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scarletmika · 14 days ago

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Kiss Me Again : ̗̀➛ Robert "Bob" Reynolds x Reader

Pairing: Robert "Bob" Reynolds/Sentry x Goddess!Reader

Summary: A crush isn't a problem, and when that crush becomes love, it's usually a good thing. For Bob, it terrifies him, because he'd managed to fall in love with a literal Goddess. Why would a Goddess choose a broken man like him?

Warnings: SO much fluff, shy Bob (I would be too), pining, age gap (inevitable when one of them is a literal Goddess), probably some very incorrect Norse Mythology but it's fanfiction people, SPOILERS kinda for Thunderbolts*, female reader description

Word Count: 4,727 words

Requests are open! : ̗̀➛ Find my masterlist here A/N: this was an anon request and the second I read it I said "I must write this right now" and then I ran with it

PART TWO Kiss Me Forever : ̗̀➛ Robert "Bob" Reynolds x Reader

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧

“So, Winter Soldier…when you say ‘otherworldly visitor’ do you actually mean ‘otherworldly’ or is she just very…you know…beautiful in that entrancing sort of-”

“Oh my god, Alexei, when he says ‘otherworldly,’ he does mean ‘otherworldly,’ why is that so hard to understand?”

Bob was nothing short of confused throughout the entire conversation playing out before them. Bucky had called a meeting of the entire group, stating an ‘emergency,’ and gathered them all in the meeting room that Valentina had designed for staging before missions. It wasn’t a room that Bob was in often, still yet to have gone on a mission with the team as he worked to find a way to use his powers without losing control of himself, but even being in there for less than 5 minutes, he could tell why his friends hated it so much.

The A/C in the conference room was terrible, and as someone who ran hot naturally because of the ‘medical trial,’ it wasn’t doing Bob any favors in the summer heat of New York City. The table was entirely too large for the small team, judging by the way that Bucky had to practically shout down the table to where Alexei sat at the head of it, claiming it was the best seat and the most important. All in all, Bob hated it, though there was a lot about the newly renovated tower that everyone hated, given it had all been Valentina’s design work.

“Look, can we forget about the ‘otherwordly’ comment for two seconds? If either of you says it again, I may just carve out my own eardrums,” Yelena made a show of holding her freshly sharpened knife to her ear, giving Ava and her father a blank look, before turning her attention back to Bucky. “Wherever she may or may not be from…why exactly have you invited some woman to the tower?”

“To train him,”

Bob’s head shot up when it got quiet in the room, realizing that Bucky’s finger was jabbed in his direction, and all eyes were on him. His own eyes went wide, and he himself thought they might fall out of his head, as he pointed at himself.

“T-train…me?”

“You said you were ready to begin learning to fight, that you had a pretty good grasp on the…other sides of you,” Bucky explained as Bob shifted uncomfortably at even the mention of the other parts of him he wished to keep locked away. “There are three super soldiers in this room, and we all got our asses handed to us by you months ago in this very tower. Trust me, if anyone can train you and keep up, it’s her.”

The team gave one another skeptical glances, turning to Bob who looked just as confused. Yelena hung her head, rubbing at the sockets of her eyes with the palms of her hands as she turned back to Bucky.

“And who in the hell could possibly be strong enough for that?”

“...the Goddess of Strategy-”

“EXCUSE ME?”

The room erupted into absolute chaos as Bucky uttered those three simple words, hanging his head with a groan that resounded through the room as the team yelled over one another, their words impossible to decipher.

Bob, on the other hand, was frozen. He’d kept himself entertained in the attic of his childhood home with many, many books on Norse Mythology stolen from the local library. He’d grown up reading the myths of Thor, Loki, and the likes, only to learn years later that those gods were, in fact, real.

Yeah, Bob knew exactly who you were. He couldn’t decide if the flush quickly crawling across his skin was due to the yelling in the room or because he’d harbored a crush on you, his favorite Avenger, since he was a literal child.

“If you think Valentina will allow this-”

“When have I ever cared what Val thinks-”

“Are we glossing over the Goddess aspect of this-?”

“Please, she could probably break little Bobby in half with a look-”

“FRIENDS, MY WONDERFUL TEAM, LOWER YOUR VOICES!” it was a very contradictory statement for Alexei to be shouting, standing on top of the rolling chair at the conference table, which the entire team was shocked wasn’t buckling under the pressure. It did the trick, though, the ceaseless arguing and shouting coming to an end as everyone looked to the older man expectantly. “I trust the Winter Soldier’s judgement, but this old Russian only has one question…who is this Goddess?”

These days, Yelena seemed to always be groaning around her father and anything he said, and this was no different. She muttered something in Russian under her breath, which most of the team by now had come to learn meant something along the lines of “shut him up before I do.” Bucky attempted to do just that.

“She’s-”

“Thor and Loki’s sister, daughter of Frigga and Odin. Goddess of Strategy, has a sword formed at Nidavellir that she’s- she’s kind of deadly with, but it’s really cool because it can summon the Bifrost. She was uh, trained in sorcery by Frigga, was an Avenger…” Bob hadn’t even realized that he’d gone on a tangent, interrupting Bucky and info-dumping everything he could about the myth that was you before his brain could stop him. He could see Yelena’s smile quirk up into a smirk as that red flush he’d already had deepened as he realized what he’d just done. “I just uh, I-I think I must’ve- I read that somewhere…once…a long time ago. A really-really long time ago.”

There was quiet in the room for a moment before Walker laughed, slamming his hand down on the table as he gestured between Bucky and Bob.

“Nice one, Barnes! Seems the student has a big ‘ole crush on the teacher you found for him!”

If the blush on his cheeks could get worse, it did. Bob avoided making eye contact with anyone at the table, gaze entirely focused on his hands as he wrung them together in his lap.

“Alright, lay off. Fact of the matter is, Bob needs a teacher that’s not easily breakable, and she’s the best of the best,” Bucky side-eyed Bob for a second, catching his eyes for just a brief moment. “I sent a message to New Asgard, they got it to her, and she said she’d do it. So bury your crushes, get your teasing out now, because she’s arriving tomorrow and I’d like if we could act like the Avengers and not the Avengerz for once. This woman did save the world…multiple times.”

Bob tried to do just that, he really did. There was endless teasing from John the rest of the day, and while Ava and Yelena didn’t directly contribute, they didn’t try to stop John’s comments either. Bob did his best to ignore them and brush them off, too busy giving himself a pep talk all day that he could do this. It was a harmless crush on a literal Goddess he’d had for years; it was nothing. He was an Avenger now, he could do this.

His pep talk had been great the night before. But it couldn’t prepare him for the moment you actually arrived at the tower in a stream of color.

The Bifrost was a sight in itself, but seeing it before your own eyes, as Ava muttered under her breath, was like its own separate wonder of the world.

The stream of colors dissipated before their eyes, leaving that same etched pattern it always did into the helicopter landing pad of the Tower they now called home. A conversation that it was decided Bucky would get to have with Valentina. When the colors were gone, you were left standing in the Bifrost’s place.

Bob hadn’t prepared himself for what it would be like to see you in person. Somehow, you were prettier than he even thought was possible.

The Asgardian armor you’d donned for years was still shiny, the light of the sun reflecting off of it. It was almost an exact copy of Thor’s own armor, though entirely blue and gold, billowing blue cape hanging from your shoulders, flowing in the wind of the city. Bob could see Styrkr, your sword, sheathed across your back, glinting in the sun as you stalked toward the group, a smirk that Bob thought could rival the sun itself on your lips.

You were beautiful. Gorgeous. Ethereal. There was no shortage of words that Bob could use to describe you in that moment as you stopped in front of Bucky.

“Well, Barnes…you look better than you did years ago, that’s for sure,”

Even your voice had the flutter in Bob’s stomach threatening to eat him alive from the inside out.

Bucky laughed, quickly pulling you into a hug that you eagerly reciprocated.

“I’d make a comment about how you haven’t aged a day, but I don’t think I need to point out the obvious,”

“Isn’t the longevity of Asgardians so fun?” you both shared another laugh, Bucky’s arm thrown over your shoulders as he seemed to give you an affectionate squeeze, a history of fighting and the semblance of a friendship clear between the pair of you. Your gaze drifted over the team beside him. “So…this is the New Avengers, huh? Still weird that you’re living in the tower I once called home.”

Bucky was quick to introduce the team to you. Yelena and Ava were nothing but respectful, while John still seemed to carry that ‘entitled arrogance’ as Ava typically called it in his greeting to you. Alexei had the entire team wishing that he just…knew how to be normal, for once. Loud, boisterous, but it brought a smile to your face nonetheless.

“I’ve got to say, you remind me a bit of Volstagg and Fandral if we mixed them into one person. I think you would’ve gotten along well with them,” the comment seemed to make Alexei surge with pride, even as he leaned over to his daughter and asked loudly ‘who the hell were those people.’ It was when your gaze finally made it to Bob that he felt his heart was going to stop. “So…that means you must be my indestructible, ‘power of a thousand exploding suns’ student.”

All eyes were on Bob in that moment, and he was struggling…hard. He tried to speak, to remind himself of his pep talk from last night and to portray confidence, but he was a stumbling mess of words.

“I uh, I’m-I’m Bob. That’s uh, that’s me…exploding suns and s-stuff. I’m the n-new student…yay. And I-I know who you are…b-big Norse Mythology fan…”

Bob could hear the snickers of his teammates, not entirely subtle about them, and could see the grimace on Bucky’s face. But not you.

Your smirk had softened into the sweetest smile. Your head had cocked to the side, eyes almost the tiniest bit brighter as they trailed his form up and down, and Bob could feel the sweat forming as he tugged at the collar of his sweatshirt, knowing you seemed to be assessing him.

“Bucky…you failed to warn me how cute my student was,” Bob’s breath had caught in his throat as you sent him a wink. “You know what they say…it’s always the quiet ones.”

You were going to be the death of him, Bob had decided in that moment.

You requested to spend that first day alone with Bob in the training room of the tower, gauging his comfort level in any form of fighting in the slightest. The team respected that, but that didn’t mean they hadn’t all found reasons to take turns walking past the training facilities in hopes of eavesdropping on conversations and catching glimpses of this training that they all thought was going to end terribly.

Bob’s eyes were locked on you as you removed the heavy armor plating you wore, laying it out on one of the benches until you were left in the form-fitting undershirt and pants that sat below your armor. Yeah, this was going to be absolute torture for him.

“Do you want to see it?”

Shaking himself out of the stupor that Bob seemed to put himself in, his eyes went wide as they focused back on your face. He was confused until he glanced at your hands, seeing that you were holding your sword, Strykr, out toward him.

“O-Oh! Oh uh, I don’t know-”

“She doesn’t bite,” you joked with a slight laugh, taking a step toward him and holding it out. “You said you liked Norse Mythology, so I figured you’d want to take a look at it before we get started.”

You were right, but Bob didn’t need to say that. With a shaky hand, he reached out and took the sword in his own hands, and he could almost feel the power flow through him just from holding it.

It was heavy, but not too heavy, a strange lightweightedness to it while still feeling like it took godly strength to swing. He realized, holding it up close, that the sun glinting off of it wasn’t what he’d seen earlier on the helicopter pad. The sword itself had a faint glow to it, almost pulsing, a power he could only assume came from the fact that it was forged in the heart of a dying star.

“It’s beautiful…” Bob managed to say without stuttering through it, probably because he hadn’t taken his eyes off the sword as he adjusted his grip on the hilt. “It ’s-it’s almost like-”

He hadn’t realized how fast he’d swung it, unused to the lightweight feel of the sword that was, most definitely, heavier than it looked. Your hand caught the blade easily, not even flinching, as it swung toward you, simply eyeing him with a curious look and a genuine smile.

“Well…never seen that before,”

“I-I’m sorry!” Bob dropped the hilt immediately, sure his cheeks were going to be permanently flushed red after spending time with you. You’d only let out a light laugh, catching the hilt easily, swinging it quickly in your hand before placing it down next to your armor. “I didn’t mean to! It’s just so…it’s so l-light.”

“It’s actually not. For most normal people, even for super soldiers like Bucky, it’s quite heavy,” you replied with a smirk as you rose back up to your feet. “Guess that’s a better explanation for your strength level than the bullshit ‘power of a thousand exploding suns’ shit Valentina came up with.”

Bob laughed lightly, wringing his hands together as his eyes followed you. Taking your place across the sparring mat from him, ten feet between you both, you stood ready for a sparring session. Bob…he stood as if he was in fight or flight mode.

“So…uh, how d-do we do this?”

“Depends. Bucky says when it comes to training you…don’t have much,” Bob nodded at your comment, watching as you tilted your head curiously. “You want to take it slow, or you want me to throw you in the deep end?”

“Uh…w-what’s the deep end entail?”

Bob had barely finished his sentence when your hands flicked, tendrils of navy blue magic wrapping around his waist and tugging him across the mat in your direction. A gasp left Bob involuntarily at the motion as the magic dissipated, leaving him barely on his feet in front of you. A single swipe of your leg had him plummeting to the ground on his back, landing with an ‘oof’ as your foot came to rest on his chest, barely pressing him into the mat.

“Y-you…” Bob was speechless, staring wide-eyed up at you as you simply smirked down at him. “T-that’s cheating!”

“No, that’s called the deep end,” you laughed wholeheartedly, reaching down to take his hand and tug him back to his feet, and he knew you didn’t miss that now signature red flush on his cheeks. “And that is why we’re going to start slow.”

“...why’d y-you even offer the deep end, then?”

“Girl’s gotta have some fun from time to time. Come on, let’s start with basic stances,”

Those training sessions started as once a week, before quickly evolving into twice a week, and before the team knew it, you essentially lived in that tower once again, there all day, every day. None of them minded, loving the stories you’d tell them over dinners of your adventures with your brothers when you were young, of the pranks that Loki enjoyed playing on Thor but never played on you, and even stories of everything that had once happened in the very tower the team now called their home. The more you were around, though, the more the rest of the team managed to find a way to tease him relentlessly when you weren’t in the room over his ‘obvious’ little crush.

Those moments of domesticity around you were what Bob loved the most, especially when it somehow managed to just be the two of you.

For weeks, even when you began to visit more and more often, the pair of you sparred together for hours, and that was the end of it. Bob, though, remembered the day it changed like it was yesterday. He wasn’t sure he’d ever forget it. The rest of the team had been sent out on a mission by Valentina, but you’d still promised you’d have your usual training session that day, even without them lurking around.

You’d thrown a punch that Bob managed to quickly dodge, even if he stumbled slightly on his feet afterward. Thinking of everything you’d been teaching him, Bob managed to steady himself, lock his feet into position, and throw a punch back at your ribcage. It connected, even though you hadn’t even flinched. You’d spun away from him, circling him with a smile on your face.

“Good! Next time, though, actually hit me,” Bob’s eyes widened, realizing what you were saying. You’d been trying to get him comfortable with his own super strength for weeks now, and that was the one thing he was still struggling with. “You have it, so use it. Don’t let it use you. Focus on it, channel it, and use it. You can do this, Bob. Don’t think, just do.”

Bob closed his eyes for a moment, thinking back on everything you’d been teaching him. Being the Sentry meant potentially letting that dark side of him overtake him, so he’d blocked off the Sentry. He’d blocked out his own powers, but he couldn’t. He had to accept that the Sentry and the Void were parts of him, and he didn’t need to be them in order to channel their strengths. He just had to be Bob, and when you were the one teaching him that, he seemed to understand it.

You charged forward, and he could see the magic encasing your fist as you threw a punch. Bob managed to duck, switching places with you. Your smirk quirked up as your leg came flying up at super speed. With a deep breath, Bob’s hand managed to catch it, not missing the way your eyebrows shot up. He threw your leg back to the ground, taking in a sharp breath as he thought about everything you’d taught him, and threw a punch toward your ribs, this time channeling the power surging through his veins that he tried so hard to block out in fear of losing control.

A gasp left your lips the second his fist connected, your body dropping to the ground as you fell on your knees, hand immediately holding onto your side. Any confidence surging through Bob in that moment dissipated in a second, and panic overtook him.

“O-Oh my god! I’m s-so sorry. I shouldn’t have- I shouldn’t have done that, I-I didn’t mean to hurt you-”

You laughed, and that laugh was enough to stop Bob’s incessant rambling of apologies. His gaze met yours as you looked up at him, and there wasn’t a trace of malice in it. There was pride, and something else buried beneath it that had the constant fluttering of his heart beating erratically once again.

“That, Bob, was perfect. Now…you want to get dinner together?”

From that day on, many of those days in the tower didn’t even consist of training.

You’d introduced Bob to the shawarma restaurant in downtown Tony had dragged you all to all those years ago, watching as Bob fell in love with the food. That became a typical Thursday outing for you both for lunch. In that time, simple walks around Central Park became more common than not. Bob enjoyed the peacefulness of the park, the contrast it had to the bustling city around it, and he found tranquility in walking through it. He didn’t leave the tower much, terrified of losing control, but when you were with him, he felt like he could do anything.

