cure the blight from thedas' at all. You could have had us learn how to soothe a titan and see how that can diminish the blight but you did it this way.

Another 'magical ritual' because Solas has such a good track record with them lmao.

7. The Agents of Fen'Harel / The War with the Qun / The Crows

Turned him against the idea of being a leader???!!

Fen'harel's Call to the Elven People After the events at the Winter Palace, elves left the Inquisition under mysterious circumstances, as did elven servants across Thedas. None could say where they went, but those who believed the Inquisitor's story about Fen'Harel wondered just how large the Dread Wolf's forces were... and what the ancient elven rebel had planned. This is from the Trespasser Epilogue, Epler!

Your concept art for Joplin literally had him as a leader of a faction of elves. Just be honest that it's a retcon and you changed course - don't try to save face with this reasoning.

About the Antaam: "We needed some big mindless bad guys to fight and so we did this because we didn't want to address the Qunari War/Invasion we set up in Trespasser".

You had to canonize Sten as being alive and Arishok in order for this reasoning to work -> you didn't even come up with an alternative Arishok to take Sten's place.

Yeah, the exchange that set up the Crows we see in the game as "idealists" did not make the game. I can confirm that!

I'm sorry, "Caterina kept Illario in check?" as in, 'kept him an idealist and not the usual Crow'? The woman that beat him with a cane and starved him and his cousin to train them as Crows. Fuck off.

lmao -> tell me you're coming up with this on the spot without telling me that you're coming up with this on the spot.

8. World State Discrepancies - Isabela

Outright ignores the very real criticism about the marketing from this game and World States.

"there are absolutely places where we unintentionally suggested there was a hard canon (...that Isabela is always assumed to have joined Hawke's party.)"

Unintentional?

Excuse me, you have her talk about Merrill and the Kirkwall Crew as family - that was not unintentional in the slightest. Not to mention Sten, Blackwall, Sera, and Cole are canonized as being part of your world state no matter what.

You had a story you wanted to tell - one that only fit a few world states - and you went ahead with it and disregarded those choices. Don't try and lie about this all being a big misunderstanding.

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

Edit - They could have taken the opportunity to address the very reasonable criticisms that people had with this game but they cherry-picked questions and avoided/minimized anything remotely critical.

They could have provided us some insight into the game development time but each time they approached the topic they settled for "we're happy with what we delivered and it was well optimized."

They had an opportunity to acknowledge that people were bothered by the handling of the lore/stories (to potentially mention they could course-correct/ rethink their plans) but instead they doubled down on everything that they did and even 'justified' some decisions. They doubled down on the Executors, Solas's changing motivations, the destruction of Southern Thedas, and the elves/Solas being at the heart of everything etc...

This AMA basically confirmed that the only reason they did what they did to the south was for a reset -> It's not a compelling or fulfilling narrative to have everything we've done reset back to ground zero off-screen. BioWare games differentiate themselves from other RPG's by their import system from previous games - it was compelling and exciting! With DATV they set the expectation that BioWare can outright throw out entire games worth of choices/build up, not solely retcon them.

Justifying your choice to water down the lore/world of your story by saying you'll address it in the 'next game' does not instill me with confidence, BioWare! It doesn't explain that lack of it in this game either!

They avoided every question that, rightfully so, pointed out the misleading comments made by devs in the pre-order period of the game:

the fact that there were only 3 imported choices from previous games was leaked by a reviewer -> BioWare was vague from the start about choices

that this game was the most 'romantic' in the series

that world states/ headcanons wouldn't be disrespected

that there are 'lore' reasons for bad darkspawn design

that there are lasting, impactful choices/consequences to be made in this game

that the lore/world was not watered or toned down

that companions are deep and you can disagree with them etc...

BioWare's behavior towards their customers in the lead up period to this games release was downright scummy. I absolutely felt misled after playing the game for myself and recalling what I read in interviews put out. While EA is undoubtedly poison, you can't hold them solely accountable for this.

I feel for the individual developers who worked on this in what was undoubtedly a toxic environment from EA - but I feel that it's pretty clear that BioWare itself has a lot of problems within and in their leadership/executives. Working for EA does not give them an excuse to mislead their customers.

