#and god I think one of these would fix me

[woollypoison]

Access denied

Nmixx Sullyoon x m reader a/n: This is pwp. Pure bfh. You've been warned. Word count: 5k words

It’s in the obvious things. 

The way she’s moping on the couch despite looking like a wet dream. Curled up, arms all folded, legs tucked into her. Yep. She’s mad. And she looks so fucking good despite being pissed. The perfect mixture of preppy and slutty in that sailor-collar shirt, and a navy skirt to cover what little it did. And those fucking thigh-high socks are your fucking end, glossy black and fitted to her like some pervert god slap them onto her.

She doesn’t look at you. Just lets out a breathy little hmph and shifts away on the cushion, subtle but full of attitude. Silent treatment. A Sullyoon classic.

You drop your keys on the counter, lean against the armrest. "Still mad, huh?"

She doesn’t dignify you with a response.

"Was it the girl with the cute smile? The one who asked what I was drinking? Because I gotta be honest, baby... I didn’t even remember what I was drinking. I was way too distracted."

Still nothing.

You walk around the couch, drop onto it beside her. “Wanna know what had me so stunned?”

She doesn’t move, but her face twists away from you, like she’s too good for whatever ass-kissery you’re about to come up with.

“I was preoccupied with the way you had every guy at that party craning their necks like they were starving. All of them suddenly with bent knees, like they didn’t mind being a foot shorter, just to try and get a peek of your ass.”

A slow breath in through her nose. Her knees tighten slightly together.

You shrug performatively. “I remember considering giving it a couple of smacks, to let those hyenas know who they need to fight for it. I can’t deny wanting to pick you up and fucking you right then and there either, but that wasn’t out of jealousy. That was just because you look so hot I wanted to fuck you so hard you’d forget how to walk.”

Another hmph. This one sharper. But still no words.

“Haven’t I told you that you look like you belong underneath me?” you murmur, leaning in to let your voice work its magic on her. “I have told you that, right? Because I would do anything to get you to moan my name. All dolled up, legs crossed like you weren’t thinking about me spreading them. I had to sit there all night pretending not to stare at your thighs. Pretending I wasn’t picturing you folded in half getting bred by me.”

Still silent, still obviously pouting.

You exhale dramatically. "But okay. You’re ignoring me. That’s cool, or whatever. I guess I’ll just sit here, watching some stupid show instead of using my hands, mouth and cock to make the hottest girl I’ve ever seen cum over and over and over again.”

That gets her.

She shifts. Slowly. Like it means nothing. Refusing you the right to comment on it.

Without a word, Sullyoon lifts herself off her cushion and turns to sit in your lap, back to your chest. Her spine straight, her skirt riding up from the motion, her weight settling perfectly over your crotch.

You blink. Stunned. Then grin. "Oh? This is how we’re sitting now?"

She says nothing. Arms folded. Eyes fixed on the TV that’s not even on.

Then her hips shift. There’s a soft little roll. Just once. Then again. A little deeper this time. Slow. Testing.

You inhale as the pressure builds between your legs. "You pretending this is innocent?" you whisper. "Cause your little ass is making it really hard to believe."

Still no response.

Until you hear it.

A breath. Unsteady.

And then—the smallest sound.

A wet sound.

You freeze.

She's moving again. Not just grinding now—her hips are pushing back while her hand disappears between her thighs. You can't see where it ends up, not from this limited angle. But you feel her shudder. Hear the faintest slick sound of fingers meeting soaked cotton. Her body tightens for a moment. Then eases again.

"Holy shit," you whisper. "Are you fingering yourself right now?"

She doesn't answer. She just keeps going.

You allow your hands to roam, wrapping around her waist. She doesn’t allow it. Her hands intercept you, one cold and one wet, locking your wrists in place. “Hands off,” she warns, icy and serious. “You don’t get to touch.”

You laugh softly, incredulously, breath halting. “You’re serious. You’re fucking killing me.”

"Good," she mutters, turning just enough to give you a scowl, eyes sharp. But that doesn’t hide how her face is flushed, her lips are parted, and her breathing is sounding an awful lot like it might turn into pleading. She doesn’t let you enjoy it, speaking sweet as venom: “If you wanted to taste my pussy so bad, you should’ve told that stupid slut to keep her hands to herself.”

You let out a dry heave of a laugh, trying to apologize, but you’re stopped. She turns around, facing forward, ass grinding hard against you, and moans loud enough for you to grip your hands into the couch lest you make another mistake.

She’s fucking soaking in your lap.

Every cell in your stupidly horny body is kicking to buck upwards, but you know that when Sullyoon gets like this, you have to earn it. You have to let her think she’s in control, the way she’s working herself faster, causing wet sounds to overwrite your brain, whimpering just to make sure she can feel your cock throb through your pants.

“Fucking hell, Sullyoon,” you grunt like an idiot. "You’re seriously just gonna sit here and use me? Rub that pretty little cunt raw while I can’t do a damn thing?"

She doesn’t reply. She doesn’t have to. Her body speaks volumes. She grinds harder, her weight shifting to press right where she knows it drives you insane. The friction, the slick heat soaking through two layers of clothes—it’s deliberate. Cruel.

“Sullyoon,” you breathe, and her body rolls, her thighs tremble. “Please. Let me help. Let me at least see. Fucking please.”

Her hands move faster, but her response comes low and steady. "I didn’t say you could stop?"

You blink. "Stop what?"

She looks back at you. "Telling me all the things you wanted to do to me."

And just like that, your pulse kicks.

She turns forward again, leans back into you, and resumes moving. You can hear all of it, feel most of it, and see none of it. It's a three-pronged attack that ties a leash around your neck. She’s grinding into you like she owns you, as if you’re not even there except to serve as her seat.

“Alright, I get it,” you say, head thrown back, eyes closed and trying to see what you’re about to say in your head. “You want me to tell you what I want to do? I wanted to get you home, lock the door, and see how long you could keep up the innocent act once I got you on your knees. I wanted to ruin that perfect little skirt, tear those panties off and use them to gag you so the neighbors wouldn’t hear how loud you get.”

She’s breathing faster, the hand not making her cunt gush digging into your thigh. Her hips are relentless now, the friction obscene, but she wants words. She wants you to talk her over the edge.

“I wanted you to wrap those thighs around my head, lying down on the table here like a fucking centerpiece,” you continue, “and eat you out until your clit is imprinted on my tongue. I wanted to hear the way your moans get higher and higher when I call you a good girl. Because that’s what you are, right, Sullyoon? My good girl. My perfect little fuckdoll, just waiting to be played with.”

A whimper. Audible, this time. Her ass presses back into you and you have to fight the urge to grab her hips, pin her down, fuck her until she’s screaming. But you remember the warning, the way she’d snapped, and you keep your hands right where she left them—gripping the couch, knuckles bloodless.

She lasts another ten, maybe twenty seconds before she loses her own game. Her hand, the one not between her legs, suddenly clamps over your wrist again—tighter this time—and she yanks your palm up, over the soft curve of her waist, up her ribs, until you’re planted just below the swell of her chest.

She hesitates there, breathing ragged, then shoves your hand up and under the fabric of her white top. Her tits fit perfectly, a handful begging to be squeezed slow and deliberate. Her nipples are so hard you’d be an asshole for not paying extra attention to them, circling them, lightly pinching, forcing a cute little gasp out of her throat like clockwork. She’s still acting like she’s ignoring you as a person, but the vulnerability of her needing your touch more than she needs to follow her own rules is too perfect to not use.

“I love it when you’re being needy, baby,” you muse into her ear, lips ghosting the shell. “You like it when I tell you all the fucked up things I want to do to you? When I play with your tits while you finger yourself stupid on my lap?”

She throws her head back in response, moaning, leaning on your shoulder.

"I'd ruin you," you whisper. "I'd make you cum so fucking hard you can’t even think. I want to see you break for me. I want to see you taking me like a good girl. My good girl. You are my good girl, right? You love it when I tell you how perfect you are, how soft your skin feels against my cock and lips and hands, how I want to spend the rest of my life between your thighs.”

Her spine curves with each button you hit.

“I’m going to worship you,” you growl, “Give you everything you could ever want. God, you know how crazy you make me when you wear those socks? I could spend hours just kissing the inside of your thighs, or with my cock nuzzled in between like you want me to cover them in cum.”

She’s hurtling towards an explosion, obvious in the way her thighs shake and her core trembles and her knees rattle together. It’s your responsibility as a good boyfriend to go in for the kill. “Cum for me. Be a good girl. Let me hear how pretty you sound when you’re being a little slut.”