Moments in the tower with you were still his favorite. He could listen to you for hours on end, and he had, as you walked with him through the tower and told him stories upon stories from your years spent here with the people you’d called family for so long. There was a story for almost every room. And eventually, when those days turned into you crashing in one of the spare bedrooms Valentina had set up in the tower for the night, you’d both found yourself watching movies in the common room until the early hours of the morning before Bob’s insomnia would let him sleep, even if the others weren’t joining you.

The team had noticed. It was hard not to. The Bob they’d known, the one who often shied away from long conversations with them but could still throw out a snarky remark, had grown more comfortable. He’d left his shell, but only around you.

“Did you anticipate this?” Yelena questioned Bucky one day, who was comfortably sitting at the island counter of the tower’s kitchen. He’d followed her gaze to the common room, seeing you laughing on the couch at something Bob had said while yet another movie droned on in the background.

“To this extent? No,” Bucky shook his head, before glancing back at Yelena with a smug smirk. “But I hoped it might go this route. I’m taking credit for it.”

Yelena found herself watching you both again, and Bucky followed her gaze.

“Do you think she likes him…like that?”

The super soldier pondered it for a moment, but there was no mistaking it. Not with the way you smiled at Bob, no matter what he was saying, that glint in your eyes. He knew you well enough to know it was written clearly across your face.

“Yeah…she’s not very subtle. Then again, if you’ve met her brother, neither is he. She looks at him like Steve looked at Peggy, and that’s all I have to know,”

Bob was in deep, and he knew it. That crush he’d harbored was long gone.

He was in love, and god was it terrifying. To fall in love in general was a scary thing. Bob had lost enough in life; falling in love just meant there was another thing in his life he could lose. It complicates everything more when he’d gone and managed to fall in love with a literal Goddess.

It had been months of training, but something in the air this time was different. Bob couldn’t focus, couldn’t pull his eyes from you, and you seemed to know it. Every time you turned away, his eyes locked on you, but you always managed to glance back and catch him with a small smile.

His head felt fuzzy, that flutter still in his heart when he looked at you, and paired with that weightless feeling in his stomach, he knew being around you would never be easy again from this day forth. He was so mesmerized by the simple idea and sight of you he almost didn’t see your smirk as you entered fighting position, ready to spar again.

You were on him in seconds, this time with a knife in your hands. Both of you knew it couldn’t hurt him, but he also knew even if it could, you never would hurt him with it.

Bob sidestepped, but his mind was blank, the simple scent of your perfume sending him over the edge as he lost his entire train of thought. You’d taken advantage of the opportunity, knocking him down to his back on the ground.

What he hadn’t expected was for you to staddle him, knife pointed directly at his neck as you smirked down at him and the wonder written across his face.

“I win…”

Bob’s breath was caught in his throat, he didn’t know what to do. But you seemed to have him exactly where you wanted him. Your smirk shifted, a soft smile replacing it, as your hand rested gently on his chest, over the undershirt he wore to these sparring sessions. He knew you could finally feel the erratic beating of his heart reserved just for you.

“I’ve been teaching you for months now to fight. To be confident,” your voice came out in a whisper, and there was nothing for adoration laced through it. “I’ve spent enough time with you, Bob, I know you. So be confident…and tell me the truth about your racing heart.”

Maybe it was the way you always had a way of calming him, or maybe it was the training you’d been giving him for months, but something clicked in Bob. He sat up, leaning back on his hands until he was completely sitting straight up on the sparring mat, you still perched in his lap. A tentative hand came up to your waist, lying on it, and squeezing it gently. Your hands followed suit, running up his arms until they rested around his neck.

“You…” Bob tried to find the words, but his nerves were clear in his voice. “Y-you make me nervous.”

You hummed, hands finding the hair that curled at the nape of his neck.

“In a good way, or a bad way?”

“G-Good way,” he’d managed to get out, leaning is head back into your touch. “Good but…but scary.”

“Why?”

“B-because loving you means…I c-could lose you,” once the words started flowing out of him, they couldn’t stop. He’d held it inside for weeks now, and the weight on his shoulders was finally lifting off him with everything he said. “And I’ve lost enough. I…I don’t want to think a-about losing you, about you…not feeling the same way.”

You cocked your head at that, one hand trailing to his jaw as you caressed it beneath your fingers.

“Why wouldn’t I?”

“B-because why would a Goddess…want a broken man like me?”

He could see it clearly, the sadness that seemed to flood your gaze at his words. You opened your mouth as if to speak again, before shutting it in a moment of contemplation.

Then, you’d surged forward and kissed him.

Bob’s heart could barely be contained in his ribcage the second your lips met his, and he pressed back with a surge of confidence that only you could give him. But it was a kiss that held so much more in it than what someone on the outside might see.

Your magic was woven into the kiss, into the feeling of your lips against his, and he could feel it. He could feel your emotions, your memories, flashing before him in every move of your lips against his. From the moment you’d stepped out of the Bifrost and looked at him, he could feel the twin flutter he’d had that had moved through you. The affection, the adoration, the love that poured off of you in every moment, from Central Park to movies on the common room couch.

Feelings that he believed could never be reciprocated, not for a man like him. Your magic-infused kiss told him the entire story of how you fell for him, just like he fell for you. There was no denying it.

Your lips parted from his, but they didn’t stray far. The space that hung between them was non-existent, and your lips brushed over his faintly with every word you spoke to him in a hush.

“Do you believe me now?”

“I…I don’t know. Y-you…you might need to kiss me again.”

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flyzzle · 2 months ago

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The Miraculous leaders and their understudies? Teehee Scarabella and Kitty noire. I love to see people's ideas of Marinette training Alya to be the next guardian/ladybug if needed but I also like to include Adrien because yeah im one of those people <\3 The Adrien and Zoe friendship is under explored... Although Zoe as a character in the show is under explored so I get why it's hard to imagine her interacting with people. I just think the whole kitty noire thing was cool and I like kwami swaps. Was it too controversial to make Scarabellas hair black? Also pls appreciate me trying to do hero suit designs i struggle sooo hard with costumes I'm way better at normal clothes JSJJS

#i have to remember that nobody gaf if my suit designs are bad and that nobody will crucify me if they dont like them #miraculous ladybug #ml #ml fanart #miraculous #ml redesign #marinette dupain cheng #adrien agreste #zoe lee #alya cesaire #scarabella #kitty noire

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romerona · 4 months ago

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Ethera Operation!!

You're the government’s best hacker, but that doesn’t mean you were prepared to be thrown into a fighter jet.

Bradley "Rooster" Bradshaw x Awkward!Hacker! FemReader

Part I

This was never supposed to happen. Your role in this operation was simple—deliver the program, ensure it reached the right hands, and let the professionals handle the breaching.

And then, of course, reality decided to light that plan on fire.

The program—codenamed Ethera—was yours. You built it from scratch with encryption so advanced that even the most elite cyber operatives couldn’t crack it without your input. A next-generation adaptive, self-learning decryption software, an intrusion system designed to override and manipulate high-security military networks, Ethera was intended to be both a weapon and a shield, capable of infiltrating enemy systems while protecting your own from counterattacks in real-time. A ghost in the machine. A digital predator. A weapon in the form of pure code. If it fell into the wrong hands, it could disable fleets, and ground aircraft, and turn classified intelligence into an open book. Governments would kill for it. Nations could fall because of it.

Not that you ever meant to, of course. It started as a little experimental security measure program, something to protect high-level data from cyberattacks, not become the ultimate hacking tool. But innovation has a funny way of attracting the wrong kind of attention, and before you knew it, Ethera had become one, if not the most classified, high-risk program in modern times. Tier One asset or so the Secret Service called it.

It was too powerful, too dangerous—so secret that only a select few even knew of its existence, and even fewer could comprehend how it worked.

And therein lay the problem. You were the only person who could properly operate it.

Which was so unfair.

Because it wasn’t supposed to be your problem. You were just the creator, the brain behind the code, the one who spent way too many sleepless nights debugging this monstrosity. Your job was supposed to end at development. But no. Now, because of some bureaucratic nonsense and the fact that no one else could run it without accidentally bricking an entire system, you had been promoted—scratch that, forcibly conscripted—into field duty.

And your mission? To install it in an enemy satellite.

A literal, orbiting, high-security, military-grade satellite, may you add.

God. Why? Why was your country always at war with others? Why couldn’t world leaders just, you know, go to therapy like normal people? Why did everything have to escalate to international cyber warfare?

Which is how you ended up here.

At Top Gun. The last place in the world you wanted to be.

You weren’t built for this. You thrive in sipping coffee in a cosy little office and handling cyber threats from a safe, grounded location. You weren’t meant to be standing in the halls of an elite fighter pilot training program, surrounded by the best aviators in the world—people who thought breaking the sound barrier was a casual Wednesday.

It wasn’t the high-tech cyberwarfare department of the Pentagon, nor some dimly lit black ops facility where hackers in hoodies clacked away at keyboards. No. It was Top Gun. A place where pilots use G-forces like a personal amusement park ride.

You weren’t a soldier, you weren’t a spy, you got queasy in elevators, you got dizzy when you stood too fast, hell, you weren’t even good at keeping your phone screen from cracking.

... And now you were sweating.

You swallowed hard as Admiral Solomon "Warlock" Bates led you through the halls of the naval base, your heels clacking on the polished floors as you wiped your forehead. You're nervous, too damn nervous and this damned weather did not help.

"Relax, Miss," Warlock muttered in that calm, authoritative way of his. "They're just pilots."

Just pilots.

Right. And a nuclear warhead was just a firework.

And now, somehow, you were supposed to explain—loosely explain, because God help you, the full details were above even their clearance level—how Ethera, your elegant, lethal, unstoppable digital masterpiece, was about to be injected into an enemy satellite as part of a classified mission.

This was going to be a disaster.

You had barely made it through the doors of the briefing room when you felt it—every single eye in the room locking onto you.

It wasn’t just the number of them that got you, it was the intensity. These were Top Gun pilots, the best of the best, and they radiated the kind of confidence you could only dream of having. Meanwhile, you felt like a stray kitten wandering into a lion’s den.

Your hands tightened around the tablet clutched to your chest. It was your lifeline, holding every critical detail of Ethera, the program that had dragged you into this utterly ridiculous situation. If you could’ve melted into the walls, you absolutely would have. But there was no escaping this.

You just had to keep it together long enough to survive this briefing.

So, you inhaled deeply, squared your shoulders, and forced your heels forward, trying to project confidence—chin up, back straight, eyes locked onto Vice Admiral Beau "Cyclone" Simpson, who you’d been introduced to earlier that day.

And then, of course, you dropped the damn tablet.

Not a graceful drop. Not the kind of gentle slip where you could scoop it back up and act like nothing happened. No, this was a full-on, physics-defying fumble. The tablet flipped out of your arms, ricocheted off your knee, and skidded across the floor to the feet of one of the pilots.

Silence.

Pure, excruciating silence.

You didn’t even have the nerve to look up right away, too busy contemplating whether it was physically possible to disintegrate on command. But when you finally did glance up—because, you know, social convention demanded it—you were met with a sight that somehow made this entire disaster worse.

Because the person crouching down to pick up your poor, abused tablet was freaking hot.

Tall, broad-shouldered, with a head of golden curls that practically begged to be tousled by the wind, and, oh, yeah—a moustache that somehow worked way too well on him.

He turned the tablet over in his hands, inspecting it with an amused little smirk before handing it over to you. "You, uh… need this?"

Oh, great. His voice is hot too.

You grabbed it back, praying he couldn't see how your hands were shaking. “Nope. Just thought I’d test gravity real quick.”

A few chuckles rippled through the room, and his smirk deepened like he was enjoying this way too much. You, on the other hand, wanted to launch yourself into the sun.

With what little dignity you had left, you forced a quick, tight-lipped smile at him before turning on your heel and continuing forward, clutching your tablet like it was a life raft in the middle of the worst social shipwreck imaginable.

At the front of the room, Vice Admiral Beau Cyclone Simpson stood with the kind of posture that said he had zero time for nonsense, waiting for the room to settle. You barely had time to take a deep breath before his voice cut through the air.

“Alright, listen up.” His tone was crisp, commanding, and impossible to ignore. “This is Dr Y/N L/N. Everything she is about to tell you is highly classified. What you hear in this briefing does not leave this room. Understood?”

A chorus of nods. "Yes, sir."

You barely resisted the urge to physically cringe as every pilot in the room turned to stare at you—some with confusion, others with barely concealed amusement, and a few with the sharp assessing glances of people who had no clue what they were supposed to do with you.

You cleared your throat, squared your shoulders, and did your best to channel even an ounce of the confidence you usually had when you were coding at 3 AM in a secure, pilot-free lab—where the only judgment you faced was from coffee cups and the occasional system error.

As you reached the podium, you forced what you hoped was a composed smile. “Uh… hi, nice to meet you all.”

Solid. Real professional.

You glanced up just long enough to take in the mix of expressions in the room—some mildly interested, some unreadable, and one particular moustached pilot who still had the faintest trace of amusement on his face.

Nope. Not looking at him.

You exhaled slowly, centering yourself. Stay focused. Stay professional. You weren’t just here because of Ethera—you were Ethera. The only one who truly understood it. The only one who could execute this mission.

With another tap on your tablet, the slide shifted to a blacked-out, redacted briefing—only the necessary information was visible. A sleek 3D-rendered model of the enemy satellite appeared on the screen, rotating slowly. Most of its details were blurred or omitted entirely.

“This is Blackstar, a highly classified enemy satellite that has been operating in a low-Earth orbit over restricted airspace.” Your voice remained even, and steady, but the weight of what you were revealing sent a shiver down your spine. “Its existence has remained off the radar—literally and figuratively—until recently, when intelligence confirmed that it has been intercepting our encrypted communications, rerouting information, altering intelligence, and in some cases—fabricating entire communications.”

Someone exhaled sharply. Another shifted in their seat.

“So they’re feeding us bad intel?” one of them with big glasses and blonde hair asked, voice sceptical but sharp.

“That’s the theory,” you confirmed. “And given how quickly our ops have been compromised recently, it’s working.”

You tapped again, shifting to the next slide. The silent infiltration diagram appeared—an intricate web of glowing red lines showing Etherea’s integration process, slowly wrapping around the satellite’s systems like a virus embedding itself into a host.

“This is where Ethera comes in,” you said, shifting to a slide that displayed a cascading string of code, flickering across the screen. “Unlike traditional cyberweapons, Ethera doesn’t just break into a system. It integrates—restructuring security protocols as if it was always meant to be there. It’s undetectable, untraceable, and once inside, it grants us complete control of the Blackstar and won’t even register it as a breach.”

“So we’re not just hacking it," The only female pilot of the team said, arms crossed as she studied the data. “We’re hijacking it.”

“Exactly,” You nodded with a grin.

You switched to the next slide—a detailed radar map displaying the satellite’s location over international waters.

“This is the target area,” you continued after a deep breath. “It’s flying low-altitude reconnaissance patterns, which means it’s using ground relays for some of its communication. That gives us a small window to infiltrate and shut it down.”

The next slide appeared—a pair of unidentified fighter aircraft, patrolling the vicinity.

“And this is the problem,” you said grimly. “This satellite isn’t unguarded.”

A murmur rippled through the room as the pilots took in the fifth-generation stealth fighters displayed on the screen.

“We don’t know who they belong to,” you admitted. “What we do know is that they’re operating with highly classified tech—possibly experimental—and have been seen running defence patterns around the satellite’s flight path.”

Cyclone stepped forward then, arms crossed, his voice sharp and authoritative. “Which means your job is twofold. You will escort Dr L/N’s aircraft to the infiltration zone, ensuring Ethera is successfully deployed. If we are engaged, your priority remains protecting the package and ensuring a safe return.”

Oh, fantastic, you could not only feel your heartbeat in your toes, you were now officially the package.

You cleared your throat, tapping the screen again. Ethera’s interface expanded, displaying a cascade of sleek code.

“Once I’m in range,” you continued, “Ethera will lock onto the satellite’s frequency and begin infiltration. From that point, it’ll take approximately fifty-eight seconds to bypass security and assume control."

Silence settled over the room like a thick cloud, the weight of their stares pressing down on you. You could feel them analyzing, calculating, probably questioning who in their right mind thought putting you—a hacker, a tech specialist, someone whose idea of adrenaline was passing cars on the highway—into a fighter jet was a good idea.

Finally, one of the pilots—tall, broad-shouldered, blonde, and very clearly one of the cocky ones—tilted his head, arms crossed over his chest in a way that screamed too much confidence.

“So, let me get this straight.” His voice was smooth, and confident, with just the right amount of teasing. “You, Doctor—our very classified, very important tech specialist—have to be in the air, in a plane, during a mission that has a high probability of turning into a dogfight… just so you can press a button?”

Your stomach twisted at the mention of being airborne.

“Well…” You gulped, very much aware of how absolutely insane this sounded when put like that. “It’s… more than just that, but, yeah, essentially.”

A slow grin spread across his face, far too entertained by your predicament.

“Oh,” he drawled, “this is gonna be fun.”