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

I already had a very grim outlook on the franchise from the end of DATV but this literally look my interest out the back and sent it to God. What a disaster.

[terrorbirb]

Monday my coworker cleared his throat on me when talking to me for 3 minutes, and I immediately put on a mask, disinfected and moved everything I had to the conference room because he obviously had something. I also immediately told my boss who "was wondering if he should send him home". All of that, but apparently that was enough to get me sick.

Here's the thing, and I know this isn't how it works, I got it from a coworker at work and did EVERYTHING in my power to not get it so i could continue work, so I should get my sick days paid even though I don't have any more PTO. I'm still going to work with a mask on in the warehouse because I, specifically, am needed to complete physical inventory which is incredibly important, but I had to go home at 3pm because I was on the verge of fainting. If I cannot complete these last 2 weeks of work, my company will fall apart, which is why I gave a 5 week notice instead of 2 and delayed starting my new job. I know "fuck this company", but I have enough pride to not want things to be worse than they already are because I Built This Place. I want all the systems I designed to work.

Tldr if a coworker got me sick because my boss didn't send him home when he knew he should, and I took measures to limit my exposure right after being exposed, then I should get my sick hours paid.

[fratttymatty]

Dumbgeons And DraGones

(all characters are 18+)

It was a rainy Saturday night, and the basement of Timothy Baxter’s house was alive with the sound of rolling dice, furious page-flipping, and exaggerated villainous laughter. Gathered around the ancient, coffee-stained table were five best friends: Timothy, Milo, Julian, Oliver, and Ezra. They were what everyone at Dalton High would call “the nerd crew”—gay, liberal, academically inclined, and utterly devoted to their twice-weekly Dungeons and Dragons sessions.

“We’ve nearly got it!” Julian declared, adjusting his glasses. “One more critical hit and the Dark Sorcerer is toast!”

“Let me cast Fireball,” Milo said eagerly.

“No, no, let me finish him off with Eldritch Blast,” Ezra protested.

While the boys argued strategy, three girls stood outside the basement window, peering in and giggling wildly. Cassie Winters, the queen bee of Dalton High, flipped her bleach-blonde hair over her shoulder and nudged her best friends, Lexi Carter and Tiffany Reynolds.

“OMG, you guys, they’re, like, so into this nerd game,” Cassie whispered.

“Totes embarrassing,” Lexi added, chewing gum with a dramatic snap.

“I know, right?” Tiffany said, pulling her hot-pink phone out to record. “Like, what even is Dungeons and Dragons?”

Cassie suddenly had an idea—one that would be, in her words, “so iconic.” She reached into her designer handbag and pulled out a small vial of pink liquid. Earlier that week, she had visited the town’s weird little crystal shop for “vibes,” and the shopkeeper had handed her the vial, calling it a “spell of transformation.” Cassie had no idea if it actually worked, but she loved the idea of using it for chaos.

“Watch this,” Cassie whispered, unscrewing the vial. “Let’s, like, make them cool or something.”

“What do you mean?” Tiffany asked.

“Just trust me,” Cassie said, pouring the liquid through the open window. It landed on the game board, shimmering as if alive, before seeping into the dice, figurines, and character sheets.

Inside the basement, the boys didn’t notice the strange glow overtaking their game.

“Final roll!” Timothy said, gripping the d20 tightly. He threw it, and it landed on a perfect 20.

“Yes! We did it!” Ezra cheered.

But before they could celebrate, the room started spinning. The game board erupted in pink light, and an intense heat filled the air.

“What the hell?” Milo shouted.

“Is this part of the game?” Julian asked, panicked.

The light engulfed them completely, and they blacked out.

When the boys woke up, everything felt... different. Timothy was the first to notice. He looked down at his hands—gone were his pale, wiry arms. Instead, he had tan, muscular forearms. He touched his face, which felt unfamiliar and... square-jawed?

“What’s going on?” he said, his voice deeper and smoother.

The others stirred, groaning and stretching. Milo’s once-curly hair was now a short, perfectly styled fade. Julian’s gangly frame was replaced by broad shoulders and washboard abs. Ezra’s glasses were gone—he didn’t need them anymore—and his delicate features had hardened into the rugged visage of a football player. And Oliver...

“Dude, I feel amazing,” Oliver said, flexing his new biceps.