Her back arches, her hips stutter, and you feel the sudden, warm flood as she absolutely drenches your lap. It’s destructive, instantly soaking through both her panties and your jeans, hot squirt warming up your lap. Her feet lift off the floor, her thighs quiver and her free hand covers her mouth, sobbing into her palm, raw and desperate to let it out but not let you enjoy it fully. Just enough to keep you needy as she empties every ounce of pride and anger into one long, reckless and wet orgasm.

Your cock is so hard beneath her you swear it had an unfortunate encounter with Medusa, straining against the fabric of your pants for a round two with Sullyoon. Throbbing to be tagged in. But you don’t really care right now. You’re transfixed—she’s never squirted like this before, never lost it so completely. It’s all you can do not to come yourself, just from the sight.

She slumps, finally, limp and curving into you. For a long moment, neither of you moves.

It’s several long minutes before Sullyoon shifts. She slides off your lap and stands, legs wobbling in a way that makes your chest seize up with pride. She doesn’t meet your eyes—she’s too busy inspecting the glossy streaks running down her thighs, the black socks so dark with wet you could wring them out.

You expect her to leave you there, get a change of clothes or even just a towel. She doesn’t. She just hitches her skirt higher to flash you how soaked her panties are as well, peels them off so slowly you get to admire her freshly shaven pussy swollen from the friction. Lets her skirt obscure the end goal again, and drops the soaked panties in your equally soaked lap.

“Laundry’s your job now,” she says, accompanied with the first smile of hers since arriving back home.

You clutch the ruined panties in one fist, unable to hide your grin. “Does that conclude the punishment part for tonight?”

She cocks her head, and her smile only extends on one side of her face. Her hand finds her hip as it tilts into it, the same way she finds control again, making you want to see that smile turn into a plea as she takes the brunt of your cock. You can only imagine for now.

“Depends,” she says. “Are you going to apologize for flirting with that girl at the party?”

You let the silence hang. Then: “Not if this is how you deal with it. I might need to find another party to head out to tonight.”

She narrows her eyes, hits you with another hmph, fights another smile. “You’re an asshole. You want to be touch deprived for a week?”

You lean forward, cocky without any reason to be, soaking in the sight of her. She’s glowing, cheeks bright red, skirt and everything below drenched. “I’d hate for that to happen. If I apologize, will you at least spare my dick that fate?”

One of her eyebrows raises up, and she clearly likes the way you beg. She hides her smile behind her hand, but you can tell, you always could. She’s considering it, or something else entirely, or maybe even everything she could do to you right now. She flicks her chin up at you, reaches down and balls up her own underwear in her fist, squeezing some of the juice out of it.

She dangles them between one finger and her thumb. They drip, wet and cooling down rapidly, staining your pants even further. She smirks, then speaks. “Open your mouth.”

You hesitate, your reaction not instant, and her eyes widen incredulously. Take too long, and she’s already one foot out of the door, leaving you with nothing but the smell and waning feel of her on your lap. The only right choice here is to open your mouth, and open it wide. She stuffs the ruined panties between your lips, two fingers pressing the fabric against your tongue, coating each taste bud with her essence.

“Say you’re sorry,” she says.

You try, but it’s just a muffled mess. She doesn’t seem to mind. She pushes her knee between your legs, wedges it right up against your cock, and leans in to whisper: “Again.”

You moan into the cotton, desperate and humiliated, and the sound must please her, because she grins a real, unguarded smile. She lets you suffer there, hands on your thighs, helpless except for the twitch in your jeans and the humiliation burning your face.

Finally, she reaches down. Her fingers are shaky, but her voice is cool. “You want me to forgive you that much?” She plays with the buckle on your belt, slow, then removes it entirely, meeting the ground, your zipper down in an instant. Your cock springs to attention, already leaking, begging to the best of its capabilities. She doesn’t touch you yet, just surveys, as if proud to confirm that her plan worked. Still the boss. She crouches, knees apart, face level with your lap. “I ought to just leave you like this,” she says, and runs one finger up the length of you, feather-light. “But you’d whine. You’d make noise. I’d feel bad with how cute you’re being.”

You try to respond, but the underwear gags you. She presses a finger to your lips, then wipes her hands on your cheek, leaving a trace of herself there.

“I have to test you,” she says. “Make sure you know how to be a good boyfriend.”

Her hand wraps around you, dry at first, then slick with her own spit she lets dribble down onto you as she strokes deliberately, just enough friction to burn. You shudder, jaw flexing around the sodden cotton still crammed between your teeth. The humiliation is bright and scalding and perfect.

“Is this the kind of touch you wanted? Does it feel good enough?” she asks, but her grip tightens as she opens your mind to a new kind of reward. “Or would you rather I used my mouth?”

You nod frantically, the begging words only coming out as whimpers, strangled in advance. She laughs the exact kind of laugh that ties together the preppy outfit, stopping her hands movement, just supporting your cock at the base to stand at attention.

“First question,” she says, mischief and joy being underlined by the way she licks her lips. "Telling sluts at the bar that you’re not interested. Is that princess treatment, or the bare minimum?"

Fuck. You can’t afford mistakes, nor can you slow down. You manage a muffled, "Mnnmhm," bobbing your head, but the panties in your mouth garble it.

She smiles, soft and condescending.”What’s that? I can’t accept mumbling as an answer,” she teases, so proud of herself. You begin pushing out the panties with your tongue, and she helps, peeling it from your lips, dragging it out and letting them drop to the floor. “Princess treatment or the bare minimum? Answer in words.”

“The bare minimum,” you rasp out, not as confident as you want it to be.

“Good,” she says, a little proud even. You can’t even take the time to bask in the relief of getting it right, as she takes you into her mouth, heat and suction and heaven halfway down your cock. She holds you there for a moment, you can feel her tongue curl, and she pulls off with a wet pop, not letting your cock fall from the support of her hand.

Her other hand wipes her mouth clean from any stray spit, and her eyes are glued to yours, full of bravado. “Next question,” she muses like a sultry succubus. "Letting me cum first every. Single. Time. Princess treatment, or the bare minimum?"

You hesitate, drunk on the aftershock of her mouth. "Princess treatment?" you ask rather than say, but you already know it’s the wrong answer—the smile that splits her lips is all sharp teeth.

She takes you in her hand again, but this time, as she lowers her mouth, she lets her teeth graze just beneath the head. Not enough to break skin, but enough to make you buck against the couch, hiss through your teeth, a line of fire shooting up your spine.

Her lips curl like she knows it. Knows she’s got you on edge, not just from her mouth or the punishment, but from how goddamn in control she is. Sullyoon licks her lips slowly, as if to savor the last taste of your reaction, and leans back on her heels between your knees. “Wrong answer.”

She strokes you again, base to tip, slow and firm, and then lets her fingers rest around the shaft like it’s hers. Like it doesn’t belong to you anymore. Her other hand comes to rest on your thigh, thumb brushing aimlessly.

“Next question,” she says, gaze unwavering. “Texting me updates occasionally when you go out with your friends. Princess treatment, or the bare minimum?”

Your throat works around a swallow. “Bare minimum.”

She nods once, approving.

Then she sinks halfway down your cock, lips sealing tight, and hums. The vibration has your head lolling back, eyes shut, fists gripping the couch cushions. She bobs once—twice—then lets you go again, teasing a trail of spit down your length with her tongue.

“Doesn’t it feel better when you answer correctly?”

She waits a moment, allows you a breath to cool down, then plants her lips against your cockhead while she speaks just to drive you insane.

“Carrying me on your back when I’m not even tired. Princess treatment, or bare minimum?”

This feels like a trap. “Princess treatment,” you answer, taking a risk. But Sullyoon isn't performative like that. She knows well enough the difference between getting what she deserves and just getting spoiled.

This time, the reward is merciless: she deepthroats you all at once. 

You gasp, hips bucking up before she slams a palm flat against your stomach to pin you down. Her throat clenches around you. She holds it. Swallows once. Pulls back slow, tongue flicking at the slit, and lets a strand of spit connect her lips to your tip. Dizzy doesn’t begin to describe what you’re feeling.

“Next,” she says.

“Letting me win in Mario Kart.”

You blink through the fog in your head. Your voice cracks. “Bare minimum?”

Her eyes narrow.

Her hand tightens around the base of your cock and she leans in again, lips parted. But this time it’s not warmth that greets you. It’s a soft, deliberate nip. Not cruel, again, but sharp enough to make you jolt.

“Princess treatment, actually,” she purrs. “You think I want you to let me win? That I'm going to have fun when you're pitying me?”

You stammer something between a moan and an apology. Her smile says she’ll allow it—barely.

“Hmmmm." Her hand strokes you again, painfully slow. “Sending me videos of you jerking off with the sound on when I text you I'm horny.”