Before you could fully process how much you already hated this, Cyclone—who had been watching the exchange with his signature unamused glare—stepped forward, cutting through the tension with his sharp, no-nonsense voice.

“This is a classified operation,” he stated, sharp and authoritative. “Not a joyride.”

The blonde’s smirk faded slightly as he straightened, and the rest of the pilots quickly fell in line.

Silence lingered for a moment longer before Vice Admiral Beau Cyclone Simpson let out a slow breath and straightened. His sharp gaze swept over the room before he nodded once.

“All right. That’s enough.” His tone was firm, the kind that left no room for argument. “We’ve got work to do. The mission will take place in a few weeks' time, once we’ve run full assessments, completed necessary preparations, and designated a lead for this operation.”

There was a slight shift in the room. Some of the pilots exchanged glances, the weight of the upcoming mission finally settling in. Others, mainly the cocky ones, looked as though they were already imagining themselves in the cockpit.

“Dismissed,” Cyclone finished.

The pilots stood, murmuring amongst themselves as they filed out of the room, the blonde one still wearing a smug grin as he passed you making you frown and turn away, your gaze then briefly met the eyes of the moustached pilot.

You hadn’t meant to look, but the moment your eyes connected, something flickered in his expression. Amusement? Curiosity? You weren’t sure, and frankly, you didn’t want to know.

So you did the only logical thing and immediately looked away and turned to gather your things. You needed to get out of here, to find some space to breathe before your brain short-circuited from stress—

“Doctor, Stay for a moment.”

You tightened your grip on your tablet and turned back to Cyclone, who was watching you with that unreadable, vaguely disapproving expression that all high-ranking officers seemed to have perfected. “Uh… yes, sir?”

Once the last pilot was out the door, Cyclone exhaled sharply and crossed his arms.

“You realize,” he said, “that you’re going to have to actually fly, correct?”

You swallowed. “I—well, technically, I’ll just be a passenger.”

His stare didn’t waver.

“Doctor,” he said, tone flat, “I’ve read your file. I know you requested to be driven here instead of taking a military transport plane. You also took a ferry across the bay instead of a helicopter. And I know that you chose to work remotely for three years to avoid getting on a plane.”

You felt heat rise to your cheeks. “That… could mean anything.”

“It means you do not like flying, am I correct?”

Your fingers tightened around the tablet as you tried to find a way—any way—out of this. “Sir, with all due respect, I don’t need to fly the plane. I just need to be in it long enough to deploy Ethera—”

Cyclone cut you off with a sharp look. “And what happens if something goes wrong, Doctor? If the aircraft takes damage? If you have to eject mid-flight? If you lose comms and have to rely on emergency protocols?”

You swallowed hard, your stomach twisting at the very thought of ejecting from a jet.

Cyclone sighed, rubbing his temple as if this entire conversation was giving him a migraine. “We cannot afford to have you panicking mid-mission. If this is going to work, you need to be prepared. That’s why, starting next week you will train with the pilots on aerial procedures and undergoing mandatory training in our flight simulation program.”

Your stomach dropped. “I—wait, what? That’s not necessary—”

“It’s absolutely necessary,” Cyclone cut in, his tone sharp. “If you can’t handle a simulated flight, you become a liability—not just to yourself, but to the pilots escorting you. And in case I need to remind you, Doctor, this mission is classified at the highest level. If you panic mid-air, it won’t just be your life at risk. It’ll be theirs. And it’ll be national security at stake.”

You inhaled sharply. No pressure. None at all.

Cyclone watched you for a moment before speaking again, his tone slightly softer but still firm. “You’re the only one who can do this, Doctor. That means you need to be ready.”

You exhaled slowly, pressing your lips together before nodding stiffly. “Understood, sir.”

Cyclone gave a small nod of approval. “Good. Dismissed.”

You turned and walked out, shoulders tense, fully aware that in three days' time, you were going to be strapped into a high-speed, fighter jet. And knowing your luck?

You were definitely going to puke.

Part 2???

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returntosunder · 4 months ago

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So, kinds nervous posting this for some reason, but I've been wantin to make my own interpretation of some different aus, but i wanted to do Ink first.

Sorry if it's not as creative as how some people design them, but i feel happy with how he came out

Some close ups and info under the cut

I have a hard time explaining my train of thoughts, so if it doesn't make sense I'm sorry I'm trying my best T-T

I was kinda inspired by the kidcore aesthetic and I wanted him to have a lot of saturated colors and paint smeared all over the place, just colorful chaos... I was also inspired by Sherbet ice cream. Don ask why idk it just came into mind while coloring :/

I didn't want to stray too far from their original outfit, but I just made alterations to fit my style a bit more and made it have some more round shapes. I also had a theme of stars and hearts in the outfit. The stars is somthin all the star sanses are gonna have as a theme (obviously), but the hearts is just in reference to his lack of having a soul.

They also have some stickers they stick on broomy that id like to think others gifted them. Same goes with the bracelets, he gets them as gifts from others and likes to traid some of them (I'm kinda projecting here lol). He's also got paint in his fingers cause I'd like to think that he finger paints a lot on random blank surfaces, especially blank white surfaces (again, projecting here)

Overall, its not much of a difference, and it's more of a self-indulgent thing i wanted to try. I hope that people can enjoy this as much as I enjoyed drawing it :)

Im planning on doing both Dream and Nightmare next <3

Ink!sans belongs to @comyet

#Im not sure how this would be received but im very happy i did this regardless <3 #i got a list of the ones i wanna do. especially the stars i love them #Also i know someones gonna point out the stickers cause my nerdy ass had to reference different fandoms :)#undertale au #not my character #utmv #ink sans #ink!sans #my art #inktale #inktale sans #au undertale #undertale alternate universe

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10yrsyart · 3 months ago

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a long tf sketchdump i started after watching Transformers One last year, which was great btw! (also Soundwave is one of my faves but he somehow didn't make it into this, RIP my guy 🥺 to be fair, most of these are the beginnings of ideas that don't reach conclusion so -shrug-)

also also, i watched TFA for the first time, and i CANNOT believe they really just squished my boy Blurr into a cube while still alive and left him like that 😤 i know the show got cancelled and they had plans to bring him back, but like, hotdang! SO of course i decided to slap some claustrophobia on that sucker. y'know, as a treat ✨

transcript:

(Chitty Chitty Bang Bang design) -Neutral non-combatant

-Came to Earth early, joined the races

-Lost most of her memories after the Crash

-Forgot to act non-sentient around the family who adopted her

(Wander Over Yonder designs)

Hatertron: UgggHH! That STUPID, orange Autobug, GAH, I could just wring his ne-

Peeperscream: SIR!! FOCUS!

-Wander is a Neutral Autobot sympathizer

-Sylvia is an Autobot, but protective of Wander

-Hater messes up so many plans, Peepers is the only reason Megatron hasn't figured it out

-Peepers admires Starscream's intellect, but avoids him at all costs

(TFA comic)

Rodimus Prime: Uhm, Agent Blurr? ..You good?

Agent Blurr: Rodimus-Prime-sir! There's-nothing-wrong, why-would-anything-be-wrong? This-is-a-party; a-celebration-for-the-Autobots'-GRAND-victory-over-Megatron, which-we're-all-overjoyed-about-so-there's-really-no-reason-to-be-worried-about-the-amount-of-mechs-and-femmes-in-this-room-of-which-there-is-a-perfectly-normal-number-for-a-celebration, and-it's-not-as-if-we've-reached-max-capacity-so-I'm-SURE-the-space-is-NOT-too-small-even-if-the-walls-are-getting-closer-and-closer-and-no-one-seems-to-care-that-it's-too-small-in-here-and-can't-vent-I-can't-I-I-c-I-ca-

Rodimus: Whoa, hey! Ok, ok, let's go outside for a bit, yeah? I'm tired of people asking it I'm “still infected” anyway... Like, obviously. It's Cosmic Rust.

Blurr: ...This-is-humiliating, completely-pathetic-behavior. I-am-a-professionally-trained-intelligence-agent-of-the-Elite-Guard, THEREfore-I-should-not-be-losing-my-composure-whenever-I-enter-a-room. But-I-begin-to-feel-trapped-and-I-I-I-I-can't-...

Rodimus: ..Yeah. Sometimes, I just- freeze. It feels like ice is crawling up my arms and legs and chasiss.. it hurts. I mean, I know it's not happening, but that's how I feel. It sucks. But we made it, we survived. It's still hard, but there's gotta be something to that, right? The effort and struggle is worth it, or whatever.

Blurr: With-all-due-respect, I'm-quite-sure-you-are-terrible-at-this-sir.

Rodimus: Dang. Alright, fine, that's fair. But do you feel better?

Blurr: Marginally, thank-you-Rodimus-Prime.

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mapis-putellas · 10 days ago

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𝑪𝒉𝒂𝒎𝒑𝒊𝒐𝒏𝒔 𝑳𝒆𝒂𝒈𝒖𝒆 // 𝑨.𝑷𝒖𝒕𝒆𝒍𝒍𝒂𝒔

Last one from me for a while folks. Take care of yourselves ❤️

Alexia doesn’t say a single word on the coach journey back to the hotel. She stares blankly out of the window, her jaw clenched. She hasn’t cried yet. In fact, she hadn’t shown any emotion at all. Not anger. Frustration. Nothing. She’d hugged her teammates when they’d come to her. She’d joined in with the congratulatory applause as Arsenal passed go collect their first place medals. But she hadn’t let herself feel. Hadn’t let herself break.

You know Alexia never did well with losing. If it wasn’t first place; if she didn’t win, whatever work she’d put in wasn’t good enough. And she’d put in a lot of work. The whole team had. Months of months of preparation had gone in to training for champions league, and all of you had admittedly gone in with the expectation of winning.

Maybe that’s why the harsh reality of second place had crushed you all so hard. Because Arsenal had been the underdogs. They weren’t supposed to win. But they had. And you were happy for them, really. To win for the first time in eighteen years was a feat worthwhile. But of course you were disappointed too. A little frustrated, as well. But it was all slowly fading into acceptance. You didn’t win this time, but there was always a next time.

Your arm rests over her leg, your hand resting against the inside of her thigh. Your thumb traces soft circles against the material of her sweatpants, but she doesn’t respond to your touch. You haven’t tried talking to her yet. There was no point, because she wouldn’t hear you. Wouldn’t acknowledge you. But you keep up with the gentle ministrations against her leg until the coach pulls in to the hotels parking lot anyway, just to let her know you were there.

It was almost silent as everyone grabs their things with the exception of soft sniffles and quiet shuffles of feet, and you keep your gaze firmly ahead of you as you lead Alexia out of the bus with a hand at the small of her back. Outside, the air feels a lot less suffocating, and you breathe a quiet sigh of relief as you follow the rest of the team into the hotel.

Room keys were given out briskly, and soon you were in your shared room with Alexia, sat perched on the end of the bed as you watch her rummage through her suitcase for her wash things and pyjamas. Once she has them, she makes her way through to the bathroom without a word, the door closing quietly behind her. She’d already showered at the stadium, so you knew this one wasn’t the case of getting clean. It was to let herself break without any eyes on her. Without your eyes on her.

The fact that after so many years together she still feels the need to hide when she cries all butt breaks you. This isn’t how it should be. She was your girlfriend. She should feel safe to cry in front of you. To break, to allow herself comfort…right?

You hear the shower turn on just as you stand to get your night things out too, and after just a moments hesitation, you abandon your partly open suitcase on the bed and make your way over to the bathroom door. Your hand hesitates on the handle for a second before you push down, the door opening with a quiet creak as you peek inside.

The shower was one of those oversized luxury ones designed to impress hotel guests, all glass and chrome with multiple showerheads and enough space for at least four people. You could see alexia’s silhouette behind the frosted glass, perfectly motionless as water cascaded over her shoulders and down her body.

She doesn’t seem to take note of your presence yet, and you take that as your sign to strip off too, slipping into the shower behind her. Without a word, you press yourself against her back, your chest molding perfectly against her shoulder blades, your arms wrapping around her waist from behind.

She goes rigid beneath your touch for just a second before leaning back against you, her trembling hands coming up to clutch your arms as they press against her stomach. You press your lips against her wet shoulder in a soft kiss, and you could feel more than hear the way her breath hitches as she tries futilely to hold herself together.

You release your hold on her, your hands coming to rest on either side of her waist to turn her around to face you. She doesn’t make eye contact with you until you gently tuck your fingers beneath her chin, guiding her face upwards. You notice then that her bottom lip was wobbling dangerously, her eyes shiny and full of unshed tears. Her hair was plastered to her face, and you push the saturated strands away with the tips of your fingers before cupping her cheeks. A single tear falls then, dripping down her cheek and merging with the shower water, and you feel your own throat tighten as you lean up on your tiptoes to press a tender kiss to her forehead.

She leans into your touch with a quiet whimper, and you slide your hand round to cup the back of her head, coaxing it to settle against the crook of your neck.

“It’s okay,” you whisper as her arms wrap tightly around your waist. “Just let go, baby. I’ve got you.”

“No.” She chokes out, shaking her head.

“Yes, baby. Please.”

Alexia’s breath hitches before a choked sob escapes her lips. And then another. And another, until she was sobbing softly against your shoulder. You could barely hear her over the water hitting the tiled floor, but you could feel the way her body jolts against your own, harsh breaths slipping from her lips and hitting your skin. You nuzzle your nose into her shoulder as you graze thr pad of your thumb over her scalp, your other hand pressed against the small of her back holding her to you.

“There we go,” you murmur, closing your eyes. “Good girl. Just let yourself feel. No one can see. I’ve got you.”

One of alexia’s trembling hands rises grasp the hair at the nape of your neck, clinging tightly as a loud, guttural sob escapes her lips. It was raw, jarring, unlike nothing you’ve ever heard escape her lips before. You tighten your hold around her further, if that was even possible, before deciding it would be best to get you both out of thr shower so you could hold her properly.

You reach over and turn off the water, and alexia’s sobs become more clear now that the sound of the water no longer drowned them out. She seemed too upset to realise or be self conscious about it for which you were thankful, and it allows you to guide her out of the shower and bundle you both up in one large towel. You then sit, right there on the closed toilet seat and pull her onto your lap, grabbing one end of the towel in each hand and wrapping your arms around alexia, effectively holding her to you and securing the towel around her as well.

Her bare frame was flush against your own, skin slightly damp and warm. She trembles against you, her sobs just as intense as before, though you could hear now as she tries to stifle them.

“I failed.” She chokes out, her hands coming up to cover her face as she sits up in your lap.

“No,” you murmur. “You absolutely did not fail.”

She shakes her head. “I-I did. I-“

“No. Listen to me,” you interrupt,, gently pulling her hands away from her face so she has to look at you. “You are the most incredible player I’ve ever seen. You’ve won more trophies than most people can dream of. You’ve inspired millions of girls around the world to pick up a football. You’ve changed the sport forever.”

She shook her head, tears still streaming down her cheeks. “But not tonight. Tonight I was not good enough.”

“Tonight you were human,” you correct softly. “Football is a team sport, Alexia. You can’t win or lose matches by yourself, no matter how much you try to take responsibility for everything.”

“But I’m the captain,” she protests weakly. “Everyone looks to me. When we lose, it’s because I didn’t do enough to make us win.”

“That’s not how it works, and you know it,” you said, cupping her face in your hands and forcing her to maintain eye contact. “You’re the captain, yes. But you’re also just one person. One person who has given everything she has to this team, to this sport, to everyone who depends on her.”

Alexia sniffles, her hands coming up to take hold of your wrists as she leans into your touch.

“You’re incredible,” you murmur. “Today didn’t go how you want, and that sucks, but there’s nothing we can do to change it. Next time, we’ll try harder. Be better. But it’s we, alexia. Us. As a team. You don’t have to do it alone. You don’t have to take the blame.”

“But-“

“Mhh mh. No.” You shake your head. “We’re a team. All of us. We win together. We lose together. That’s it. No one single handedly takes the blame.”

She nods. You knew full well alexia didn’t believe you, but you could tell she has no more energy to fight you on the matter, and right now, you’d take what you could get.

“Okay.” She whispers, pressing a kiss to your palm. You brush your thumbs over her cheeks to get rid of the residue of tears before leaning in and pressing a lingering kiss to her forehead.

“Okay,” you murmur as you pull away. “Let’s go put our pyjamas on, and then we’ll snuggle up with a movie and order room service.”

Alexia nods. “Your shirt?” She asks, allowing you to coax her to her feet before securing the towel properly around her, grabbing another for yourself.

“Yeah baby, you can wear my shirt.” You agree.