They looked at each other, confusion giving way to excitement. Their nerdy clothes had been replaced by Dalton High varsity jackets, ripped jeans, and stylish sneakers. Their mannerisms shifted as well. Gone were the nervous fidgeting and rapid talking. Instead, they carried themselves with an effortless confidence.

“Bro,” Milo said, grinning. “This is sick.”

“Totally,” Timothy agreed. “Wait, Tim’s kinda lame. Call me Ethan now.”

“Ethan? That’s dope. I’ll be Matt,” Julian said, smirking.

Ezra, still examining his reflection in the basement’s dusty mirror, turned back to the group. “Yeah, and I’m Jake now.”

Milo and Oliver exchanged glances.

“Milo sounds like a nerd name,” Milo said. “Call me Ryan.”

“Oliver’s boring,” Oliver said with a laugh. “I’m Chase now.”

As they adjusted to their new personas, the basement door swung open. Cassie, Lexi, and Tiffany stepped inside, jaws dropping.

“OMG, it worked!” Cassie squealed.

“Whoa,” Tiffany said, staring at Ethan. “You’re, like, so hot now.”

“Thanks, babe,” Ethan said, flashing a dazzling smile.

Cassie wasted no time wrapping her arms around Matt. “You’re, like, coming to my party next weekend, right?”

“Obviously,” Matt said, already feeling like he belonged in her world.

By the end of the night, Cassie was dating Matt, Lexi had claimed Ryan, and Tiffany was all over Jake. Chase and Ethan, meanwhile, found themselves texting two other popular girls—Hailey and Brooke—about meeting up at the next football game.

As the weeks went on, the boys fully embraced their new lives. Their love for fantasy movies and indie music was replaced by action blockbusters and pop hits. Instead of discussing politics and social issues, they talked about sports and protein shakes.

The transformation was permanent, but none of them cared. They were no longer the nerdy outcasts—they were the kings of Dalton High, and life as jocks was totally awesome.

It was Friday afternoon, and the boys—Ethan, Matt, Jake, Ryan, and Chase—were lounging on the bleachers overlooking Dalton High’s football field. Cassie, Lexi, and Tiffany were draped across their shoulders and laps, laughing at every joke and sipping on iced coffees. Hailey and Brooke, who were now dating Chase and Ethan respectively, sat nearby, painting their nails and occasionally chiming in.

“Yo, so check this out,” Jake said, scrolling through his phone. “Apparently, the school board’s talking about letting the GSA put up some posters about, like, ‘inclusivity’ or whatever. Can you believe that?”

“Pfft,” Ryan scoffed, tossing a football in the air. “Man, that’s so stupid. Why do they need a whole club to tell people, ‘Hey, we’re gay’? Like, we get it. Nobody cares.”

“Exactly,” Ethan said, nodding as he draped an arm around Brooke. “It’s, like, do they think being gay makes them special or something? Just stop shoving it in everyone’s faces.”

“Right?” Matt chimed in, shaking his head. “It’s not like anyone’s out here making a ‘straight club.’ If they’re so ‘equal,’ why do they need their own group?”

Cassie giggled, flipping her hair. “You guys are so smart. Like, I don’t get why the school even lets them, like, exist. It’s so awkward.”

“And don’t even get me started on those girls from debate club,” Chase said, rolling his eyes. “They’re always whining about the patriarchy or whatever. Like, maybe if they weren’t such b****es, they’d actually have boyfriends.”

That got a laugh from the entire group, the boys high-fiving each other while their girlfriends giggled in approval.

Jake leaned back, smirking. “Yeah, they’re probably just bitter because no guy would touch them with a ten-foot pole. Girls are supposed to, like, be chill and hot, not try to act smarter than guys. It’s just basic facts.”

“Exactly,” Matt added, grinning. “That’s why you girls are the best.” He kissed Cassie on the cheek, and she squealed with delight.

The group laughed again, the boys reveling in their new personas. None of them missed their old lives—books, debates, and progressive causes were all a distant memory. Life was simpler now, and for Ethan, Matt, Jake, Ryan, and Chase, it was perfect.

(from left to right, row 2 to row 1: Chase, Tiffany, Cassie, Lexi, Ryan, Jake, Ethan, Matt)