You lock eyes with her. “Bare minimum.”

Her grin turns hungry. “Correct.”

She takes a breath, slow and practiced, and then swallows you whole. This time, her lips seal right at the root, nose buried to your skin, her tongue flattening under the shaft as her throat flexes and milks you. She holds it there, the pressure silken and relentless, while her fingers work the base in tandem, twisting with the spit she’s already left there, and then she looks up at you, eyes watering and utterly triumphant.

She pauses after that one.

Lingers.

Lets her fingers glide across your shaft without rhythm, as if she’s drawing patterns only she can see. Her other hand settles on your thigh again, her thumb stroking absentmindedly like she’s thinking hard. You can see it on her face—she’s trying to cook up a good one. Something nasty. Something clever.

Her lips part. Close again. Her lashes flutter, looks up at you like you need to say something, then sighs before you can, and looks back down. She’s running out of steam. For a second, her control wavers, and you see the slipstream of shyness sneak up on her. The blush on her cheeks is different now—less from anger, more from the embarrassment of not having a script. She stalls with a little “hmm,” drawing lazy circles on your thigh, and you realize the rhythm of the game is hers but the momentum is slipping, just a bit. 

You take it, gently. “Ran out of ideas?”

She shrugs like her stopping would hurt you more than it would hurt her, and she’s right about that. “You feel like this is a good time to be snarky?”

“I feel like I’m dying,” you say. “Your mouth is incredible. I’ll never do anything to upset you again.”

She snorts, almost laughs, and the sound is so raw and girlish it cleaves through her practiced composure. “That’s the point, idiot.” Then her tone drops: “Fine. Your turn.”

You blink. “My turn?”

She nods, gaze flitting up through her lashes. “Yeah, your turn. Ask me a question. Make it count.”

The only thing you can think of is the heat of her mouth, the way her throat squeezed you, the slick mess she left on your cock and the way your jeans are still wet with her. You swallow, shift on the couch, and manage: “Letting me fuck your perfect little face right now, is that prince treatment or just the bare minimum?”

She nearly chokes on a giggle from the brazen shock, hiding this one behind her hand again. She tilts her head, hair spilling over her shoulder, doesn’t care about the premise of her own game, and fucks your brain with a simple: “Go ahead?” And she’s already shifting forward onto her knees, navy skirt bunched around her waist, socks ruined and gleaming, mouth open and waiting.

You tangle fingers in her hair, clasping the bow at the back of her head, gentle at first, guiding her mouth to your cock. This time, she doesn’t tease. Your cock disappears in between her lips, shimmers of tears in her eyes as they gaze at you, practically begging you to ignore the precious crystals and to keep doing what you’re doing.

She takes it like a fucking champ.

You let her set the pace, which is slow at first, holding her hair out of her face and forcing her down bit by bit, every so slightly until your hips can’t help but rock up. She lets you. She wants it. The more you praise, the deeper she goes, until you lose the thread of the game completely and just worship her. You tell her how pretty she looks on her knees in those socks, how perfect her lips feel wrapped around you, how every time she gags on your cock it makes you want to push deeper so you can hear her voice more. You tell her you’d die for her, right here, if she asked. That you’d drown in her if you could.

She’s melting for it. Every word softens her, makes her easier to guide, until you’re pushing into her throat and she’s letting you, hands braced on your thighs, eyes streaming but never breaking contact. You mutter a string of curses, a lazy litany of praise—good girl, fuck, good girl again (she loves that one), look at you, you’re perfect, I’m obsessed with you, you’re so fucking gorgeous like this—and she preens under every word, melting, her body relaxing, her mouth opening wider, her gag reflex all but erased in the face of your attention.

She wraps her hands around your thighs to steady herself, nails digging in, and you feel her hum around you, taking pleasure in the way you use her. She looks up, eyes glassy, and you know it’s not just tears. It’s pride, it’s power, it’s her letting you see her like this and knowing you’ll never want anything else.

You warn her, because you know she likes the threat of it, the anticipation.

But she pulls off at the last second, hands stroking you instead, and shakes her head, smug through watery eyes. “Not inside my mouth,” she says, ruined and coy and with an extra surprise tucked beneath her tongue. “You don’t get to finish there. Not after that stunt.”

You whimper, actually whimper, and she grins, triumphant and evil and so impossibly beautiful. “You can cum on my legs, though. Or my socks. You like these, don’t you?”

You nod, you grunt, give any signal that means yes, and she presses your cockhead against her thighs, just above the band of her thigh-highs, the black fabric shining with her own slick; the second best canvas she could offer you. She jerks you off with both hands, fast and slippery, single-syllable laughs escaping her every time your eyes flicker between her well-fucked face and the absolute territory of her thighs.

And then, with a single phrase—“Do it”—she dares you to let go. You explode, hot and white streaks shooting across her thighs, splattering the socks, painting her skin in long, messy lines. She milks you for every drop, watching your face the entire time, and when you’re spent she drags your cock through the mess, painting herself with you, then rubs it into her skin with her fingers, working it in, almost absentminded.

She sits back on her heels to admire her work. Your cum streaks her thighs, drips down onto the couch, soaks into the fabric of her socks. She looks delighted, almost bashful, like she can’t believe what she’s done. She drags two fingers through the mess on her thigh, then lifts them to her lips, sucking them clean with a giddiness that nearly ends you all over again.

You’re a mess. She’s a masterpiece.

You collapse back, boneless, and watch as she stands, skirt still bunched at her waist, her thighs and socks sticky and shining. She leaves you there. Disappears into the bathroom.

It doesn’t take long for her to return with a warm and damp washcloth in tow, way before you’ve gained the energy to move from your spot on the couch. She kneels between your legs again, and with total, terrible focus, begins to clean you up. She does it slow, careful, doting, as if you are the one who needs looking after. She wipes you down, then pats herself dry, tossing the ruined socks into your lap with a wink.

“Do you wanna get married?” you manage, half-joking and half-hoping to get to experience this every day and she just beams.

“You’re an idiot. Propose better,” she says, leaning in to kiss you, slow and heavy and tasting of the slightest hint of a yes. “Now go get the laundry started.”

You’d do anything she asks. So you stand up, she sits down on the couch, a lot more satisfied, and a lot less mopey. She pulls her legs close to her, begins peeling off her socks one by one, throws them at your chest and crosses her legs.

“And make sure you get my socks spotless. I want to ruin you again tomorrow.”

[cosmicmunsonwrites]

teachers pet

brothers best friend!rafe x thornton!fem!virgin!reader

cw — minors dni, kissing, grinding, reader is very innocent, stereotypical girly room and stuff

summary — after getting asked on a date, you come to your brothers best friend to ask for advice on a certain subject.

authors note — i’ve been itching to write this trope so i hope you guys enjoy. please request!!

part two

do not copy or post my work anywhere else.

you laid on your stomach in your room, kicking your feet behind you as your phone went off once more. a smile graced your lips immediately at the thought of the guy, who you’d just started talking to, texting you back after he’d been out all day.

enzo:

see you tomorrow night?

a blush coated your cheeks and you bit your lips to contain your excitement.

you:

what did you have in mind?

there was a pause. then three dots appeared.

enzo:

come to my place and find out

an excited squeal left your lips. you had really began to like him after the last three dates and you were suspecting he’d finally make a move this time. as badly as you wanted it, there was one issue. you had no clue what you were doing.

first kiss? never. any sort of touching? definitely not. sex? god no. you hadn’t even come close enough to a guy. topper always kept close tabs on your romantic life, meaning you never made it past the first date.

this time, it was hidden better. he wasn’t aware that you were seeing anyone yet which meant you may finally get the chance to do something more with enzo. and you wanted to so badly.

except you needed to know how. you needed someone you trusted, someone who would take care of you and teach you everything. your mind immediately wandered to the guest currently sitting in your living room.

it was probably the best idea you could muster up. so you put on a pair of baggy sweatpants that sat low on your hips and adjusted your cropped tank top to cover yourself a little better.

your feet carried you down the stairs before you could change your mind and found rafe, your brothers best friend, sat on the couch. you’d never really considered him as an option for you until now.

he looked a little too good. his legs were spread a little wider than normal, buzzcut freshened up, the fabric of his pants stretching over his muscular thighs, and his attention fixed on his phone. when he heard the last step on the stairs creak, he glanced up. “hey.”

“hi,” you smiled sweetly, the kind you’d flash him and your brother when you wanted something. “where’s topper?”

rafe shut off his phone and slid it into his pocket. “he went out to go get kelce and pick up some food from town.” his hips shifted slightly, sliding further into the couch to get comfortable.

his lap looked like a fantastic seat. “why didn’t you go with?” you asked curiously, allowing yourself to go take a spot on the couch beside him.

his eyes followed you the entire time, crossing his arms over his chest. “didn’t feel like it. it’s too hot out there.”