I wrote this yesterday, and thought you guys may like one last update. I hope you enjoyed. Thanks for all the love on here, and maybe I’ll see you guys soon <3

#woso community #woso x reader #woso appreciation #woso imagine #woso fanfics #woso one shot #alexia putellas x you #alexia putellas x y/n #alexia putellas x reader

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lezbians · 2 years ago

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i have so much beef with she-ra and the princesses of power cause it's a good premise just not well written at all

#and i mean like. they churned out 5 seasons in TWO YEARS trying to hop on that hype train during the pandemin #when everyone was stuck in their homes and only watching netflix. i get it. but bcuz of that it suffered so much #and i like the character designs. a lot really.#it's just not a show that's rewatchable. hell it was kinda hard watching it.#i see sm people obsessed with it and i just can't understand why 😭😭😭#anyway i applaud it for lgbt representation ig #liyah.txt

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timmydraker · 1 month ago

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Thinking about a Tim Drake with the best pain tolerance in the Batfam

Tim Drake, who at 13 years old dealt with Batman's training - training designed to discourage him from taking up the mantle of Robin

Tim Drake, who at that same age trained with Lady Shiva, one the deadliest assassins in the world

Tim Drake, who at 16 years old dragged himself and another person's dead weight out of a cave in the desert and drove them back to a hotel room, all while having a fatal stab wound through his side

And then the Batfam, who have no idea that most of this - or any of this - happened, and don't understand why Tim's able to fight through too many injuries

(Love your posts!! <3)

- 🎃

As much as I love this, I actually kind of prefer if the other way around and he’s got some of the worst pain tolerance but when it comes to being sick or having things like fever, nausea or fatigue he deals with it better than most of them.

Like, aside from skate boarding and maybe a fall or two when stalking the bats, he was raised pretty safe and probably wasn’t allowed to indulge in risk play when growing up.

So I like to think he had to work really hard to stop himself from reacting to pain and he’s probably the best at ignoring it straight out aside from those raised to do so like Damian or Cass, but when he’s safe?

This man probably whines like a sad puppy and he’s it as an opening to guilt people into giving him what he wants because he’s a spoilt kid at heart, selfless as he may be. He probably plays it up too because he’s so scared of it, and I think that Bruce’s (I’m pretty sure canonical) choice to alter his suit as much as possible so he wouldn’t end up like Jason probably made him even more scared to get hurt.

Naturally training was harsh like you said, but I think that Tim can only deal with pain for as long as he has adrenaline and then he crumbles.

He’d have to be safe, like in the cave or nest or with his team, but he would.

But he’s got a cold or sepsis?

Tim will act like literally nothing had happened. I’m picturing him in a meeting and going, ‘hold on one second’ and people can hear him vomiting into a bin in his office before he comes back out with minty breath and it’s like ‘sorry about that, where were we?’

Once you’ve had the Clench things don’t really ever feel as bad, so he’ll just boulder on. He could literally be dying from Flu, his immune system shot and him full up on drugs to help and he will still go to team meetings, whether work or hero, and it will take knocking him out to get him to sleep and will genuinely feel pretty okay.

He probs passes out on patrol because he didn’t realise the stomach bug he had is actually draining all his energy.

It means that when he does complain or express concern for his sickness that something is definitely wrong.

But heaven forbid Timothy Jackson Drake get a paper cut.

#batfam #dc comics #tim drake #bat family #dc universe #batfamily #dc #tim drake is red robin #tim drake is a menace #tim drake centric #tim drake headcanon #tim drake angst

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milkingtonthethird · 3 months ago

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BATBOYS’ reaction to you asking to paint their nails

WARNINGS: fluff, gn!reader, but you wear nail polish

NOTE: DUKE IS HERE. EVERYONE SAY HI DUKE

Bruce Wayne:

- You’re doing your own nails when he walks in.

- Clearly you’re bored, or something, because he can easily pay to get them done professionally.

- He approaches you, gently lifting your hand to inspect.

- “Pretty,” he murmurs, followed by a kiss to your knuckle.

- You grin. “Can I do yours?”

- He considers, even though there’s already a denial on the tip of his tongue. But, it doesn’t come out, because you look really excited at the thought.

- He agrees. And it’s lame.

- A clear top coat. That’s all he’ll let you do.

- Bruce Wayne can’t be seen with sparkles on his hands, even if he doesn’t care what the media thinks.

- He believes it’s too feminine for him.

- They’d probably be chipped immediately given how handsy his nighttime life is, anyway.

- Still, it’s something—you’ll take what you can get.

- He actually comes to you every few days so he’s able to keep it on.

- He does try on black at some point. It looks odd on his large, calloused hands. That’s just him, though.

- The top coat is too unnoticeable for anyone to comment, but his kids are smart, observant.

- “Why are your nails shiny?”

- “Because it makes them happy.”

Dick Grayson:

- He really likes watching you do your nails and is very satisfied when you do a color he recommends.

- Said color most of the time is blue.

- You’re waiting for the polish to dry when you ask, “You want me to do yours?”

- Grayson is open-minded, but he’s also utterly in love with you, so obviously he agrees.

- You’d both have black on your thumbs and pinkies, with that iconic vivid blue on the rest.

- Unfortunately, colliding his fist into jaws and his training does get in the way of keeping them nice.

- Which means he gets spoiled with your attention even more as you fix them. Yay!

- He’s lowkey cocky when he takes down criminals with it on.

- “LOL I just kicked your ass with nail polish my partner put on” ahh mf.

- He’s incredibly defensive if anyone teases him.

- They’re basically insulting you, too.

- They eventually stop because he’s dead serious.

Jason Todd:

- “You look better with it,” he would say upon the offer.

- But he’s equally bored. He’ll agree.

- Black. Pure black. Black hole black.

- He’d make an edgy comment about how it’s his “soul” or whatever.

- He actually kind of likes it. It fits his aesthetic.

- Beats people a little harder if they happen to chip it.

- He’ll let you add a small, red matching heart on a finger.

- Preferably middle. It’s his favorite one.

- He would make snide comments when he’s fighting.

- “They did my nails so pretty, don’t you think?” (Morseo his “fingerless gloves” era.)

- Not that they’d notice. His knuckles are being too personal with their face.

- He’d be like Dick. Why is simple nail polish just so fuckin’ funny?

Tim Drake:

- He won’t necessarily be interested in polish, but rather small designs.

- Like a little flower, or a heart.

- Super simplistic stuff that has him smile when he looks at it.

- You did, as cheesy as it is, a Red Robin one time.

- May or may not have taken forever.

- He’s genuinely sad if they get ruined. You worked hard on them.

- He’d probably apologize because clearly it’s his fault—heavy sarcasm, by the way.

- You remind him that it gives you an opportunity to do more.

- He probably would ignore whomever made comments that weren’t compliments until they apologize.

- He hasn’t talked to Jason in a while.

Damian Wayne:

- “Don’t you have your own nails?”

- You’ll offer to bathe Titus for the rest of the year, and suddenly he’s sitting on your floor while you put a tacky hot pink on him.

- He lets you do whatever, because he doesn’t keep it long. He’s just not into it.

- But if he isn’t doing anything, he won’t take it off until he has to.

- Him texting Jon about how stupid he is with cunty ass nails.

- No one finds out. It’s his little secret.

- And then Bruce forgets to knock one time during a session.

- “Father,” he greets flatly, not looking up.

- You’ve never seen the Batman so…confused.

Duke Thomas:

- He’d be in the same boat as Tim—simple designs.

- Ones that make something with both of your nails together. Like a heart.

- He let you do acrylics one time for shits and giggles.

- “How do people…do things?”

- He’s been trying to open a can of soda for the past ten minutes.

- He keeps the designs absolutely pristine, somehow.

- He’d avoid doing certain things, but he also has crazy luck.

- He’ll bring you new ideas.

- He wears it with pride in public.

- If anyone brings it up in a mocking manner, he’d say, “I think you’re mad because you’re single and I’m not.”

- The time Jason did it, he’d sulk, because Duke’s right. He is mad.

doing their makeup

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wosospacegirl · 4 months ago

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Sweet girl - Alessia Russo (+18)

Summary: Request-> Alessia and Y/n have a quicky in the morning after an argument and Alessia is late for training. Good thing Y/n has a motorcycle.

Warnings: +18!!!; smut; little bit of angst (happy ending); fingering alessia receiving.

Word count: 2.8k

MASTERLIST

Alessia was the sweetest girl you could ever meet in your life. She was caring, kind and gentle; sometimes she was too kind to people who didn't deserve it. Everyone who met Alessia fell in love with her right away, that’s how joyful she was.

Y/n often used the words ‘soft’ and ‘tender’ to describe Alessia’s personality as well. Sadly for Y/n, none of these qualities were shining through in her girlfriend at the moment.

Alessia’s week had been a mess– two days of splitting headaches, her period had ended days ago but she still felt bloated and sensitive. All of this affected her training, and therefore her performance in Arsenal's last game. As a result, the team lost 2-1 to Liverpool.

Y/n tried very hard to explain to Alessia that the defeat was caused by the whole team, not just her, but she was upset and wouldn’t listen. Whether Arsenal won or lost, it was never the fault of one player. Alessia knew this, of course, but she was upset nonetheless.

It was one of those days when frustration would linger around her and no one could take Alessia away from it. The match had been three days ago, but she was still upset about it, and an upset Alessia was rude Alessia.

“I just don't understand why you didn't buy the eggs when I asked you to!” Alessia said, slamming the fridge door. “You always forget to buy the groceries, and then I'm late for training because there's nothing to eat!”

Alessia was standing in the middle of the kitchen, wearing Arsenal’s training kit, her blonde hair was down her back, and she had a hair tie on her wrist. She had to be at practice soon, and it looked like that was Y/n’s problem, too.

Y/n listened to Alessia’s complaints as she sipped her morning coffee, sketchbook in hand, drawing tattoo designs for a client.

Y/n prided herself on being a decent girlfriend– she tried to look after Alessia as best as she could. The couple had been together for two years, so Y/n had been by Alessia’s side through a series of injuries, wins and losses.

It was hard to be an athlete's partner; their life was always full of adrenaline, and they were always busy with national and international chronograms.

Alessia was very mindful, considering she wasn’t dating someone from the football world, but unfortunately, when Alessia was frustrated, she seemed to forget that Y/n had a real life outside of being her girlfriend.

Y/n was a tattoo artist. She had opened her own tattoo studio in a corner of North London years ago. Alessia and Y/n had met after the player came into the shop wanting a tattoo on her feet; after their meet-cute, they’d become inseparable.

Y/n took a sip of the black coffee, the rich and bitter aroma filling her nose. Coffee always helped to calm her down, and she certainly needed to be calm, as it was early in the morning and Alessia was looking for a reason to argue.

Y/n sighed and put down the cup in her hand. “Baby, you were the one who had the car this week.” 8 am, it was 8 am and they were talking about fucking eggs. “And Lamar got sick, so I had to take in his clients.”

“I know, but I had a lot going on so I asked you to pick the eggs up,” Alessia said, clenching fists resting on either side of her body.

“And I said I couldn't because I was overbooked with customers, love.” Y/n leaned back in her chair, arms crossed. “How about I make you a fruit salad? We have strawberries and blueberries; I can make you something to eat.”

“I don't want fruit, I want an omelette! I always have an omelette in the morning. Alessia groaned and rolled her eyes. Am I supposed to keep up during training today?”

“Alessia, come on, baby–”

“No! This whole week had been shitty and you’re not even helping me!” Alessia continued to carpet.

And that made it for Y/n.

Y/n stood up. “Room, now.” Was all she said before disappearing into the hallway next to the kitchen.

The girl opened the bedroom door and sat down at the end of the bed with her legs spread open. She heard footsteps in the hallway and soon after Alessia entered the room.

“Come here,” Y/n beckoned to Alessia.

“You haven’t been very nice to me the last few days, have you?”

“No” Alessia shook her head.

“And why is that?” Y/n asked. “Look at me, sweet, I'm talking to you.”

“Sorry. I told you I haven’t had a good week,” she mumbled, playing with her hand. Embarrassment radiating from her.

“I understand you’ve had a bad week, what I don't understand is why you’re going out of your way to make sureneither of us can have a good day today.”

Y/n had always been a very straightforward person. She didn't like drama or didn't like unnecessary arguments. If she could fix something, she would. Since Y/n had earned the autonomy to do whatever she wanted in life she focused on opening her tattoo shop.

At the moment, Skin Deep Studio was her pride and joy. Y/n treated the studio with respect and expected Alessia to do the same, just as she did with Alessia’s career.

“I told you I had clients from 9 am to 9 pm, didn't I?” Y/n continued, her eyes fixed on Alessia. “Did you expect me to cancel on them? Especially knowing that they were booked months ago?”

Alessia listened to Y/n, tears slowly forming in her eyes. “You told me you had clients. I’m sorry.”

“You weren’t being very considerate with me,” Y/n explained reassuringly. “You know it’s not fair to ask me to drop everything to go out and do something you want me to do, I’m busy too.”

Y/n wiped a tear from Alessia’s cheek, “I'm just very stressed with everything,” Alessia cried.

The footballer put her legs on Y/n’s lap and rested her head on Y/n’s shoulder.

“There's this big game this week and I can't seem to play it right.” She continued. “But I shouldn't be mean to you just because I'm stressed. I'm very sorry.”

“It's okay, sweetheart,” Y/n said, hugging Alessia's body. “Just talk to me next time, yeah? You always talk to me. I don't know why you didn't this time.”

“I don't know either,” Alessia admitted, breathing in and out slowly, she was calming down bit by bit.

Y/n kissed her cheek, feeling the saltiness of Alessia’s tears on her lips. “It’s alright, just breathe…f do you feel better now?”

Alessia smiled shyly and nodded her head. “Thank you, I love you,” Alessia said before kissing Y/n's mouth.

The kiss was gentle at first, but it quickly became intense.

Alessia slid her tongue into Y/n's mouth. Her hands were on Y/n's shoulder, trying to balance herself while the other girl put her hands on Alessia's lower back, trying to pull Alessia closer.

“I missed kissing you like this,” Alessia said, placing soft kisses on Y/n's neck. “I missed it a lot.

Y/n squeezed Alessia’s hips. “If you hadn’t been so moody this week, we could have kissed a lot sooner.” Y/n said teasingly, holding Alessia’s hips so that she was straddling her.

“Sorry,” Alessia whispered, slowly beginning to grind herself against Y/n's black trousers.

“Is that why you were so grumpy too? You wanted some kisses and didn't know how to ask for them?” Y/n asked, scratching Alessia’s back.

“I think so,” Alessia agreed, rubbing harder, trying to create some friction.

Y/n cupped Alessia's cheek and kissed hard, tugging at the girl's shorts.

“Take them off,” Y/n said against Alessia’s mouth.

“We can't love, I have training” Alessia whispered, still moving her body against Y/n. “And I'm already late.”

“I’ll be quick, just wanna make you cum,”

Alessia blushed deeply. She was always very shy with dirty talk, So Y/n always lowered it down as much as she could.

“Come on, get up,” Y/n tapped her body, urging the girl to stand up, and she did.

Alessia stood in front of Y/n, who quickly pulled her shorts down. The blonde girl was now standing in only her underwear and Arsenal t-shirt.

What a sight.

“So pretty,” Y/n murmured, kissing Alessia's chin, then her cheeks and finally pressing her lip to her mouth. “I want you to ride my fingers, do you think you can do that? Be quick?

“Yes,” Alessia moaned.

Y/n slipped one finger inside Alessia’s soaked underwear “You're gonna cum real nice because you are already so wet, baby,” Y/n said as she sat further away from the bed, to give Alessia more room to get into position.

Alessia already knew what she had to do. She placed her knees on the mattress, each one next to Y/n’s body. The blonde met Y/n's lips and moaned into her mouth as Y/n pulled her underwear aside and gently played with her clit.

“I’m gonna put them in, yeah?” Y/n said, gently playing with Alessia’s hole before penetrating her with two fingers. “Feels nice?”

Alessia purred in her ear, telling her all she needed to know.

“Ride my fingers, baby,” Y/n told Alessia, easing the girl down until her fingers were properly buried inside her pussy.

“Like that, just like that,” Alessia moaned, sinking deeper and deeper into Y/n’s fingers.

Y/n loved watching Alessia being fucked. She was always so sweet when she wanted to cum, so good. Knowing she was the one doing it made her chest rise with pride. She was the only one to touch this pretty girl, the one responsible for her sweet sounds. They shared another kiss, this one was messier, and Alessia was getting eager.

“I need you to cum, love” Y/n whispered to Alessia, pushing her hips down and dictating the pace. “Or else we’ll be late.”

“Al-almost,” Alessia whispered with her eyes closed.

“Yeah? My love is going to make a mess on my fingers just before she has to go to play?” Y/n said teasingly, sucking on Alessia’s neck, but not enough to leave a mark behind. “Come on, let go for me.”

Alessia leaned forward as she came, losing control of her torso; her lips brushing Y/n’s ear. Alessia wasn’t vocal when she came, instead, she was silent, her mouth remaining open for a few seconds as her body trembled with bliss.

Y/n tenderly ran her fingers through Alessia’s blonde hair with her free hand, letting her come down on her own without rushing.

“I’m gonna take them out, okay baby?”

Alessia nodded, resting her head on Y/n’s shoulder as the girl lifted her hips. Y/n pulled her fingers out of Alessia’s warmth and cleaned them against the blanket on the bed.

“Wow, I’m very dizzy,” Alessia breathed, shifting her body and cradling Y/n.

Y/n chuckled, and kissed her cheeks “Is that because of the orgasm or because you haven’t had your omelette yet, huh?”

Alessia nudged Y/n, a shy smile in her eyes. “Stop it, I’m not the same person I was ten minutes ago.”

“Of course, you aren’t,” Y/n hugged Alessia. “My sweet girlfriend is back, now.”

Y/n playfully peppered Alessias’s face with kisses while the girl giggled, squirming against Y/n’s body whenever Y/n kissed a particularly ticklish part of her.

“Okay, okay,” Y/n said, planting another kiss on Alessia’s chin. “I’ll get you cleaned up and I’ll drop you off at training on my way to the tattoo studio, how does that sound?”

Alessia’s eyes widened. She had completely forgotten about training, too absorbed in the bubble of love they had created.

“Bloody hell, I'm going to be so late,” Alessia gasped, as she broke free of Y/n’s grip and ran to her bathroom, Y/n was close behind.

When Y/n got to the bathroom, Alessia was in front of the mirror trying to fix her hair so she didn’t look like she’d had sex with her girlfriend when she should have been at work.

“Renée’s gonna make me do suicide drills just for the fun of it.” The blonde complained, pulling her hair into a messy ponytail. “She hates it when one of us is late– do you think that’s a Dutch thing?”

“Probably, they do enjoy punctuality in the Netherlands,” Y/n said, handing Alessia’s short back. The girl put it on quickly and started brushing her teeth. Y/n gently pushed Alessia to the side so that she could use the sink too.

“Okay, I think I'm good,” Alessia said more to herself, looking at her reflection in the mirror and fixing an unruly strand of hair. “What do you think? Do I look like a mess?”

She and Y/n made eye contact through the mirror. “You look pretty,” Y/n said with a grin, making Alessia blush. “Now let’s go, I'm gonna get our helmets.”

Alessia stopped in her tracks. “Helmets? What do you mean? We’re using my car today.”

“Nope, we’re using the motorcycle.” Y/n pushed Alessia gently out of the bathroom, closing the door behind them.

“No, we aren't,” Alessia stated, turning around to look at Y/n.

Alessia wasn’t terrified of Y/n’s motorcycle, she genuinely thought it was cool. She just didn't like being the one to ride it.

“Baby, you have to be at Arsenal in…” Y/n looked at her watch, “...six minutes, do you think London’s traffic will allow that?”

Alessia thought for a moment, arms crossed. “ Hmph. Alright,. Well, I don’t have much choice,” she said, pinching the bridge of her nose. “Whatever, let’s go,” she added, grabbing her training bag while Y/n picked up the helmets.

“I won’t go too fast,” Y/n said, putting an arm around Alessia’s waist as they walked out the door. “Just enough to get you there in time without Renée biting your head off.”

“You know I need to breathe to ride, right?” Y/n said as they rode through the streets on London, rain pouring down on their riding jackets. Yes, her riding jackets because Y/n had bought one for Alessias as well.

Alessia clung to Y/n, her head pressed against Y/n’s back.

“I’m scared,” Alessia murmured, barely audible over the wind.

“Why baby? I’m a good biker.”

“Too fast,” was all Alessia could manage.

Y/n had already slowed down to a safer speed, but she let the motorcycle ease down even more. “There, how’s that? Better?”

“Uhun, thank you,” Alessa finally breathed, loosening her grip but still holding onto Y/n’s hips gently.

Alessia had a love-hate relationship with Y/n’s motorcycle. She liked it because Y/n liked it, and she knew it was almost like a lifestyle to her girlfriend. But sometimes, in her deepest thoughts, she wished Y/n would sell it. Alessia was just too anxious whenever Y/n rode it, afraid of a possible accident.

The motorcycle was undeniably cool and honestly, Y/n looked hot when she wore the black leather jacket that came with it. Alessia just wasn’t cut out for this lifestyle. That’s why she preferred her car–more safety, less wind.

When they finally arrived at Arsenal’s training grounds, Alessia got off the motorcycle, and handed her helmet to Y/n, feeling dizzy.

“You okay?” Y/n asked, catching Alessia’s arm. “You’re green.”

“I honestly think I’m gonna throw up,”

“No you’re not, it was an eight-minute ride,” Y/n smiled softly as she opened the motorcycle trunk and grabbed Alessia’s bag.

“Eight minutes was long enough,”

“You’ll have to ride with me more than that, get used to it,” Y/n leaned against the motorcycle and checked her watch. “Your training’s starting, you should go, baby.”

Alessia moved closer to Y/n and kissed her. “Thanks, love, I appreciate the ride, even though I think my insides are turned upside down.”

“Thank you, It’s always a pleasure to have a pretty girl bear-hugging me while I ride,” Y/n winked. “Also, let me know when you get your lunch break. We can get something to eat around here.”

“Okay,” Alessia smiled. “Will you pick me up when the training is over?”

“Yep, I can do that.”

“Can you take the car, though?” Alessia asked, giving Y/n her best doe eyes.

“Baby–”

“Please? The feeling of having something around you when you drive is nicer than having wind scratching on your face”

“We’ll have to agree to disagree there, love,” Y/n said, putting her helmet back on, and sitting down on the bike. “I’ll grab the car and pick you up.”

“I love you,”

“I know.”

Notes: Please like, share and let me know what you think! Feedback is important and makes me want to write even more. :D

Notes//2: my smut writing is shitty.

Read more of my work here -> Masterlist

#woso #woso fanfic #woso x reader #woso appreciation #arsenal women #arsenal fanfic #kyra cooney cross #alessia russo #lionesses #alessia russo fanfic

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veryintricaterituals · 7 months ago

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When I was in school I went to a friend's house to work on a project on a Friday afternoon. At about 6 or 6:30 when the sun was about to set her mom called us over to the livingroom. She lit two candles with my friend and then they proceeded to put the lit candles inside of a little cupboard so no one could see them. Me, a young jewish teenager asked her, my catholic friend, why they did that and she shrugged, said it was a family tradition to bring peace and prosperity, that the women of the family did it every friday evening and then hid the candles. They were very catholic, so I bit my tongue and we went back to her room to study.

This is just one of many, many, crypto jewish traditions that still exist in my hometown of Medellín, Colombia and I want to share a little bit about them with you.

Medellín is the capital city of a region called Antioquia and it is currently the second biggest city in my country. Now the weird thing about my region and my city more specifically is that it is in the middle of fucking nowhere, like we are in a valley in the middle of the andean mountains and it would take over two weeks by river, horse and river, and dunkey and mule to even get here before the invention of cars or trains.

Now Medellín was founded over 400 years ago, and families had been coming to the region for way before then, so that means that for centuries getting to my city from the sea or from the other big cities in the country was incredibly hard. This was by design, because Medellín itself was founded by about 28 families and we know for a fact that alteast half of them were crypto jews hidding from the Spanish Inquisition, and both before and the foundation more and more jewish families arrived to the region.

This is a known fact, the DNA of the people from the region has a lot of sepharadic jewish mixed in there. Early Colombian literature dating up to the 1845 would call the people of my region the Neogranadine Jews or the Colombian Jews. But because they were crypto jews the religion and most of the traditions were lost during the 400 years that have passed, now over 90% of the population is catholic and don't really know about their origins.

But some things stuck. And I want to tell you about them.

On the 7th night of December there is this pre-christmas festival called "El día de las velitas" or the little candle night that started and was unique to Antioquia. It's supposed to commemorate the candles that people had in the streets and the windows on the night Jesus was born and that helped Mary and Joseph to find their way. Do you know how this unique festival is celebrated in my city? People take to the streets to light candles, small colorful candles that they put in wooden planks or directly on the streets, it's the night that people decorate and turn on the christmas lights and it is so important and popular that we have an actual day off on the 8th of december.

Let me show you a few pictures

I don't think I need to explain this one. Even most goyim will know about Hannukah. But it is the weirdest thing when the dates coincide and we are all lighting candles together.

My dad was in the Jewish community board and we needed to rent a place to put our jewish daycare. They found this beautiful old house that had belonged to a family in colonial times but needed a little TLC. We had them remove some wooden floors because they were too old and rotting and found a huge Magen David made out stones in the center of the floor. The house also happened to have two separate kitchens and a mikveh or immersion bath in one of the rooms. These a very traditional things that colonial houses have in my region.

My grandmother converted to Judaism so I have a side from my family that is 100% from here and didn't arrive during the 20th century. I had the pleasure to meet both of my great grandparents from that side though they died when I was young. My grandma tells me that my greatgrandmother used to have one of these immersion baths in her house when she was growing up. Women were supposed to bathe in them after their periods had ended, my catholic great grandmother respected the mikveh traddition more than I ever have.

(I wish I had photos from that specific house but this happened over ten years ago, I'll show you some immersion baths from a different colonial houses that are also in my city)

Now how about we talk about traditional clothes. I'm sure most of you have heard of Ponchos, which are traditional in the Andean region, well the one from Antioquia is a little different and it's always supposed to be worn with a hat. Let's see if you can spot what I mean.

A few years ago Spain decided to grant citizenship to the descendants of the Jewish people that they had exiled in 1492. To get it you had to prove through family trees that your family had been Jewish. My city got the most ammount of passports out of everyone in the world, more than Israel. I could have applied from both my family that came from Egypt in the 20th century (we still have the keys to our house in Spain) or through my catholic side, as both of my grandmother's last names applied. I didn't but I could have.

I don't really know why I decided to finally write this post. I have so many more stories. I just think it's both incredibly sad that so much Jewish culture and people were lost but also it's a little heartwarming to see what survived even centuries down the line.

#it took me years to decide to finally write this because i didn't want to put where i live out on the internet #but fuck it #i still don't know how i feel about this #it's a bit of mourning what could've been and a bit of look a this isn't it neat #there is so much more to say about this topic but the post is too long #like how a lot of jews changed their last name to “Rojas” which spelled backwards means “lizcor” or to remember and they still forgot #or how there is a movement of reclaiming the jewish roots we have three re-emerging jewish communities in our city #one of which already converted fully and they are WAY more obvservant than my regular traditional community #crypto jews #conversos #jumblr #jewish #jews #judaism #jewish history #colombia #medellin #lationamerica #latin america #south america

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elodieunderglass · 2 years ago

Note

Hey bestie whats a narrow boat? I saw you tag that on something you reblogged and I'm pretty curious now!

- Terry Darlington, Narrow Dog to Carcassone

A narrowboat (all one word) is a craft restricted to the British Isles, which are connected all over by a nerve-map of human-made canals. To go up and down hills, the canals are spangled with locks (chambers in which boats can be raised or lowered by filling or emptying them with water.) As Terry says above, the width of the locks was somewhat randomly determined, and as a result, the British Isles have a narrow design of lock - and a narrowboat to fit through them. A classic design was seventy feet long and six feet wide. Starting in the 18th century, and competing directly with trains, canal “barges” were an active means of transport and shipping. They were initially pulled along the towpaths by horses, and you can still see some today!

Later, engines were developed.

Even after the trains won the arms race, it was a fairly viable freight service right up until WW2. It’s slow travel, but uses few resources and requires little human power, with a fairly small crew (of women, in WW2) being capable of shifting two fully laden boats without consuming much fossil fuel.

In those times the barges were designed with small, cramped cabins in which the boaters and their families could live.

During its heyday the narrowboat community developed a style of folk art called “roses and castles” with clear links to fairground art as well as Romani caravan decor. They are historically decorated with different kinds of brass ornaments, and inside the cabins could also be distinctively painted and decorated.

Today, many narrowboats are distinctively decorated and colorful - even if not directly traditional with “roses and castles” they’ll still be bright and offbeat. A quirky name is necessary. All narrowboats, being boats, are female.

After a postwar decline, interest in the waterways was sparked by a leisure movement and collapsing canals were repaired. Today, the towpaths are a convenient walking/biking trail for people, as they connect up a lot of the mainland of the UK, hitting towns and cities. Although the restored canals are concrete-bottomed, they’re attractive to wildlife. Narrowboats from the 1970s onward started being designed for pleasure and long-term living. People enjoy vacationing by hiring a boat and visiting towns for a cuter, comfier, slower version of a campervan life. And a liveaboard community sprang up - people who live full-time on boats. Up until the very restrictive and nasty laws recently passed in the UK to make it harder for travelling peoples (these were aimed nastily at vanlivers and the Romani, and successfully hit everyone) this was one of the few legal ways remaining to be a total nomad in the UK.

Liveaboards can moor up anywhere along the canal for 28 days, but have to keep moving every 28 days. (Although sorting out the toilet and loading up with fresh water means that a lot of people move more frequently than that.) you can also live full-time in a marina if they allow it, or purchase your own mooring. In London, where canal boats are one of the few remaining cheapish ways to live, boats with moorings fetch the same prices as houses. It can be very very hard for families to balance school, parking, work, and all the difficulties of living off-grid- but many make it work. It remains a diverse community and is even growing, due to housing pressures in the UK. Boats can be very comfortable, even when only six feet wide. When faced with spending thousands of pounds on rent OR mooring up on a nice canal, you can see why it seems a romantic proposition for young people, and UK television channels always have slice-of-life documentaries about young folks fixing up their very own quirky solar-powered narrowboat. I don’t hate; I did it myself.

If you’re lucky, you might even meet some of the cool folks who run businesses from their narrowboats: canal-side walkers enjoy bookshops, vegan bakeries, ice-cream boats, restaurants, artists and crafters. There are Floating Markets and narrowboat festivals. It’s generally recognised that boaters contribute quite a lot to the canal - yet there are many tensions between different kinds of boaters (liveaboards vs leisure boaters vs tourists) as well as tensions with local settled people, towpath users like cyclists, and fishermen. I could go on and on explaining this rich culture and dramas, but I won’t.

Phillip Pullman’s Gyptians are a commonly cited example of liveaboards - although they were based on the narrowboat liveaboards that Pullman knew in Oxford, their boats are actually Dutch barges. Dutch barges make good homes but are too wide to access most of the midlands and northern canals, and are usually restricted to the south of the UK. So they’re accurate for Bristol/London/Oxford, and barges are definitely comfier to film on. (Being six feet wide is definitely super awkward for a boat.) but in general Dutch barges are less common, more expensive and can’t navigate the whole system.

However, apart from them, there are few examples of narrowboat depictions that escaped containment. So it’s quite interesting that there is an entire indigenous special class of boat, distinctive and highly specialised and very cute, with an associated culture and heritage and folk art type, known to all and widely celebrated, and ABSOLUTELY UNKNOWN outside of the UK - a nation largely known around the world for inflicting its culture on others. They’re a strange, sweet little secret - and nobody who has ever loved one can resist pointing them out for the rest of their lives, or talking about them when asked to. Thank you for asking me to.

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elryuse · 10 days ago

Text

Pay To Play

Yandere Wonyoung X Male Reader

Tags : Dark Romance, Yandere, Obsessed, Obsession, Dangerous Love, Manipulation, Slight Smut Words : 5,282 Words

A Lovely Commision Work For My Friend @Pizza_anon From Ko-Fi I Hope You Guys Liked It.

You meet her on a night soaked in perfume and silence.

It’s a Tuesday — slow, heavy, and typical. The kind of night where laughter feels forced and your smile is mechanical, stitched on like a uniform. You’re halfway through a drink you didn’t order and pretending to enjoy a conversation with a bored office worker when the manager taps your shoulder.

“Table three. New client. Paid premium for you. Be good.”

You glance toward the velvet booth tucked in the corner. That’s when you see her.

She doesn’t look like she belongs here. She’s curled into herself, a soft cream sweater draped over narrow shoulders, hair falling like shadows over her face. She's not like the usual clientele — no designer handbag, no air of entitlement. Just big, doe-like eyes and fingers that fidget with the edge of her glass.

She looks lost.

You slip into the booth across from her, flashing your usual charming smile. The mask fits easily — it always does.

“Good evening,” you say smoothly. “I’m Kai. And you are…?”

She lifts her gaze to meet yours. Her eyes are strange — brown, but with flecks of gold like molten candlewax, staring too hard, too long. There’s hesitation in her voice.

“Wonyoung,” she whispers. “You’re… different from what I expected.”

You chuckle, tilting your head. “Is that a compliment?”

She shrugs. “I don’t know. I’ve never done this before.”

“Hired a host?”

She nods, glancing around like she’s afraid someone might see her. “I thought it’d be awkward. But I just… I just wanted someone to talk to.”

You relax into the seat, your practiced posture giving way to a sliver of curiosity. Most clients want flattery, fake romance, or attention they don’t get at home. But this? This feels different.

“What do you want to talk about?” you ask.

She hesitates again. “Nothing in particular. I just… wanted company. I’ve been alone for a while.”

You talk. At first, it’s superficial — campus life, favorite drinks, the weather. You tell her half-truths. Say you’re studying business, that you like jazz, that your real name is Kai. She listens carefully, like every word is a thread she’s sewing into something secret.

But then she surprises you.

“Why did you become a host?” she asks one night, a week later, her eyes never leaving yours.

You lie easily. “Because rent doesn’t pay itself.”