“how long will he be gone?” you twirled a piece of your hair around your finger as you waited for his response.

he shrugged. “maybe an hour?” he said unsure. “why? what’s up?”

there was a beat of silence. “can you help me with something?” you asked, giving him those eyes you know he can’t resist.

the boy didn’t think anything of it. he’d always helped you with things like lifting stuff, grabbing something off the top shelf, driving you around, anything you needed. this wasn’t unusual. “what is it?”

“so, i have a date with someone tomorrow,” you began. his jaw clenched at that. “and we’ve been on a couple already. that makes me think he might make a move.”

his eyes narrowed slightly. something in his shifted and a soft crease formed between his brows. “does top know about this?”

you shook your head quickly. “please don’t tell him,” you begged. “he’ll kill me.”

“so what do you need from me then?” he asked, almost bitterly. unbeknownst to you, he hated the thought of you with another man.

you subconsciously chewed your bottom lip. “i’ve never really done anything with anyone,” you admitted shyly. “you know how topper is, he never lets me hang out with boys so i’ve never had the chance. i really like him and i want to be good for him.”

i want to be good for him. rafe scoffed at that. as if you weren’t the most beautiful girl in the world already. what more could he want from you? “who’s the dude?”

a sheepish smile splayed over your lips. “his name is enzo.”

“mcgovern?” he almost choked on his saliva. “c’mon sweetheart, you can do better than that.”

you smacked his arm at that. “don’t be mean, rafe. i like him. he’s sweet and he makes me feel special,” you scolded, though there was no real bite in your words. “can you help me or not?”

a frustrated sigh left his lips. “help you with what?”

“i want you to teach me how to kiss,” you said. his eyes almost bulged out of his head. “i’ve never had my first kiss and i figured it’s best to have it with someone i trust and learn from them.”

the gears were visibly turning in his head. “topper would kill me if he ever found out you even thought about something like this.”

you carelessly shrugged. “then we won’t tell him,” you reasoned. still, he looked unsure. “pleaseee, rafe? i really don’t want to embarrass myself tomorrow.”

he close his eyes and leaned his head back against the couch in thought. you were his best friends little sister and he’d basically watched you grow up. and somehow, you were still the girl he was hopelessly in love with. hearing you talk about another man so excitedly hurt his heart in ways he’d never admit. hearing the stories about how much fun you have at university, going to frat parties every weekend where handfuls of guys are undoubtedly staring at you as if they have the right. it made him pissed off just thinking about it.

but if the closest he’d ever get to having you was teaching you how to kiss for your date, he was willing to take it. “fine,” he mumbled. “but we do not say a word of this to topper or sarah or anyone else.”

a devious grin plastered on your face. “deal.” you grabbed his large hand in your smaller one and excitedly pulled him up into your room where everything was pink or white. he looked so out of place in here.

he took a seat on your bed and made himself comfortable then waited for you to do the same. you nervously tucked your hair behind your ears. “so what now?”

a soft chuckle left his lips. “first things first, relax,” he said, noticing how her leg was bouncing up and down. his hand came up to rest just above her knee, running his thumb over it soothingly. “just be loose, yeah? it’s weird to kiss someone who’s all tense and shit. and don’t overthink it. it’s a lot more natural to do than explain.”

he glanced down at the gap between you two and gestured for you to come closer. “c’mere,” he muttered, his voice low and silky. it made your stomach turn. “it’s not about being perfect or devouring the other person, the best is when its slow and it means something. so just start slow and let it build, okay? let me do the rest.”

“what do i do with my hands?” you asked, your heart now beating out of your chest at how close the two of you were. you couldn’t deny that rafe was hot. and something about him being so delicate with you, so patient, it made you feel things you didn’t want to admit.

he gently took yours in his own and placed them around his neck. “just touch me,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. “doesn’t matter where. my neck, jaw, chest, hair, wherever you want sweetheart.”

you nodded and bit your bottom lip. you kept your arms loosely around his neck and locked eyes with him once more.

“don’t worry about doing it right, just come closer,” he replied softly, placing his hands on your bare waist a pulling you just a tad closer to him until your faces were inches apart. you couldn’t help but glance down at his lips instead. “look at me. take it slow. you don’t have to rush anything—just feel it. i’ll meet you halfway… all you have to do is kiss me back.”

nodding once more, you leaned in just slightly. his breath mingled with yours and you could feel his warmth getting closer and closer. then, his lips were on yours.

they were soft and pillowy and he tasted like strawberries. it was making your mind go haywire. you let your eyes flutter shut instantly and followed his lead as he pressed a long, sweet kiss to your mouth. he placed gentle pecks to follow.

it felt natural with him, like you weren’t being taught exactly what to do. he’d always had a way of making you feel comfortable.

your hands began to roam across his shoulders and buzzed hair, tilting your head a little more and matching the gentle pressure of his kisses. one of his came up to cradle your jaw, pulling away for just a second and tucking the loose strand of hair behind your ear again. “doin’ okay?”

“mhm,” you hummed. “am i doing good?” you asked shyly.

he thought that was a stupid question. of course you were. you could do anything and he’d give you a 10 out of 10. and for bonus points, he thought you looked breathtaking right now. your lips a little puffy and pink just like your cheeks. “real good, angel. wanna try more?”

you nodded eagerly like you were willing to take everything he could give. you in fact were. he used the hand on your jaw you slowly pull you back to him, his lips pressing against yours and his tongue prodding at the seam of your lips.

instinctively, you let him in and gasped softly into his mouth as the wet muscle brushed against yours like he was testing the waters.

when he was sure you weren’t freaking out, he let his tongue swipe across yours with a little more pressure until the two of you were dancing around each other. his hand that wasn’t on your jaw had moved up to your hair, softly tugging at the roots and pulling a quiet whimper from you.

the sound alone made his pants tighten a little bit. he stopped kissing you for a second. just to look at you. just to feel how close the two of you truly were. “you sure this is your first time?” he asked, slightly out of breath.

you laughed quietly and nodded. “i swear.”

and then he kissed you again—much deeper this time. slower. like he literally couldn’t get enough of your taste.

a boost of confidence surged through you when one of your hands slid down from his chest to his abs, earning a soft groan. your back was hurting from leaning forward so far so you climbed into his lap.

your thighs straddled his one either side and your hands rested on his shoulders. you broke the kiss for a second. “is this okay?”

a slight smile caught on his lips as he stared up at you like you were the most precious thing in this world. “yeah, ‘s perfect.” his big hands trailed down to your waist and pulled your front flush against his own.

if you would’ve told yourself a few days ago that you’d be making out with rafe cameron, your brothers best friend and your best friends brother, you’d laugh in your own face. but here you were, loving every second of it.

you let yourself sink fully into his lap, feeling a certain hardness below you. the pressure of you made rafe groan once more, a little louder this time. you swallowed down the sound and leaned a little further into him. the feeling of his mouth on yours was intoxicating.

your hips began to subconsciously roll into his. you’d read something about things like this before, how it’d make the guy go crazy.

and they were right. his hands found the globes of your ass like they belonged there and followed your rhythm, lightly aiding your movements. you couldn’t help the moan that left your lips. you’ve never felt something like this and it was making you lose your mind.

he pulled away for a second to catch his breath. “you’re so fuckin’ perfect. no man deserves this,” he muttered quietly.

you smiled a big toothy grin and kissed him again. you could stay like this forever. you thought it might actually be heaven.

that was until the front door was opened. “shit,” he cursed.

you shuffled off of him quickly and adjusted your clothes, walking over to your mirror to fix your hair and ensure you didn’t look like you’d just been making out with someone. “go hide in the bathroom,” you urged.

thank god for that. he needed to relieve himself or the boys definitely would’ve noticed the strain in his pants.

you casually peeked down the stairs at your brother and kelce. “i thought you weren’t supposed to be back for a while.”

“the restaurant was close. we’re jus’ gonna order something instead,” topper explained. “where have you been?” he asked curiously, shutting the door behind the other boy and toeing off his shoes.

“i just got back from pilates,” you lied, the perfect excuse for your flushed cheeks.

he nodded, fully believing you. “do you know where rafe went? he said he was gonna hang back.”

you shrugged as if you both didn’t just have your tongues down each others throats. “i just walked in before you. probably in the yard or the bathroom.”

he didn’t ask any more questions. therefore, you went back into your room. you couldn’t shake the grin off your lips from what had just went down in here.