But she doesn’t let up. She just watches. And there’s something about her silence that makes you falter.

You sigh. “Because it’s easier to be what people want… than to be real.”

“That’s lonely,” she says.

You nod.

“It is.”

She becomes a regular. Every Tuesday, same booth, same corner. She pays extra for longer sessions. You don’t ask why. You just start looking forward to the hour before midnight when she walks in, awkward and quiet, always dressed too plainly for a place like this.

But it’s not her clothes you remember. It’s the way she watches you — too deeply. Like she’s searching for cracks. Like she wants to consume the version of you beneath the mask.

She touches your hand once — an accident, she claims. Just a brush of fingers when she laughs too hard at something you said. But her touch lingers. And so does her stare.

“Do you ever get tired of pretending?” she asks the fifth time you meet.

You blink.

“What do you mean?”

“You smile all the time, but your eyes never smile.”

You pause, your façade cracking at the edges. No one’s ever said that to you before. Not the regulars. Not even the girls who pretend they’re in love with you.

You look at her a little closer that night.

Maybe too closely.

Two weeks later, she asks something you don’t expect.

“Do you ever think about seeing me outside of here?”

You’re trained to shut that down — it’s a boundary, a line that keeps your job clean. But you freeze. Because part of you has thought about it.

You look at her — really look.

There’s something unhinged buried deep in her smile. A twitch in the way she grips her glass. A silence too calculated.

“Where would we go?” you ask, finally.

She smiles, like she knew you’d say that. Like she planned this.

“Somewhere quiet. Just you and me.”

You meet her on a Sunday next. Against your better judgment. She finds you outside the university gates and tells you she’s been watching from across the street for weeks. She says it like it’s nothing. Like it’s sweet.

“I was curious about you,” she says. “You’re different outside of the club. You walk faster. You don’t smile.”

You laugh it off. But your stomach tightens.

That night, you sit with her at a late-night diner. She doesn’t eat. Just sips her tea and watches you.

“I think about you,” she says suddenly. “Too much. It's… frustrating.”

You look up. “Why?”

“Because you’re not mine.”

The air shifts. Her tone doesn’t match her words — it's too calm, too quiet. And yet, her fingers clutch the edge of the table like she’s barely holding back a storm.

“You paid for time,” you say. “Not ownership.”

She tilts her head.

“Doesn’t it ever get tiring? Having everyone touch you, pretend to love you? I wouldn’t be like that. I’d really mean it.”

You lean back, forcing a smirk. “You’re getting ahead of yourself.”

She smiles softly. “Maybe. Or maybe I’m just seeing you more clearly than anyone else ever has.”

Later that night, you walk her home. Or at least, you think you do. But the next morning, you wake up to a photo under your door — a candid shot of you smoking behind the club, alone, from a few nights ago. No note. No explanation.

Just the photo.

You check your phone. No messages. You tell yourself it could’ve been anyone.

But when you arrive at the club that evening, the manager greets you with a sly smile.

“Your regular’s coming again tonight. She asked for the whole night this time.”

You already know who it is. You already feel the weight of her eyes on your skin. And deep down, you already know —

She’s not just some lonely girl.

She’s watching.

And she’s already claimed you.

You don’t take the train home that night.

There’s something about fluorescent lights and the hushed, exhausted stares of strangers that make your stomach twist. Instead, you walk. Through narrow alleys and over cracked pavement, past flickering streetlamps and buildings that lean like they’re tired of standing. The city smells like old rain, cigarettes, and piss. The sky hangs low, gray and bloated, like it might suffocate you if you looked up too long.

Your apartment is in a rotting complex tucked behind an abandoned parking structure. You climb the stairs — the elevator's been dead since last winter. You know which steps creak and which ones are damp with mold. You know the exact moment the smell changes from mildew to something more sour. It’s always the third floor. That’s when you know you’re home.

The door is unlocked, but you expected that.

Inside, the lights are off. You don’t bother flipping the switch. The apartment smells like stale beer and ash. A mess of unwashed dishes spills over the kitchen counter. Crumpled cigarette packs lie beneath the flickering TV, which is playing static at low volume.

Your father is passed out on the couch. Shirtless. One arm limp, the other wrapped around an empty bottle of soju like it's a lover. He mumbles something when you step over his feet, but you don’t care enough to listen. You never do anymore.

Your mother isn’t home. Again. It’s been two nights. You don’t ask questions. You stopped asking a long time ago, back when her perfume started to smell more like other people than herself. When the lipstick smudges on her collars weren’t hers.

You retreat into your room and lock the door. The mattress sags under your weight, the springs long dead. The room is quiet — too quiet — but it’s the only place that’s yours. You lie back and stare at the ceiling, cracked and yellowing with water damage. Your stomach growls, but you ignore it.

You close your eyes.

And for some reason… you think of her.

Your phone buzzes the next morning. You ignore it at first, thinking it’s another club text or a reminder to pay your tuition. But when you finally glance at the screen, it’s a name you didn’t expect.

[Wonyoung]: “You looked tired last night. Didn’t sleep well?”

Your pulse stutters. You never gave her your number.

You stare at the message, hesitant, then lock your screen without replying. Something about it itches at the edge of your thoughts. You brush it off, tell yourself she must’ve asked the manager — or maybe it’s some club database she slipped through.

Still, it bothers you.

You don’t go home after class. Instead, you head to a nearby bathhouse. It’s not fancy, but at least it’s clean. The water is cold, and the cracked mirrors reflect a version of you that looks just as broken. You scrub your skin until it stings, until the smell of perfume and cheap cologne fades.

And when you step outside, she’s there.

Standing across the street. Dressed casually in an oversized hoodie, holding two coffee cups in a paper bag. Her hair is tied back in a loose ponytail. She looks… harmless.

She waves at you, crosses the road, and presses a cup into your hand. “I guessed your order,” she says with a smile. “Black. No sugar.”

You blink. “How did you—”

“I watched,” she says before you can finish. “You always drink it that way at the club.”

You’re not sure whether to be impressed or unnerved.

You walk. She follows.

Down the side streets behind campus, where the wind carries silence better than sound. She skips occasionally, humming to herself, her steps light and breezy like she hasn’t done anything wrong.

You finally speak. “How did you get my number?”

She doesn’t answer at first. Just keeps walking, her eyes on the pavement.

“Wonyoung.”

She stops, then turns to you. The sun slices through the clouds and touches her face — soft, sweet, familiar. But her eyes hold something darker.

“You left your phone on the table that first night,” she says plainly. “I memorized your number from the lock screen. You were smiling in your wallpaper… but it wasn’t real.”

“You went through my phone?”

She shrugs. “You let strangers pay to touch your soul. I only wanted a glimpse.”

Her voice is light, innocent, but every word feels heavy. Calculated.

You step back. “That’s not okay.”

“I care about you,” she says, stepping closer again. “No one else does. Don’t act like you don’t feel it. Don’t act like you didn’t like waking up to someone thinking about you.”

You want to deny it. But her voice is warm. Her gaze — terrifyingly focused.

She whispers, “I don’t want to be a stranger. I want you to be mine.”

She starts showing up everywhere after that.

Outside your lecture halls. In line behind you at the cafeteria. Sitting on the bench across from the campus library. Always with that same gentle smile, like she was meant to be there. Like this is fate and you just haven’t realized it yet.

Sometimes she brings you snacks. Sometimes books. Sometimes just herself.

She doesn’t ask permission.

She starts asking questions — innocent at first. “What kind of music do you like?” “What was your dream as a kid?” “Do you ever cry alone at night?”

Then darker. “Have you ever wanted to disappear?” “Do you think anyone would miss you?” “Would you quit your job… for someone who loved you enough?”

One night, you come home and find groceries in your fridge. Real food — not instant noodles. There’s a note on the counter:

“You’re not taking care of yourself. Let me do it.”

No signature. No name. But you know it’s her.

Your skin crawls. You tear the note in half.

The next night, there’s a new towel in your bathroom. Soft, pink, with a lavender scent. You find your laundry done. The sheets changed. You don’t even remember leaving the window open.

You confront her behind the station the next morning. The alley is cold, and she’s standing by the vending machine with two canned coffees. She smiles like nothing is wrong.

“I didn’t give you a key,” you say.

She tilts her head. “Your lock was broken. I replaced it.”

“That’s not the point.”

“I care about you,” she says softly, stepping close. “Why is that so scary for you? No one’s ever loved you, have they? Not really.”

You don’t respond.

She reaches out, brushing her fingers along your wrist. “Let me be the first.”

You pull away. Her expression falters. But then her smile sharpens.

“I can wait,” she murmurs. “I’m not going anywhere.”

She walks away, humming again. A melody that crawls into your brain like rot.

That night, you lie in bed staring at the ceiling again. The old water stain has grown. It looks like a blooming flower, dark and ugly.

You think about your father snoring in the living room, your mother’s absence, the cold silence that fills the apartment like fog.

And for the first time… You wonder if being wanted — even by someone unhinged — is better than being nothing at all.

The club is louder than usual tonight.

Laughter, the clinking of glasses, the low thrum of music vibrating through the floor — all of it feels exaggerated, like a performance turned up too high. You stand near the bar in your usual suit, your name tag clipped over your chest like a label someone else gave you. Smiles are mechanical, gestures practiced.

You're tired.

You haven’t slept much, haven’t eaten since yesterday. You keep glancing at your phone, the messages from Wonyoung replaying in your head, even though you deleted them twice. Her words still hum beneath your skin, soft as a needle sliding in.

Then you hear your name. Not your real name — the one you use in here.

A manager’s voice. “You’ve been requested.”

You already know who it is.

She's sitting in a private booth in the back. The lights above her glow low and warm, casting shadows across her face, making her skin look porcelain, her eyes impossibly wide. For a second, she doesn’t see you. She’s swirling her drink, fingers wrapped around the stem of a wine glass, her legs crossed.

She’s wearing black.

A sleek, almost sinful dress. Velvet, low-cut. It clings to her body like it was poured onto her. She’s wearing sheer stockings, the faint outline of her thighs visible through the fine mesh. Her lips are painted crimson, and her hair falls over one shoulder in soft waves.

And yet — something’s wrong.

You don’t feel the usual intensity, the suffocating obsession you’ve come to expect from her. Instead, she looks… sad. No — more than that.

Empty.

“Hey,” you say gently as you step into the booth. “Rough day?”

She looks up. And when she sees you, something flickers in her expression — relief, maybe. Longing. Her smile is faint, not the dangerous kind you’ve seen before. Just… tired.

“You came,” she whispers.

“I was requested.”

She nods, almost ashamed. “I didn’t know who else to call.”

You sit down slowly, careful not to lean too close. “What happened?”

She laughs, soft and bitter. “You wouldn’t believe me.”

“Try me.”

For a long moment, she doesn’t speak. Her fingers trace the rim of her glass. You notice her nails are chipped tonight. Her lipstick is slightly smudged. The perfect, flawless Wonyoung — cracked, for the first time.

“I saw someone today,” she murmurs. “Someone from my past.”

You raise a brow. “Old friend?”

“Not exactly.” She takes a sip, gaze fixed on the dark liquid. “It was my mother.”

That makes you pause. “Didn’t know you had family in the city.”

“I don’t,” she says quickly. “She didn’t come for me. She never does. She was just… there. At a hotel downtown. With some man. I watched them from the lobby, and she didn’t even recognize me.”

You don’t know what to say. You feel her pain clawing beneath her words like something feral.

“I thought maybe she’d changed,” she continues, her voice tighter now. “That maybe she’d see me, say something, apologize. But she didn’t. She just laughed. Like I never existed.”

You reach for her hand — instinctively, maybe. She doesn’t pull away.

“I’m sorry,” you say quietly.

She looks at you, really looks at you. And something in her eyes burns hotter than anything else in the club.

“I thought if I made myself beautiful, desirable, someone would notice. Someone would stay.” Her voice is glass on skin. “But it’s not enough, is it? Nothing ever is.”

You stay silent.

Then she leans forward, close enough that you smell her perfume — rose and smoke and something faintly metallic.

“But you notice me, don’t you?” she whispers. “You see me.”

“I do.”

Her lips part slightly. You think she might kiss you, but instead she lets her forehead rest against your shoulder. Her body shudders — maybe with a sigh, maybe a sob — and you wrap your arm around her before you even realize what you’re doing.

The two of you sit like that for a while. In silence. In the dark booth surrounded by false laughter and fake affection, you hold her — and for the first time, she feels real.

Then she pulls back slowly and looks up at you with something dangerous in her gaze.

“I don’t want to go home tonight,” she says. “Will you come with me?”

You should say no.

Every red flag is waving at full mast. The obsessive messages. The groceries. The creeping sense that she knows things she shouldn’t. But the desperation in her voice twists something inside you. Something bruised. Something lonely.

You nod once.

Her smile is slow, haunting.

Her apartment is… immaculate.

Too immaculate. Everything is white and silver and spotless. No mess. No clutter. No warmth. It feels like a hotel room designed by someone trying too hard to appear normal. There are no pictures. No memories.

She kicks off her heels and pads barefoot to the kitchen, pouring wine into two tall glasses.

You wander, eyes catching on a closed door near the hallway.

“Don’t go in there,” she says without turning around.

You freeze.

She walks over, presses a glass into your hand. “That room’s not for guests.”

You don’t ask.

She curls beside you on the couch, pulling her knees up, her thigh brushing yours through the black silk of her dress. Her shoulder leans into you. Her presence — soft, aching, yet terrifying in how badly you’ve come to recognize it.

“I want to keep you,” she murmurs.

You laugh nervously. “I’m not a pet.”

“You’re not a stranger, either.” Her fingers trace the edge of your sleeve. “I’m not letting go. Not after this.”

You swallow hard.

“I’ll be anything you need,” she says. “I’ll be your home, your obsession, your punishment. Just don’t leave me. Promise me you won’t.”

You open your mouth — to lie, to comfort, you don’t even know — but her lips press against yours before you can speak.

The kiss is deep, desperate, dangerous. Her mouth tastes like wine and sorrow. Her fingers grip your shirt like she’s afraid you’ll vanish. And part of you wants to vanish. Wants to fall into this moment and never surface again.

When she finally pulls away, her breath is hot against your cheek.

“I saw your home once,” she whispers.

Your blood goes cold.

“I followed you. Just once. I saw your father on the floor. The broken lights. The rot in the walls. And I thought… how dare they treat something so precious like trash.”

You pull back slightly, blinking.

“I want to give you everything they didn’t,” she says. “I’ll build you a new world. One where you never have to feel small or unwanted again.”

Your heart slams in your chest.

And you realize — this isn’t a crush.

This is a girl who's decided you’re hers.

No matter what it costs.

The first time you make love to Wonyoung, it feels like falling.

Not into pleasure — though there is that — but into something deeper, hungrier. A plunge into dark waters where everything is quiet and nothing is safe.

Her body is soft and warm beneath yours, but her eyes never stop watching. Even as she moans, even as her back arches and her fingers claw into your skin, she doesn’t look away. She stares into you like she’s memorizing every breath, every twitch, every weakness.

After, she rests her head on your chest and exhales like she’s finally alive.

“Did it feel good?” she whispers.

You hesitate, then nod.

She smiles. Not her usual sly, calculating one — but a soft, content one. A smile that almost makes her look human again.

“Good,” she breathes. “Then I won’t let anyone else touch you. Ever.”

You lie still, heart racing. Her words settle on your skin like ash.

She falls asleep wrapped around you, possessive even in her dreams. And in the silence of her sterile white apartment, beneath the hum of the fridge and the faint city noise, you lie awake and realize something terrifying:

You don’t want to leave.

The next night at the club feels different.

You wear your best suit. You fix your tie twice in the mirror. Your body still aches faintly from the night before — from her fingernails, from her weight, from the way she whispered your name like a secret spell.

She hasn’t messaged you tonight.

It feels strange.

Not wrong… just off.

The club is buzzing again. The music, the alcohol, the artificial laughter. You’re back in character, smiling on cue, bowing to the regulars. But you’re distracted — every time the door opens, you look up, expecting to see her in another black dress, waiting to possess you.

But she hasn’t shown.

Instead, someone else walks in.

You don’t recognize her — not that that’s unusual. New customers come all the time. But this one is different.

She’s standing near the entrance, unsure. Her eyes are wide, her posture stiff. She’s overdressed — a frilly dress that doesn’t fit the sultry tone of the club. Her hands are clasped in front of her like she’s in a museum, not a host bar.

Her friends — two loud girls in designer skirts — are dragging her along, laughing and chattering.

One of them says something to the receptionist. Almost instantly, the girl next to her is paired with a tall host named Hiro, and the third is swept up by Ren, who always gets the flashy clients.

But the shy girl hesitates. She stands by herself, shrinking into her seat. You watch her. Something about the way she looks around, uncertain, out of place, makes your chest twist.

She’s nothing like Wonyoung.

She doesn’t ooze confidence. She doesn’t dress to kill. She isn’t playing a game.

She’s just… here. Awkward. Lost.