[juicykvnture]

DANCE, DANCE

Dick Grayson x fem!reader

tags: AFAB reader, dubcon, intox/aphrodisiacs, size kink (if u squint) college AU, he’s a little feral, alcohol use

a/n: so uh! yup!

wc: 3.2k | masterlist

“You done drooling over her, man?” Wally’s words snap Dick out of his momentary daze, making him lean back against the speaker with a grumble. His brows are furrowed, messy black hair falling into his eyes. He’s trying to look unfazed, but he’s failing miserably.

Okay, maybe he has been eyeing you for ages, but it’s not Wally’s place to get involved, like at all.

“Go. Talk. To. Her.”

“She’s busy, look!” Dick scoffs, drumming his fingers against his cup as he glances over at you, tapping away at your phone in the corner.

He doesn’t have a problem talking to girls, really! Just you.

“She’s probably texting someone cause she wants to go home. This party sucks ass.” Wally rolls his eyes, taking a sip from his own plastic cup.

“You’re a horrible wingman.” Dick’s words are muffled by the rim of the plastic cup, chewing on it slightly as he tries to be subtle with how he’s staring at you, squinting under his dark lashes.

“Ask her out or I will.” Wally gives him a blank stare, unceremoniously tossing a bottle his way.

That makes him stiffen. No. Wally isn’t allowed to ask you out. Who the hell does he think he is?

Dick catches the bottle with an arched brow, glancing down at the unlabelled booze and then back at Wally.

“Dude, what the fuck is in-”

“Go.”

He’s never letting Wally drag him to a dorm party ever again. The music is awful, the beer tastes like piss and the company is uh.. questionable to say the least.

Dick shuffles through the crowd a little awkwardly, fixing his hair up with one hand as the other grips the bottle a little too tightly.

Thank god he’s got recession pop music to get him through this shit, right?

“This party ain’t your style, I take it?” Dick arches a brow as he takes a step towards where you’re sat on the floor with your phone, his voice snapping you out of your thoughts.

“Huh? No, I’ve been to worse.” You shrug, shifting a little bit on the couch, hesitantly offering him a seat beside you, “I’m just waiting for Kori, she’s running late.”

It’s been a little awkward between the two of you, to say the least, it’s not like you’re avoiding each other per se but it’s been better. Who knew kissing one of your closest friends in the spur of the moment would make it a little weird?

Sensing your hesitation, Dick runs a hand through his hair, letting himself settle down on the couch beside you. He’s making sure to keep a good few inches between the two of you, as badly as he wants to throw his arm around your shoulder he thinks you’d be weirded out, all things considered.

But Wally said he’s just gotta talk to you, right?

“Uhm,” he clears his throat, glancing around the room at the other shitfaced partygoers and then at the bottle in his hand, awkwardly holding it up.

“I have a peace offering?”

That makes you arch your brows, leaning closer to him to hear what he’s saying over the loud thrum of the music.

“What’s in that?” You mumble, incredulous as you stare up at him and then down at the bottle in his grip.

“Uh,” he doesn’t know what to tell you, he doesn’t know. His brain is too preoccupied with the fact that you’re leaning so close to him that he could probably count your eyelashes if he wanted to. He kinda does want to, actually.

He’s lagging for a moment, thinking of what to say to you.

Firstly? It’s probably Wally’s stupid attempt at playing Cupid by getting the two of you grossly inebriated - but he can’t just fucking say that.

Secondly? Dick genuinely has no idea what’s in there. It could be anything from tequila to nail polish remover and he’s none the wiser.

“Wally gave it to me?” He offers sheepishly, glancing across the crowd to where his best friend and total failure of a wingman stands, two thumbs up with a genuinely idiotic grin across his face.

“..right,” you murmur, following his gaze to Wally causing Dick to sputter.

“I’m sorry, he’s being weird. Ignore him.” He blurts out, gripping the bottle tightly in his slightly shaky hand before he feels your fingers brush against his, gently prying it out of his hand.

“It’s fine. Worst case scenario we throw up.” You shrug, cracking the lid open.

Tilting the bottle back, the immediate sweet taste of it makes you grimace, clearing your throat.

You seem far more optimistic than he does. Your worst case scenario is vomming into someone’s sink - his being the fact that he could blurt all of his feelings out in one go and make you ghost him for the rest of his existence.

But.. you live once, right? And maybe if he says something embarrassing neither of you will remember it?

Bracing himself, he takes a sip - letting out a cough the second it hits his tongue.

What the hell did Wally put in this?

If you could go back in time a half hour and tell yourself not to drink whatever the fuck that was, you would. You truly would.

You’ve never claimed to be a heavyweight when it comes to alcohol. But you’re not drunk, you know what drunk feels like - this isn’t it. This is worse, like a sickly heat crawling through your skin.

It’s not just you, Dick can’t keep himself together either.

You’re hunched over in the elevator now, his face pressed into your shoulder as he tries his eyes on the elevator buttons, his head swimming.

“Which floor are we?” He’s hot, far too hot like he needs to crawl out of his own skin completely to cool off, his hair sticking to his forehead.

“Uh,” you blink, staring at the buttons, it looks like the numbers keep switching places, moving around up and down and to the side.

Bracing yourself against the metal door with one hand, you reach a shaky hand out, taking a guess when it comes to which floor your dorm is on, you guess the 5th and you can only hope you’re right.

“Fuck,” he hisses as the elevator lurches upwards, causing the two of you to nearly stumble to the floor, his hips bumping against your ass with a shaky groan.

His arms immediately lock around your mid-section, panting into your shoulder as he uses all that’s left of his brain power to keep the two of you upright. You were barely able to drag yourself across the room in your heels, hence you ditched them, opting to stand on the tops of his shoes so your feet don’t touch the floor.

Fuck, it’s hot in here.

“Are you feeling… weird?” He rasps, trying hard to sound stern, but the slur in his words ruins it. He swallows deeply and clears his throat, feeling a drop of sweat slide down from his hairline to the base of his neck. Everything was starting to feel too hot.

“Uh-huh,”

No way someone could’ve spiked either of you, you’ve been talking together for most of the night. Besides, who the hell would want to go after you both?

You’re not sure why you feel like this, sure - you’ve always been a bit of a flirty drunk but you’re sure the two of you had no more than two or three sips each.

“Jesus,” you rasp when it jolts to a halt, gripping onto his sleeve as you stumble out of the elevator. You stare down the hallway in despair, each dorm room looking identical.

“..where we goin again?”

“Uhhhh.. your dorm?” Dick was very, very aware of how his body was pressed up against you, and it was making trying to get to your room even more difficult. His grip on your shoulder was like a vice, holding onto you with much more force than he probably should.

“..5F,” You blink, using up all that’s left of your brain power to try to remember your dorm number.

F? End of the hall, fuck.

Dick almost laughs, but the amusement is quickly replaced with a gasp when he can feel the fabric of your dress slide under his hands a little too well.

His chest pressed firmly into your back, and he kept stumbling with every step you took, accidentally rutting into you.

“Hurry.” He pants. His face practically burning.

“Quit fuckin’ rushin’ meee..” You slur under your breath, not even aware why until you two are halfway down the hall that he keeps bumping against your ass.

It’s not your fault you didn’t notice, it’s probably better for your sanity if you never did but fuck neither of you can take it anymore, like you’re teetering on the edge of a heart attack, breaths heavy and faces flushed.

You’re not rushing fast enough.

His steps falter for a moment when his crotch pressed right against your ass, and he choked on a groan. It was involuntary, but it makes you stop still in the middle of the hallway.

“Sorry,” he murmurs under his breath, trying to get his legs to cooperate so he could keep walking toward your door. The blood in his body has been rushing south for a while, and it’s getting difficult to keep himself upright as it is.

When you two stumble inside, he’s not sure what’s worse - the fact that he hasn’t even asked you out properly or the fact that you don’t even make it to the bed, the two of you ending up a shaky mess on your floor.

“M’sorry,” he’s panting, almost desperate like he doesn’t know what’s possessed him, his hips rutting against yours as he tries to keep himself together, desperately searching for a coherent thought to cling onto.

“No,” you shake your head, trying to stop your back arching up off the floor as you press yourself against him, sweat dripping down your collarbone “Nuh-uh, no I’m sorry, fuck-”

You’re cut off by his face falling into your neck, fingers gripping the bottom of your dress like he’s trying to pull it up and out of his way but isn’t exactly sure how.

“Sorry,” he pants again, dark strands of his hair clinging to his forehead as he tries his best to keep himself together - acting like he’s not humping your thigh at this point with his mouth hovering over yours

“Uhh—fuckk,” His hands move to your ass, lifting you a little to get a better angle for him to grind up against your inner thigh.

“Y-you drunk?” You slur under your breath, clumsily leaning back on the floor to bunch the bottom of your dress up at your hips.

“No,” Dick mumbles, unable to hold back a little whine at the fact he can feel his cock leaking through underwear, desperately fumbling with his jeans “you?”

“No, n-not drunk,” you force out a reply, forehead bumping against his in a daze as your hand finds the back of his neck.

You’re not drunk.

You’ve been to enough college parties to know this isn’t the alcohol talking.

You can’t be drunk. You and Dick only had a couple sips. You didn’t even pre-game tonight.

“Please,” Dick murmured into your neck, needy and practically begging as his fingers tug your underwear every which way. “Need to be closer.”

“You’re on t-top of me,” you argue, brain too offline to actually understand how he could possibly get closer to you.

“No,” His hips moved again, grinding the aching bulge of his cock against your thighs, just to get some sweet, sweet friction. He needs you, needs you so bad, needs this.

“W-want you,” Dick pants. Want doesn’t even cover it.

“God, I need—“ he can’t even finish that sentence, too lost to even think.

“I need to f-fuck you, m’sorry.”

He genuinely is sorry. The rational part deep down in him is guilty. He should be asking you out, planning a date, anything else.

You should be waiting downstairs. Deep down you know Kori is probably waiting for you, fuck only knows where your phone even is.

You can’t be rational right now, no matter how hard you try. The heat between your legs is just too much to ignore.

“S’not your fault.” You swallow, trying to focus enough to kiss him which just ends in an awkward clash of your teeth against his.

Neither of you care, unable to focus on anything other than how badly you just need to fuck as his shaky hands finally manage to pull his boxers down his thighs.

You can’t hide how the sight of him makes your cunt throb, precum already dripping from his tip as his flushed cock slaps up against his abs.

Part of you is still thankful for the fact that he’s stronger than you, even in this state.

You know damn well you wouldn’t be able to coordinate yourself enough to hold your body up if Dick wasn’t there to hold your thighs in place - incoherent and slurred little whines falling from your mouth as you arch your back.

He’s got one hand gripping your thigh, the other behind your head so you don’t crack your skull open on the hardwood floor.

See, it would be sweet in any other scenario, if Dick was panting and babbling and telling you how pretty you are for him, how good you’re taking him.

That’s just not the case right now. He’s fucking you like he genuinely can’t stop himself - his thrusts are sloppy and out of rhythm but so fucking mean to the point your body wants to give out, your half-lidded eyes glassy as you stare up at the ceiling.

“L-look at me,” Dick pants, giving the back of your neck a desperate little squeeze so you meet his gaze, “f-fuck, please look at me,” he groans, each one of his words punctuated by a sloppy thrust into your aching pussy.

“Sorry.” It’s like he’s pleading again when you finally manage to meet his eyes, bottom lip trembling like he’s trying not to whine like a bitch at how good you feel around his cock.

He’s sorry he can’t help himself. He’s sorry he wasn’t able to keep his hands to himself. He’s sorry that it all happened the way it did.

“God,” you manage a rasp, fingers clutching the fabric of your dress to keep it held up “s-stop apologising to me and just fuck me,”

“Huh?” His lips are parted, staring down at you as his brain works to grasp onto what you’re saying - like his head is full of cotton wool.

“F-fuck me harder,” You repeat, trying to coordinate your body enough to lift your hips up to match his thrusts.

“Harder, huh?” Dick pants, like your words have managed to snap him out of his daze for just a split second, a sharp slam of his hips making you cry out as you clench around his cock.

“You want it h-harder?” His chest is heaving, his face is flushed, he doesn’t care - both hands finding your thighs to lift your ass off of the floor to throw both of your legs over his shoulders.

“H-holy fuck,” Dick hisses under his breath, gripping your thighs so hard his knuckles are turning white as he fucks his cock deeper into you, unable to find it in himself to look away from your face.

He was gonna compliment you on your sparkly eyeshadow and everything earlier, but it just looks so much better melting down your cheeks, same goes for the pretty lipstick now smeared across your face.

“Dick-“ you try to pull back, even if it’s a little bit to catch your breath. He’s not having it, one hand grabbing your chin as he presses his thumb down against your tongue, hips stuttering as he slams into you again.

“What?” He breathes, you can’t tell if he’s mocking your desperation or if he’s that out of it himself, your drool around his thumb making his cock twitch inside you.

“Y’wanted it h-harder,” It’s hard to recognise him at this point, just hours ago he was standing around trying to figure out how to even talk to you, making up any excuse to stall.

He’s all over the place now, fucking you on the floor of your dorm like a slut and the worst part is neither of you can tell who’s worse.

And he just can’t help running his stupid, stupid mouth.

“Always thought you were s-so fucking hot,” he whines, pulling his thumb from your mouth with a small string of spit - mouth now hovering over yours.

“Even j-jerked off to your f-fucking instagram,”

Normally, he’d rather curl up and die in a hole than ever admit that. But he just can’t stop.

“Huh?” You pant, barely able to suppress a whimper at the thought of it as your pussy clenches around him.

“M’serious,” he’s digging himself a deeper grave with every word he says, brain almost melting out his ears with every thrust into your sloppy cunt.

“S-shit you’re clenchin’ round me so good,” he mumbles against your mouth, lips meeting yours in more of a mess of spit and teeth than anything else.

“Bet you like it,” Dick breathes out, tongue brushing against yours as he pulls back for a moment, only to slam his cock into you even harder.

“B-bet me bein’ a f-fucking loser for you makes you wet huh?”

“Dick-“ See, you would argue.

If he wasn’t balls deep inside you, that is.

“I’m right aren’t I? S-shit, you won’t deny it.” He’s just babbling to himself at this point, staring at your fucked out face as you whine and writhe beneath him.

“B-bet you probably laugh at me, y’probably think I’m pathetic but you’re still letting me slut you out on the fucking floor, huh?”

Your body aches as the sunlight comes in through the blinds, brows furrowing as you find yourself draped in a black t-shirt that isn’t yours.

In efforts to try be gentlemanly after last night Dick stands shirtless in your kitchen - at a loss as he tries to figure out a breakfast he could conjure up from cabinets upon cabinets of beer and energy drinks and instant noodles.

He jolts a little when he hears a knock at the door, hesitant as he glances towards your bedroom and then back to the door once more.

Dick braces himself for a moment, expecting to be met with the sight of one of your hungover roommates making their way back to bed.

But no. He’s met with something far, far worse.

Wally West, beaming like an idiot with your phone and jacket tucked under his arm, belongings you presumably left downstairs.

“So,” he hums, barely fighting the smug grin curling at his lips as he stares at Dick, taking in his disheveled state.

“..you two have fun?”

Fucker.

a/n: take a shot every time I say “fuck”. You will genuinely end up floored.

(me when I reference my previous writing)

love u thanks for reading!! track suggestions open!

Dick Grayson m.list

[haljordangetpregnant]

HAL IS NOT A CONVERSATIVE

WHO THE FUCK SPREADED THAT RUMOUR? I HOPE YOU HAVE EXPLOSIVE DIARRHEA EVERY WEEKDAY MORNING AND EVERY WEEKEND NIGHT

He literally trained and believed in John to be his back up Lantern in the 70s (John's first appearance was in 1971). Hal still whole heartly trusts John and loves him dearly as family til this day. Do you even know that? Do you even know Hal has been the loyal ally, friend an family to one of the first African American heroes to appear? (I hate how people even think that John hates and insults Hal like John cannot state enough how he loved Hal despite him turning evil, even. And Hal even fixed John's legs as a Parallax, mind you. Like they are family, your Honor) And how can you think the guy who works with the whole galaxy's wide variety of aliens would be a bigot? Like? It's like saying a nurse is an anti-vaxxer???

He's not even a 100% cis white male.

He is pan AND gender fluid and it's not even my personal headcanon. It has been hinted at multiple times, like I did not make that sh up (in the hands of the writers who love him, of course) (cough Geoff) He has come so close to Godhood and being entities multiple times do you really think he truly gives a fuck about gender and sexualities anymore? He appeared as a woman in front of a child because he understood how a woman figure was more comforting to a lost girl? Also he will literally punch the authorities, kill them, even, if they truly step out of line He made an Oath protecting the innocent, destroying all evil and he stands by it everytime against all odds even against those blue smurfs who are sort of the presentatives of literal God by the way. He demolished the whole Corp because he found those blue smurfs to be allergic to empathy? (understandable pookie) He literally snitched on Sinestro for being a dictator??? Like so many of his enemies are ditactors? Do you think he would really be the fan of an orange smurf who's literally just a guy given too much power, he's making it everyone's problem???