Your manager walks by and taps your shoulder. “That one,” he mutters. “The quiet one. Go warm her up, yeah?”

You nod and walk toward her.

She notices you when you’re just a few steps away. Her eyes widen, and she straightens up, clearly nervous.

“Hi,” you say gently. “May I join you?”

She nods quickly, too quickly. “Y-Yes. Please.”

You sit down, keeping your voice low and warm. “First time?”

She blushes. “Is it that obvious?”

You smile. “Only a little.”

She tucks a strand of hair behind her ear. Her fingers tremble slightly. “My friends dragged me here… I didn’t think I’d actually— I mean, they said it would be fun, but this is a little— overwhelming.”

You nod. “It can be, at first.”

“I’ve never done anything like this before,” she says, eyes darting around. “You all seem so… confident.”

“We’re just good actors,” you say, chuckling.

She smiles — shy, but real.

For a moment, it’s quiet. Then she asks, “Do you do this every night?”

You hesitate. “Almost every night.”

She looks down at her drink. “Do you ever get tired of pretending to like people?”

The question hits harder than you expect.

You think of Wonyoung. The way she looked at you. The way she touched you like she owned every inch of you. The way her voice haunted your dreams last night.

You think of how none of that felt like pretending.

You don’t answer the girl.

She looks up at you again, her eyes wide and searching. “Sorry. That was too personal.”

“No,” you say softly. “It’s fine. I just… didn’t expect a question like that.”

She gives a small laugh. “I guess I’m not very good at this kind of thing.”

��You’re doing better than most.”

She blushes again.

And in that moment, something shifts in you. Not attraction — not yet. But curiosity. She’s gentle. Real. The kind of girl you might’ve met in another life. In a life where your mother didn’t sell herself and your father didn’t drink himself into oblivion. A life without broken homes and false smiles.

She offers her name — Yura.

You repeat it once, softly. It fits her.

You’re just starting to relax when you feel it.

The hair on the back of your neck rises.

You turn, instinctively scanning the club.

And there she is.

Wonyoung.

Standing in the shadows by the bar. Dressed in blood-red tonight, her eyes locked on you and Yura like a wolf who just caught a trespasser in her territory.

Your heart drops.

She wasn’t supposed to come tonight.

Not when you’re with someone else.

Not when you’re pretending to enjoy another girl’s presence.

Her gaze doesn’t blink. Doesn’t waver. Her lips are parted slightly, like she’s savoring the image of you — sitting with someone else, smiling, listening.

She tilts her head.

And she smiles.

But it’s not a kind smile.

It’s a promise.

A warning.

And in that moment, you know:

Something bad is going to happen.

You don’t sleep well after that night.

You see Wonyoung’s face every time you close your eyes — the way she stared at you while you were with Yura, the stillness of her expression, the slow, deliberate smile that curled across her lips.

You’d excused yourself from Yura early, told the manager you weren’t feeling well. But even after leaving the club, you felt her. Not just watching — waiting. Somewhere in the dark, she lingered.

You don’t hear from her for two days.

No messages. No calls.

And somehow, that silence is worse than any confrontation.

When she finally reappears, it’s at the club again — unannounced, unbooked, walking straight past the receptionist as if the place belongs to her. She finds you near the bar, polishing glasses and keeping your head down. You freeze when you hear her voice.

“Let’s talk.”

You turn slowly. She’s in another black dress, this one tighter, with a slit high enough to expose her thigh. Her makeup is perfect, but her eyes — her eyes are tired. Wild.

You try to smile. “Wonyoung—”

“Now,” she says. No smile. No pleasantries.

You follow her to a private booth, out of habit more than choice.

She sits across from you, crosses her legs, and places her bag delicately beside her like she’s about to make a business proposal.

“I want you to quit,” she says.

Your throat tightens. “What?”

“Quit this job. Quit this club. Come live with me. I’ll take care of you.”

You blink, disoriented. “Wonyoung, I can’t just—”

“You can,” she interrupts. “You just don’t want to.”

“I have bills. Tuition. I—”

“I’ll pay them.”

Your stomach churns. “You don’t even know me that well.”

“I know enough. I know you don’t sleep at night. I know your eyes are always searching for something that doesn’t exist. I know you’re lonely.” Her voice softens. “I see you, even when no one else does.”

You stare at her, stunned by how earnestly she says it. How desperately.

“You don’t understand,” you murmur. “This isn’t a fairy tale.”

“No,” she whispers. “It’s a prison. And I’m offering you the key.”

You hesitate too long.

She sees it.

Her face drops. The silence between you stretches, then cracks like glass.

“You don’t trust me,” she says, more to herself than you.

“I didn’t say that—”

“Then why are you still here?” she says sharply. “Why do you keep pretending this is okay? Working in a place like this, selling pieces of yourself to strangers, night after night?”

“It’s not like that—”

She slams her hand on the table, loud enough to make you flinch. Her voice is trembling now. “You let that girl touch you. You smiled at her like she meant something.”

“She was just a client.”

“And what am I?” Her voice breaks. “Am I not enough?”

You try to calm her. “Wonyoung, you’re not thinking straight.”

But she stands suddenly. “Fine. If you won’t come with me willingly…”

You blink. “What?”

The world turns black before you can finish the sentence.

When you wake up, your head is pounding.

The air is cold, but the blanket draped over you is silk. The lights are dim. For a moment, you don’t recognize the room — it’s too big, too sterile, too quiet. The walls are glass and steel. Expensive. Minimalist. The air smells faintly of lavender and something colder — antiseptic, maybe.

You try to sit up.

Your arms are heavy.

Something’s… wrong.

You look down and realize: your wrists are cuffed. Silk-lined, yes — but restraints all the same.

Panic starts to rise in your throat.

“What the hell—?”

“You’re awake.”

Her voice is soft now. Almost motherly.

You turn your head slowly, and there she is. Wonyoung. Standing in the doorway of her penthouse suite, wearing nothing but a silk robe that falls off one shoulder. Her hair is damp, like she just stepped out of the shower. Her eyes gleam with something dangerous.

“Wonyoung—what the fuck is this?”

“You needed rest,” she says simply. “You were overworked. Stressed. I did what any caring lover would do.”

“Let me go.”

She smiles. Walks toward you. “You’ll feel better after breakfast. I had the chef prepare your favorite.”

“I never told you my favorite.”

Her smile widens. “You talk in your sleep.”

Your stomach knots. “This is insane.”

“No,” she says softly. “This is love.”

She kneels by the side of the bed and places a hand on your chest. “No more noise. No more fake smiles for strangers. No more pretending to be okay. You’re safe now. With me.”

Tears prick your eyes — not from fear, but fury. “You can’t just lock me up.”

“I can,” she says gently. “And I did.”

You yank your arms again, but the cuffs are tight.

“Let me go, Wonyoung.”

Her expression darkens. “Say it again, and I’ll have to hurt you.”

You go still.

And she smiles again. Brushes your hair from your face. “You’ll see, baby. You’ll love it here. You’ll never need to beg for attention again. I’ll give you everything. Everything.”

You look into her eyes and finally understand.

This isn’t infatuation.

This isn’t love.

This is possession.

And she doesn’t intend to ever let you go.

#kpop #kpop x reader #kpop x y/n #x male reader #beautiful #update #yandere #kpop smut #yandere stories #obsessed #obsessive #obsession #dark romance #dark and gritty #host #host club #guy host

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ecrivainsolitaire · 4 months ago

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A summary of the Chinese AI situation, for the uninitiated.

These are scores on different tests that are designed to see how accurate a Large Language Model is in different areas of knowledge. As you know, OpenAI is partners with Microsoft, so these are the scores for ChatGPT and Copilot. DeepSeek is the Chinese model that got released a week ago. The rest are open source models, which means everyone is free to use them as they please, including the average Tumblr user. You can run them from the servers of the companies that made them for a subscription, or you can download them to install locally on your own computer. However, the computer requirements so far are so high that only a few people currently have the machines at home required to run it.

Yes, this is why AI uses so much electricity. As with any technology, the early models are highly inefficient. Think how a Ford T needed a long chimney to get rid of a ton of black smoke, which was unused petrol. Over the next hundred years combustion engines have become much more efficient, but they still waste a lot of energy, which is why we need to move towards renewable electricity and sustainable battery technology. But that's a topic for another day.

As you can see from the scores, are around the same accuracy. These tests are in constant evolution as well: as soon as they start becoming obsolete, new ones are released to adjust for a more complicated benchmark. The new models are trained using different machine learning techniques, and in theory, the goal is to make them faster and more efficient so they can operate with less power, much like modern cars use way less energy and produce far less pollution than the Ford T.

However, computing power requirements kept scaling up, so you're either tied to the subscription or forced to pay for a latest gen PC, which is why NVIDIA, AMD, Intel and all the other chip companies were investing hard on much more powerful GPUs and NPUs. For now all we need to know about those is that they're expensive, use a lot of electricity, and are required to operate the bots at superhuman speed (literally, all those clickbait posts about how AI was secretly 150 Indian men in a trenchcoat were nonsense).

Because the chip companies have been working hard on making big, bulky, powerful chips with massive fans that are up to the task, their stock value was skyrocketing, and because of that, everyone started to use AI as a marketing trend. See, marketing people are not smart, and they don't understand computers. Furthermore, marketing people think you're stupid, and because of their biased frame of reference, they think you're two snores short of brain-dead. The entire point of their existence is to turn tall tales into capital. So they don't know or care about what AI is or what it's useful for. They just saw Number Go Up for the AI companies and decided "AI is a magic cow we can milk forever". Sometimes it's not even AI, they just use old software and rebrand it, much like convection ovens became air fryers.

Well, now we're up to date. So what did DepSeek release that did a 9/11 on NVIDIA stock prices and popped the AI bubble?

Oh, I would not want to be an OpenAI investor right now either. A token is basically one Unicode character (it's more complicated than that but you can google that on your own time). That cost means you could input the entire works of Stephen King for under a dollar. Yes, including electricity costs. DeepSeek has jumped from a Ford T to a Subaru in terms of pollution and water use.

The issue here is not only input cost, though; all that data needs to be available live, in the RAM; this is why you need powerful, expensive chips in order to-

Holy shit.

I'm not going to detail all the numbers but I'm going to focus on the chip required: an RTX 3090. This is a gaming GPU that came out as the top of the line, the stuff South Korean LoL players buy…

Or they did, in September 2020. We're currently two generations ahead, on the RTX 5090.

What this is telling all those people who just sold their high-end gaming rig to be able to afford a machine that can run the latest ChatGPT locally, is that the person who bought it from them can run something basically just as powerful on their old one.

Which means that all those GPUs and NPUs that are being made, and all those deals Microsoft signed to have control of the AI market, have just lost a lot of their pulling power.

Well, I mean, the ChatGPT subscription is 20 bucks a month, surely the Chinese are charging a fortune for-

Oh. So it's free for everyone and you can use it or modify it however you want, no subscription, no unpayable electric bill, no handing Microsoft all of your private data, you can just run it on a relatively inexpensive PC. You could probably even run it on a phone in a couple years.

Oh, if only China had massive phone manufacturers that have a foot in the market everywhere except the US because the president had a tantrum eight years ago.

So… yeah, China just destabilised the global economy with a torrent file.

#valid ai criticism #ai #llms #DeepSeek #ai bubble #ChatGPT #google gemini #claude ai #this is gonna be the dotcom bubble again #hope you don't have stock on anything tech related #computer literacy #tech literacy

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maiamore · 5 months ago

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PASS THE SALT, MR MILLER

Pairing: Joel Miller x Female!Reader - No Outbreak Rating: 18+ | W/C: 4.5k

Summary: Joel finds out the hard way that leaving a pretty girl with blue-balls isn’t the smartest.

Or, Joel fucks you in his garage.

Tags: christmas-y vibes, fucking on Joel’s car, implied age gap,unprotected p in v, grumpy!joel, lots of yearning, squirting, sexual games, brat taming, outdoor sex, creampie

A/N: merry christmas folks! tbh this is just a game of how many fics can I write that has to do with (a) joel's truck or (b) joel yearning. side note, looped Disease - Lady Gaga track on repeat while writing this oops

MASTERLIST | MAIN STORY

Holidays have never really been something you celebrated. Fuck it, your own birthday even. It just wasn’t a priority you considered worth fussing over. Admittedly, your lack of enthusiasm for these events was probably why you ended up avoiding them. You would do the most for the people you loved but never for yourself.

Take Halloween for example. Your friends from Columbia were begging you for a slutty girls' night out, but you’d opted to stay home to help chaperone your younger brother Oscar’s party. Even so far as to set everything up, you’d made sure Oscar had a shot at being the coolest damn guy in his school. Fret not, jobless big sis is there to help ya.

Of course, it hadn’t gone unrewarded, to put it loosely. All that really happened was some broody hot middle-aged dad jerking off in front of your face. Nothing out of the ordinary.

You found yourself staring at the pale green piece of paper your younger brother, Oscar, handed you when he came home from school that evening. Eyeing the morbidly cliche design that screamed of some bored old receptionists' handiwork, you tilt it to get a better read.

Oak Ridge High School Annual Christmas Potluck.

Great. Another one. You were often the stand-in for his PTA Meetings in place of your ever so busy parents. While you had your fun with the free buffets and whatnot, you were getting tired of people asking how old you were when you “had” Oscar.

*Calling all Parent Volunteers. Please Contact Joel Miller at +1 (512) 555 XXX for details.

Now that got your attention.

Joel Miller. The man who, after that night, weaseled his way into your glorious collection of mental spank bank. Evident in the plethora of stolen nudie mags your mom stashed underneath her mattress—you’d gone as far to dog-ear pages of men who had the slightest resemblance to him.

You couldn’t get him out of your mind. By him, his dick. All eight fuckin’ inches of pent-up old man dick.

The desperation in the way he thumbed his slit, coaxing his milky cum into your waiting mouth in your bedroom flashed in your mind like post-traumatic-sex-disorder. You were robbed of a good fuck.

The beeps of your dial-pad echoed embarrassingly loud while you dialled the number on the flyer before fully seeing the idiocy in this move. The line connects after a few rings.

“Miller. Who’s callin’?”

A shudder runs down your spine. His voice hit you like a freight train, low and gravelly, cutting through the faint clatter of what sounded like construction work on the other end.

Fuck. Fuck fuck. Hang up. Hang–

“Hi.” You blurt out, forcing a higher register in your voice in a desperate attempt to disguise yourself. “I’d like to register. For the Christmas…thing.” There was a pause, followed by the clunk of something heavy and the sound of boots against a hard floor.

“Right. You’re the parent of…?”

You clutched your phone tighter when Joel’s voice rang clearer than ever, throat dry as you scrambled to speak. “Oscar.”

He repeats your last name when you offer it, slow and deliberate, like he was trying to place it–a flicker of recognition almost.

“Alright then,” he finally says, the faintest edge of suspicion still lingering.

“Guess I’ll see ya there.”

—

Impulsiveness was something that fucked Joel over most times.

Messing around with someone he’d consider uncomfortably closer to his daughter's age than his own settled within him like poison.

It’d been two whole months since the incident at halloween and he was still hung up over you. He was certain that a pretty girl like you had far better prospects than a washed up crotchety shit like him.

You plagued his mind every time his fist wrapped around his cock. Every time he’d tried to fuck the stress of working long hours of grunt work at the site. Your soft and sweet expression offered him instantaneous, sticky reprieve.

Guilt, or something he should’ve been feeling over using your face as masturbation material didn’t quite blare the alarms in his head through post-nut clarities.

He knew he had fucked up the second he had you on your knees that night.

You parked your sedan in front of a navy chevrolet in the driveway. Hopping out of the car as you looked up at the quaint home, clean white siding, neatly trimmed lawn.

You figured by the bustling noise from the backyard that a volunteer offered up their home and all. Generous, you thought. And then you catch it. The worn down navy mailbox that sprawled the letters–

M I L L E R

The swirl that was now your mind dragged painful throbs in your head. To be in his own backyard felt stalker-ish even for you.

With a weary exhale, you click open the boot of your car. Worrying had to come later, you had to formulate a game plan for the boxes of fairy lights you somehow had to haul into Joel’s backyard.

With a heaving effort, you propped up two boxes into your arms when the shuffle of footsteps catches your attention, coming from beside the opening garage.

“Hey! Sorry, could use a little help...” You call out instinctively.

Only managing to catch a glimpse of a hand bracing against the rickety garage door to shove it all the way up with a loud metallic clang.

The sound startles you, but not as much as the sight when one of the boxes lifts from your hold, revealing your apparent savior.

The both of you pause, staring at each other in slight shock. Well–for him at least. You had ulterior motives that came delivered to you all wrapped up in worn-out denim.

Joel’s expression was less than welcoming, which in his defense—he wasn’t quite expecting to see his ghost in his own yard.

“What are you doin’ here?”

The curtness of his voice throws you, but it’s too late to think of turning tail and driving off.

“I’m…one of the volunteers.”

“Sweetheart,” Joel begins, lifting the last box out of your arms like they weighed nothing. “You signin’ up under your mama’s name just to come sniffin’ round’ me? That it?”