I know he calls himself 'a cop' but please keep in mind he's supposed to represent the kind of cop that whole-heartedly, genuinely, and desperately wants to do good, to protect and to serve. So many people, somehow, looks at Hal Jordan with a narrow mind with no regard for his character, his story and his values and conclude that he is a bigoted conservative, and that makes me so mad honestly. (even the DC writers do that like wtf???) (I can provide pictures as proofs but I'm lazy sorry) (Badly formatted because I am also lazy)

im tired of people making fictional characters they dont like randomly homo/transphobic it's always way funnier when character who suck are inexplicably allies

[vitoriadior]

Le banana split

Clark Kent x Fem!Reader (SMUT)

Where after coming home from work, Clark finds you at the table, dressed in only his favorite Vanilla Cream and cherries.

Masterlist <3. Requests open

Clark is so tired he doesn't know if what he's seeing is real.

You're lying on the kitchen table, your long legs resting one on top of the other almost lazily. Barefoot, a bowl of cherries at your side as you pop one between your lips, your eyes fixed on the man who was following your every move with his gaze

Sex isn't taboo between you, much less something you can say you're frustrated about. But lately, between being Superman and Clark Kent, you've had very few intimate moments. And by God, you're a girl with needs. So you've tried everything to get Clark into bed, but something always interrupts you.

Today you're not going to let anything interrupt you.

"Hi, babe," you stood up from the table like a stretching cat, smiling. You had whipped cream on your nipples, as well as on that spot under your abdomen. "How was work?"

You place your hands on his shoulders to massage them—the journalist's blue eyes are already much more awake, glued to your breasts before blushing when he hears your voice. Clark thinks about answering, but realizes it would be a waste of time he's planning on using for much, much more important things.

You smile when your man carries you like you're made of air. "You drive me crazy like this." The whipped cream becomes a mess when he presses his body against yours, his lips on your neck as if he's finding some special flavor. The smell of vanilla, your lips of cherry, your body on his—Clark leaves you at the table where you were for a few seconds to take off his vest.

You tug at his tie before he's finished unbuttoning his shirt. "Do you want me to put more whipped cream on?" He smiles against your lips when you bite the corner of them, not having to wait for your response to reach for the bottle of whipped cream sitting right next to the bowl of cherries.

"Jeez— You look..." He shakes his head: you're practically his goddess. You've missed this, but you have no idea how much he misses it more. "You are a sight to behold."

Clark takes off his shirt and throws it to the floor, his arms pulling you by your thighs to him, bringing you closer, still lying on the table, to lick the whipped cream spread on your abdomen. You put your hand on his head, gasping as that bulge that's already grown so large between your legs, that lump already almost wet and so throbbing it feels like it's about to explode, brushes between your legs. You feel him lift one of your legs to lick the inside of your thigh. "Sweet."

Clark whips the cream quickly and with a smile, puts a little on both of your nipples. The cream feels cold against your skin. But it feels even better when, with his eyes still looking directly into yours, Superman places his mouth on one of them. "So sweet—you're always so sweet."

He licks it, sucks it, bites it, making you arch your back with a sound he knows you'll make. A sound that makes him even harder, that hurts, that makes you even wetter to feel him smile in that almost arrogant way, to feel that only he can turn you on like this, that already you feel wet enough to beg him to stop playing.

But Clark Kent loves to play a little because, come on, a week without sex is bad for even Superman. And he can't even get to dessert without first going through the appetizer and all the courses that follow. His mouth is still on your tits, and when you think he's going to massage your breast with the hand that was resting on your thigh, you let out a moan when you feel that he doesn't.

"Do you like it?" One of his fingers, so large and thick, slowly enters you. "I can take it out if you don't like it." But he knows you're not going to tell him otherwise because you love it. One finger is enough to drive you crazy, and you bite your lip when you feel him insert another and begin to move them slowly. "Do you like it when I touch you like this?" It's a low whisper.

Clark looks into your eyes the whole time—if he's not looking at you, at your mouth, then at your body. Because he's kissing it, biting it, treating it like the treasure it is. His fingers move while his thumb caresses your clit.

You feel empty when he pulls out his fingers—his hands go to his belt, unbuckling it in a way only Superman can make mad sexy. He watches you for a few more seconds in silence, your eyes lowering to his crotch—he simply looks like he's going to explode, like he's going to tear through the fabric of his underwear, seeking release. "You don't know how sexy you look right now." He throws one of your legs over his shoulder, whispering how good you look, how good he intends to make you feel.

You feel the tip of his cock caress your entrance, deliberately caressing your clit. "Tell me what you need," he says, because apparently the look that begs to feel him inside you, to feel you so full, isn't enough.

"I need you."

The whole apartment fills with the sound of his skin against yours. Of the kitchen table beneath you grinding from the almost brute force Clark Kent is applying to your hips. That's definitely going to leave a mark, and probably render the table unusable by the almost involuntary use of his super strength. A mark Clark will be apologizing for every two minutes, puppy dog eyes and guilt on his lips.

But not now. Right now, he's too focused on how good it feels to be inside you, on how needy he was for you and all of you. Clark couldn't do this with other girls, couldn't even think of doing it. There's something about you being you that makes even a quickie before work in the morning special.

There's something special about feeling yourself climax, your walls clench around him as if some higher power had created him especially for you. The way just listening to you sends him over the edge too, making a mess on the table and in your abdomen—it can't be a mere coincidence. The way you smile at him, and he smiles back, is simply special.

You are special.

"I missed you." He takes your hand and covers your entire palm with kisses, placing it on his cheek to feel you, as if he's allergic to not feeling you all the time. "Golly, I've missed you so much."

You laugh—Golly. "It's not my fault Superman always needs to be saving the city."

"I have other priorities besides saving the city, you know." He smiles at the same time as you and takes another bite of the whipped cream, putting it on himself. under his stomach, and on his lips as you climb off the table.

Taglist: @starincarnated @angelicp0etry @yeonalie @lator-gators @starssfall @moomumu @chamorunsmiles @urlittleangelbaby @americanboz0 @mysticdinosaurpirate @spiidergwenn @sugarbutterbailey @pestoluvr8 @ilovemangoes444 @kaiparkerwife @qardasngan @animegamerfox @helloimamistake @rinapomu @chaoticroaddreamerpasta @ryomku @dreamlesssleepsaga @yzuposts @mickey-mouse-crackhouse1902 @j07lvrg @khxna @1wannab3inaband @wintersoldierenthusiastt @yyiikes @rosie-hao @psiiconic @httpstoyosi @lettucel0ver @scorpio-echo @iveofficiallylostmymarbles @aratakiittooo @angelicprincess12 @pinkluv29

@shine101 @karimestarksworld @lortheswiftie @bangtanevermore @njdluvr @itsjustamina @avroravia @m3lod7 @just-pure-trash @pprettyvisitorr @againanothersideblog @differentcandycreation @hagarsays

[ask-everything]

[A scatter of papers are found on the living room floor. They're ripped out of some sort of journal. Each is decorated with glitter, and on each is a photo of one member of the house. Under each photo... something is written.]

[Extremely long post incoming. No joke.]

Abel walks around like he's God's gentlest cowboy, but he'd rather bleed out than let anyone help him with anything. It's exhausting. No one cares.

Airyn thinks silence is power, but it's honestly so pretentious. She just does it because she doesn't have enough of a personality.

Amir delivers compliments like he's doing charity work. He's not nice. He's just emotionally clingy.

Arma acts like any whiff of steam is a blaze and somehow still wonders why everyone's tired of her.

Artt talks like a statue come to life and he still manages to make everything about him. He doesn't love the world. He loves hearing himself talk.

Barry Styles is so obsessed with makeup. It doesn't make him prettier. He's just so fake.

Bathsheba is obsessed with belonging anywhere but the sidelines. Unfortunately, that's where she will always belong.

Beau adventures because she can't accept the fact that she just belongs in the recycling bin.

Ben-Hwa uses sexuality as a shield because they have no other personality besides that. Poor thing.

Betty's warmth shouldn't be mistaken for anything but performance. She puts on a show because she knows no one would love her otherwise.

Beverly is barely a person. She's a distraction in a fancy cocktail glass. And the hangover always hits.

Bobby wants to seem dangerous, but they're not. They're just petty. They're as dangerous as a raccoon digging through trash cans.

Bodhi needs to get it through his head and that nostalgia isn't a personality. It's a filter.

Cabrizzio acts all charming, but it doesn't last. He steals his entire personality from movies because really...he's not that interesting. At all.

Cam is just heartbreak personified with a chip on his shoulder. It's honestly sad. He's like a kicked puppy. Pathetic.