“What? No. She couldn’t make it,” you shoot back, a little too quick, a little too defensive. Joel wasn’t buying it, his unimpressed stare making you shift on your feet.

“Uh-huh,” he mutters, already stepping over to your car. With a grunt, he hefted another box from your trunk, the effort drawing a low sound from his chest.

The bitterness (and arousal) pools in your mouth at the noise he makes.

Yes. You’d admit. You sniffed out Joel’s trail like some stray, chasing after the smallest crumb of him. It wasn’t irrational for you to think that you deserved some sort of closure.

His voice cuts clean through your spiraling thoughts. “If you’re expectin’ somethin’, you best stop right there. I ain’t messin’ around.” You grimaced, fumbling for words.

“I’m just here to help—”

“S’enough outta you. Stay out of trouble.” He interrupts, not quite looking at you.

Joel wills himself to flick his gaze anywhere but at you, one look at your face was enough to remind him of the fact, one look was probably enough to pop a damn boner. He sets the boxes down by the patio, knees cracking as he stretches back up with a grunt.

“Get someone to hang ‘em up. ‘Cause clearly,” he says, eyeing your sweater and skirt, “you ain’t dressed to actually help.”

He gives you a short, dismissive nod before turning away, leaving you standing there. Warmth pools your cheeks, feeling foolish to have gone this far for the attention of a man who made it clear that he didn’t seem to give a fuck whether you were here or not.

—

Joel spends the better half of the afternoon hovering around you.

Approaching you normally was out of the question now that Sarah and the other kids began to flitter into his backyard to help with preparation. His daughter’s presence acted like a highly effective cock-block. Not that he had any business entertaining those kinds of thoughts in the first place.

At least, that’s what he told himself.

Risky didn’t begin to describe it, so he kept his distance. That resolve went straight out the window when he spotted you, half-balanced on a ladder, hanging Christmas lights along the edge of his roof. With candy cane printed panties peeking out from under your skirt—god almighty, Joel nearly doubled over.

You could feel Joel's eyes on you while attempting to hang the lights over the siding. Purposefully going against what he said, purposefully giving everyone a goddamn show.

"You ever learn how to listen?"

“I can do it myself.” You shot back. Coyly soothing the back of your skirt. A proper fuck you to him at his insinuation that you’d been here just to man-trap him. Not that the notion did much.

You felt the ladder steady with Joel’s hold. Effectively blocking everyone else from seeing what you were flaunting.

"For the love of christ, darlin’, get down."

“For the love of christ, I’m almost fuckin’ done.” You parroted his words back to him with an annoyed huff. It was hard not to let Joel infiltrate your mind but lack of his attention was eating you up–making you do crazy things, evidently.

With a satisfied huff at the placements, you brought your arms down.

Why did that…feel heavy?

A sharp crackle and metallic clatter fills the air before you fully completed your thought, the chains of lights comes tumbling down. You froze. Lowering your gaze to see the single goddamn twine snagged onto your sweater that you’d effectively yanked down with you.

The bulbs burst into chaotic pops as they hit the ground, shards of glass scattering like tiny fireworks across the patio, drawing everyone’s attention.

Joel doesn’t hesitate, his hands found your waist as he lifted you off the ladder and set you firmly on the ground to safety with a grunt, his eyes snaps to the shards of glass glinting in the light and the fresh scratches marring his freshly varnished patio.

"You gotta be shittin' me..." He mutters, the irritation sharp in his drawl.

“Mr Miller…”

Joel held up his palm as a sign to get you to be quiet so he could speak. Damn if you calling him Mr Miller now of all times didn’t make him want to haul your ass up to his bedroom.

Which he might add, seemed conveniently close.

He closes his eyes for a few seconds, pinching the bridge of his nose. "D’you think before you do anythin’ at all? Or do you just act on impulse?" He asks in a sharp and biting tone, looking directly at you as he spoke.

You cock your brow at his words. Surely he wasn’t seriously reacting this way to a couple of broken lights. To mention, your lights.

“What? Think about being a decent person to help?”

"A decent person would've listened the first time when I told you to leave it the hell alone," he snapped, stepping closer. "A decent person wouldn’t have shot me attitude n’ thrown a damn temper tantrum when I told you to get down."

“What are you getting so bent out of shape for?”

“For starters, you wrecked my patio, darlin’.” He grumbles. Rubbing the back of his neck in the slightest amount of awareness that he’d overreacted, though he’d rather chew rocks than admit it.

You don’t answer him. Humiliated as is. Your pouty-ness showed in the way you stomped over to get the broom that lay in the corner. He watches you regardless, arms folded taut.

“Goddamned train-wreck.” He mutters under his breath after a long pause, not even giving you the chance to let an apology leave your lips before he turns his heel to leave.

—

You didn’t take it well when people spoke to you like you were stupid.

An Ivy League degree hung the walls of your room for fucks sake. Who the hell did Joel think he was? As if that wasn’t humiliating enough, you’d tucked your tail between your legs to sweep it all up without a word. The embers that lay dormant were further fanned as time passed. You were pissed.

Joel, on the other hand, begins to feel guilt at the way he’d reacted. Even in the corner of his eyes, he sees you helping set up with the rest of the parents. It wasn’t the behaviour of some reckless nympho he imagined you to be when you stepped foot into his yard.

You didn’t have to stand there to stand under the sun in the unforgiving Texas heat, refilling lemonade for the parent’s committee. Or entertain Sarah and the rest of the kids. You’d turned his backyard into a damned Christmas Wonderland by the end of the night.

You were a good girl, he figures after a long while of brooding.

And he tries. He tries to approach you to apologize but you didn’t seem to be having it. Going out of your way to swerve at the slightest sight of him near you. Which he gets.

You were over it, really. Chalked it up to his personality being generally the way it was. But what really helped you get over your humiliation? Seeing Joel Miller fucking grovel.

Which you were acutely aware of with the way he lingered around you, waiting for an opening that you deprived of him.

—

The skies grew to a dusky violet, the backyard gently lit up with the soft twinkle of the fairy lights you’d painstakingly hung up (and re-hung). Lull of familiar Christmas classics playing by the speakers.

The warmth of the chatter and laughter surrounding the table tugged at your edges, coaxing a reluctant smile to your lips. You weren’t ready to admit it, but the festive mood was infectious.

You sat near the end of the committee’s table, the seat next to you conspicuously empty. The kids–Oscar, Sarah, and their friends were huddled at their own table. You briefly wondered if you should join them instead, given that the current hot topic at your table being mortgage rates.

The thud of a melamine crystal glass landing next to your plate broke your train of thought. You flick your gaze up, your expression hardening the moment you caught sight of Joel dragging the empty chair over next to you and lowering himself into it with a creak.

Without a word, he slides the glass closer to you, taking a sip from his own. His movements were deliberate, careful, like a man trying not to step on a landmine.

Joel wasn’t quite well-versed in apologies, as evident by Sarah’s constant reminders that one of these days he was going to piss a woman he actually fancied. His hand stretches over your lap, unfurling the napkin on the other side of you to drape it over your thighs.

“Could you pass over the salt, sweetheart?”

You tilt your head, arching a brow, not moving a muscle. Instead, you shot him a pointed look.

With a heavy sigh and a muttered curse under his breath, Joel stands up, his knees popping audibly as he leaned across the table to grab the salt himself. He slumps back into his chair, setting it down with a huff. How could a little thing like you hold so much anger?

“Done torturin’ me yet?”

A scoff leaves your lips.

“Who said I was?”

“I’m tryin’ to apologise, sweetheart.” You shudder at the manner he whispers the words out. As though it was a secret reserved for just you and him.

You rest your cheeks on your palms, shooting him an uninterested look. Joel’s eyes darts down to your plate that you were pushing to him. He doesn’t hesitate, reaching over and starts loading your plate up again with generous portions of the dishes spread across the table. The sight of him doing so, quiet and almost reverent, made your chest sing.

Oh this. This you could get used to.

For the next twenty minutes, you’d milked Joel’s newfound contrition for all it was worth. Needed a refill? Joel was already reaching for your glass. Running low on napkins? He was up and grabbing a fresh one before you even asked. You’d even braced yourself for him to snap when you made a fuss over your creaky chair, but to your delight, he stood up and swapped it out without so much as a grumble.

Unfortunately for you, your luck does runs out.

The flutter of your napkin onto the makeshift mat spread across the lawn catches his attention, his eyes darting to the rogue square of fabric before slowly flicking back up to meet your gaze. You leaned back in your chair, looking at him expectantly, lips quirking just enough to toe the line between innocent and insufferable.

Joel’s jaw twitches.

“Fuckin’ pick it up on your own, sweetheart.” his voice was laced with just enough irritation to make your smirk widen. Still, you couldn’t resist one last little prod.

Your legs shifted, one crossing over the other, the toe of your shoe brushing lightly against the denim of his jeans. His eyes darted down to the motion before snapping back up, a muscle in his jaw tightening.

“Didn’t you say you wanted to apologise?”

Joel shifts in his chair, arms crossing over his broad chest as he gave you a look that sent a shiver down your spine. “Think I settled my debts, crackles.”

You roll your eyes at his taunt, the warning laced in it only served to burn in your gut like uncontrollable lust. You felt yourself grow bored now that he’d ruthlessly cut you off from your only source of entertainment.

The thrill begins to wane, you’d grown impatient at Joel’s lack of well, giving in. Though the idea, a possibly stupid one, that you might’ve needed to give him a little push crosses your mind.

With a deliberate stretch, you rose from your seat, leaning over the table to reach for the salt shaker resting comfortably on Joel’s side with a hand placed on his thigh. It was perfectly positioned for him to hand it over to you–if you’d bothered to ask. But that wasn’t the point.

For a moment, he didn’t move. Didn’t speak. His jaw clenched so tight you could see the faint tick of his pulse. Slowly, you eased back into your seat, dragging your fingers in a slow deliberate curve as you went.

The sharp grip of his hand on your wrist came next, firm enough to make you gasp. Joel’s dark eyes locked on yours, his nostrils flaring as he tried to keep whatever storm was brewing behind them at bay.

You pressed your tongue against your cheek, a smirk tugging at the corner of your lips. He’d taken the bait all right. The unmistakable rise against where your hand was placed told you what you needed to know. Hook, line, and sinker.

It doesn’t quite matter to him whether you’d forgiven him anymore.

With a sharp tug, Joel pulls you up with him. “S’cuse me. This one isn’t feeling too well.”

The protest dies in your throat when Joel practically hauls you across his yard, away from the nosy glances from the rest of the parents.

You frown at the dusty old garage he leads you to up front where you’d parked your car. A hand comes up the back of your head to force you to duck underneath the half opened door, cringing at the loud sound it draws.

You tip your head up to watch Joel grab the edge of the half-opened garage door to full slam it down shut.

Fuck. You felt your cunt clench with the way his sleeves tightened around his forearms, wetting your lips subconsciously at the sight.

“This where you murder me, Mr Miller?”

His jaw ticks at that. There it was again. Mr Miller.

“Shut up.”

You mouthed the words wow as you looked to the side. As though there was a camera you were monologuing to. Joel approaches you tentatively. Backing you up until you feel sturdy metal stop your path.

A firm slam against the hood you were backed up against causes you to jolt.

“You’re fuckin’ with me.” He begins. Shifting closer until he had you snug against him and the truck. “You’ve been fuckin’ with me.”

You tilt your head up. Neck stretched uncomfortably to its limit.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Joel sighs. Looking towards the side, as though he might back off and run away again.

“This ain’t right.”

You frown. Why was he getting cold feet now? You gaze darts to the side, following his line of vision. A frilly pink bicycle parked in the midst of the dusty old boxes stacked up against concrete walls. Some labelled with years of mementos of his daughter growing up.

Joel groans when he feels a much smaller, soft hand cup against the growing strain on his jeans. “Judging by this, I think you’re full of shit.”

His restraint teeters on the edge. “Don’t.” He grasps around your wrists to stop you, though, he half asses it, barely with the amount of strength he could’ve used if he’d really wanted you to stop.

You palm against his erection, feeling it quickly harden beneath. You suck in your breath at the way his brows furrowed in concentration, the slight twitch of his lips. A whimper leaves your lips at how receptive he’d been to your touch.

“You’re trouble.” He manages. Finally meeting your gaze. You can tell he’s conflicted, but the way you cupped around his balls through the denim has him keeling over with a rough exhale.

He finally gathers enough strength in him to force your hand away from his cock. Just as you were about to whine about it, he flips you over. You steady your palms against the hood of his truck.

“Gotta be quiet. You understand me?” You nod quickly. Not daring to speak considering how his voice already echoed in the garage even at its softest.

Your elbows move to rest against the dirtied metal. Folding it so you could comfortably rest your head on it.

Joel lets out a low whistle at the way you bend your hips. Hiking your skirt up slowly. “Fuckin’ hell sweetheart.” He mutters. Thumb swiping against the growing dampness of your panties.

A dull noise from his zipper is the only other thing you hear when you feel him grind his clothed cock against you.

“Mr Miller—please.” You breathed out. Your thighs tenses, wiggling your hips higher to relieve the ache you felt. Feeling his hardness prod against your folds.

Joel sighs softly, thumbing against your clit before you curl into yourself. “Don’t need it.” You breathe out quickly. There’s a pause in his movements before you feel a thumb hook around the waistband of your panties. Dragging it down to your ankles.

The sound Joel makes at the sight of your slick stringing down the gusset of it makes him wince out audibly. Two fingers gather the slick of your folds, messily dragging it up and down your clit in a repeated notion. His fingers dipping in and out of you with a squelch. You groan out. Hips stuttering at the sensation.

“Hurry.” You urged.

You feel his other palm carefully twirl around the back of your hair. The breath knocks out of you when he heaves you backwards into his chest with a sharp tug. Fingertips entwined with your locks.

“Been patient with ya all fuckin’ day and ya think you got the right t’rush me now?”

Tears threaten to prick in the corners of your eyes at his tone. You grip around his wrist where he holds your hair. “…hurts” , you whisper, guiding his other hand back to your clit, “..here.”

Joel swallows thickly. He clenched his jaw so damn tight you audibly heard just how hard he ground them. How could he deprive you further when you were begging so sweetly?

He shucks his jeans down further, guiding his twitching cock out from his boxers. A drawn out groan leaves your lips when he nudges the head of his cock against your soaking pussy. Your moan echoes loudly into the space around you both.

He growls into your ears. Before you could apologise, your voice gets muffled around the heavy palm that comes to cover your mouth. You whine against it. “Told t’be fuckin’ quiet.” He grits, voice hushed against the side of your head.

Your eyes nearly roll back at the way he begins to thrust into you with the tip in an effort to get you used to his size. But it didn’t matter. The way his cockhead stretched your pussy out stung. But it was quickly replaced by the nauseating need to be fucked full.

Joel leans down to trace kisses up your neck before he fully sheathes himself into you. The muffle around your mouth grows tighter to suppress the loud moan. “Shh shh…you’ve got it.” He praises, breathing heavily into your ears.

The tears trickle directly over his knuckles. He releases the grip he had on your hair, looping around your abdomen. Snapping his hips into you at a punishing pace. You babble incoherently, practically slobbering into his palms, whining about how deep his cock was pounding into you.

The obscene slaps of where the two of you connected fills the garage, only spurring his need to fill you deep with his come.

Joel lets out a groan when you clench around his dick like vice. “Fuck. Pussy’s chokin’ me.” His head drops to the dip of your neck. Pressing kisses onto your pulse point.

“Don’t think I can last much longer.” He admits, dragging his hand–slick with your saliva down to your throat. His head flush against your shoulder blade. He takes a moment to breathe you in. Joel isn’t quite the man he used to be and coming this embarrassingly fast wasn’t on his docket. Least of all tonight.

You squirm a little at the sensation of Joel’s stubble against your shoulder. A deep exhale leaving your lips.

“M…me too..” You pant out heavily. Resting your head back against his chest. Joel’s free hand slides underneath your sweater, yanking your bra down.

A rough palm kneads the softness, tweaking your hardened nipples in a circular motion. “Shit. Mr—…Miller.” You manage. Squirming at how his palm gropes your tits clumsily. You give yourself the final push you needed, your fingers coming down to rub against your clit.

Joel’s hips stutter at the sensation of your pussy convulsing around his cock, following your orgasm soon after. But he doesn’t stop. He fucks you through it. Both his hands firm around your hips.

Your hands hastily come up to grab around his wrists. “Wait—stop—…stop.” You gasp out. Joel doesn’t quite register your pleas with how his mind was whirring around wanting to fuck his come deep into you until he feels a warm splatter of your release trickle down his thighs.

Your bated breaths fill the garage. Mortified, you watch the liquid drip from the radiator grill of Joel’s truck.

“I’ll be damned.” He muses, earning a warning look from you. Joel shakes his head, a low rumble from his chest makes you feel a little less embarrassed about squirting onto his truck. He turns you around to press a kiss onto the apple of your cheeks.

“Been meanin’ to get er’ washed. Guess I don’t gotta anymore.”

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