Captain Jacques Pierrot acts like he commands a fleet, but at most it's a paddle boat and a lot of hot air.

Celia runs the house like it's Versailles, but she forgets that even queens can be overthrown. Her head will be in a basket one day.

Chairemi may be a good performer, but that's all she is. She needs to be playing a character because she has no personality otherwise.

Chance hides in fantasy land because his real life isn't interesting enough. He's nothing but a delusional nerd.

Connie fights like it's her one chance to be remembered. She's just broken and irrelevant.

Curt and Rod are a bad joke no one really asked for. It's honestly sad, the way they can't communicate without insulting people. Throwing shade isn't a personality.

D a E mON IS nothing BUT a BuG whO NeeEds to Be SquaSHEd.

Daisuke isn't mysterious. He's emotionally Tupperware. Sealed too tight and somehow still full of leftovers.

Dante is friendly, but it's all a coverup for insecurity. I mean, did you see how oblivious he was to Daisuke. Vom.

Dasha could probably lift the world on her shoulders, but she crumples the moment she gets any kind of attention. Sad, tbh.

Diana's less like Alice and more like wonderland. Disorienting, scary, and probably full of teeth. Go to therapy. Don't rely on everyone else to fix your lack of sense of self.

Dirk needs to learn that laundry day is a basic human necessity, not a holiday. Being dirty all the time is not endearing. It's just kind of gross.

Dishy should be...self explanatory. I'm honestly scared of that...thing.

Dolly assumes everyone likes her for her looks, but I don't think there's enough there to really make that assumption. Modeling doesn't mean you're hot, honey.

Dorian defends friendship so much because he thinks he doesn't deserve love. And honestly, he's right.

Doug is a human car crash. His insults aren't even funny, either. He just makes me kind of sad. Not about myself, but for him. Must be hard existing as something no one likes.

Drysdale is a flirt only because he thinks that the moment he stops being a hoe, all of the attention will shift away from him.

Dunk is so obsessed with sports because he has no personality otherwise. And no, badminton doesn't count as a personality trait.

Eddie is literally so emo. And Volt is just scary dog privilege. Which, is sad, seeing as Volt isn't even that scary.

Fantina doesn't have a personality besides obsessing over others. She steals other people's personalities just because she can't even gain her own.

Farya is so eager to experiment on people. I wouldn't be surprised if she'd knock someone out and cut them open just to study. Little scary.

Florence let's people walk all over her. Literally. She's so spineless, it replaces any semblance of a personality she might have.

Freddy wants to hide it, but it's clear what he really is. A monster. I won't be surprised if someone turns up mauled or something.

Friar Errol...he's been gone for 5 days, and honestly, the house is far better for it.

Gaia talks so much about traveling, but she's never left the house. And she's not even good enough at talking to people to know anything about...well, anywhere.

The Hanks are allergic to reading. Literally. Last time I saw one of them pick up a book, they gagged. Even Hank 2 is a writer...not a reader. And I don't think Hank 4 or Kevin or whatever can even read.

Harper uses her trauma as an excuse to be one of the most toxic people I know. She doesn't have a personality outside of being a bitch.

Hector is insecure for good reason. I can't imagine why anyone would like...that. And the persona he puts up to defend himself is even worse, honestly. That whole stalker thing gets old quick.

Hoove is a great example of why 'I Can Fix Him' doesn't work. His whole thing is being a vacuum. He doesn't want anyone to help him with anything. It's just annoying.

Hero-Hime might not be your stereotypical anime girl, but she's every girl in a sports anime ever. She'll never be the tennistar or... whatever the whole plot of her show is.

Holly won't help herself to the point where it's like she wants to be burnt out and overworked. She's honestly so annoying that I don't really care.

Ronaldini or whatever will never be a real magician. Did you know that he's from Montreal? That's not even like. A mysterious magical place. It's just Canada. French Canada too. Even worse.

Jean Loo is French. Enough said. He's full of crap. Literally.

Jerry...what is there to say that isn't self explanatory? He smells like moth balls, and he looks like them too.

Johnny Splash has made his whole personality being an Elvis rip off, which is honestly sad, seeing as he can't sing at all.

Keith is old as hell and yet has gained 0 wisdom over his years. Plus, that grey hair really doesn't work for him.

Keyes is such a diva, but she really doesn't deserve to be. She's only ever composed one thing, and to be so honest, I lot the plot.

Koa needs to learn that being lazy isn't a personality trait. Neither is sleeping.

Kopi, no one wants to hear you infodump about coffee. Honestly, it's a wonder you're staying in business. Roofbucks is better.

Kristof is far too obsessed with violence. Not everyone wants to battle. Very few people do, actually.

Lady Memoria needs to learn that nostalgia isn't a personality. At least her dog is cute.

Lucinda Lavish is insecure and she makes it everyone else's problem. She always shows up when you want her the least. Which is always.

Luke Nukem's delusions are honestly a little concerning. I'm surprised the house hasn't burned down yet.

Lux is the nastiest skank bitch I have ever met. Do not trust them, they are a fugly cow.

Lyric's writing really isn't anything to write home about. Which is honestly sad, considering they're the spirit of literature or whatever.

01001101 01100001 01100011 00100000 01101001 01110011 00100000 01101100 01101001 01110100 01100101 01110010 01100001 01101100 01101100 01111001 00100000 01101111 01100010 01110011 01101111 01101100 01100101 01110100 01100101 00101110

For a detective, Maggie can't even solve the mystery of why no one likes her! Spoiler alert, it's because she's annoying.

Mateo is so selfless, he puts the inanimals before him every time. This also means he's a spineless coward. And boring.

Mikey Transaction may be a good dad, but he was probably a terrible husband, considering Stacy divorced him.

Miranda really has no future in music. Her songs are boring and plain, like everything I've ever hear before.

Mitchell Linn has no credibility as a food critic. He just woke up one day and decided he was important enough to judge others. He's not.

Monique hides, and it's for good reason. Literally no one likes her. And her financial advice is just kind of annoying.

Nightmare isn't even scary. Betty's made her soft. She's just kind of sad.

Parker Bradley's a drug pusher. His acid trips are the only things that make him a semi-bearable person to be around. And the only person he thinks even cares about him doesn't. Bobby just rolled love with you by accident. They don't give a shit about you, babes.

There's a reason Penelope's dates all fail. She's just not that interesting. She has literally no personality.

I don't even know why Phoenecia burns herself out so much. It's not like her fan base even cares that much. They wouldn't mind if she never came back online.

Prissy will never be a real plant. Spoiler alert, girl, manifestation isn't real.

Rainey has a few screws loose, even after she was fixed. She's stuck in the 1920s, and it's honestly annoying.

Rebel is a space duck.

River keeps trying to figure out what her best state is, but really, she's not interesting in any state. She's always boring.

Ronnie may be a goddess, but that doesn't mean she deserves to be worshipped. I can't see why anyone likes her.

The sassy chap isn't even meant to be in the game. Who cares about the devs? Not me.

Scandalabra is so desperate to get into other people's business because he can't accept that he's just kind of boring and gay.

Shelley is right to be so anxious about failing. It's bound to happen eventually.

Sinclaire...where do I even start? He's so unhinged, I don't know whether to be scared or feel pity. Or neither. Because he doesn't matter.

Skips looks like he got stuck in a hot topic and escaped wearing everything. Being an internet dweller isn't a personality trait.

Skylar's only purpose is to make us able to talk to the human. Other than that, she's nothing.

Sophia is bored with her lovers because she herself is just, boring. She has no personality besides being a dominatrix and degrading others.

Stefan is such a hot head because he knows literally no one would care about anything he had to say otherwise. He feels the need to yell because he's just not interesting enough to listen to.

Stella is so obsessed with her MLM because she has literally no prospects otherwise. She should just go back to the retirement home.

Stepford isn't even gold. He's pewter. He's a participation trophy. He should honestly be embarrassed.

Teddy is such a pushover, if someone slapped him in the face he'd apologize and thank them for being such a good friend.

Telly makes TV their whole personality because they know Valdivaflix is leagues better.

Textbox-Chan just isn't that interesting. And her UI is kind of ugly, not gonna lie.

Timothy Timepiece is only obsessed with time because he's so scared of people seeing that he's a pitiful catboy.

Tina is so obsessed with drama because she knows she's boring. At least she's trying to spice herself up. It's not really working.

Tony sings soprano. He also has a huge Napoleon complex because he's so tiny. He has a fragile masculinity that's going to shatter any day now.

I'm going to eat one of the dipodgenes. Just to spite Tydus. She can't protect them. Wasn't that a whole trend a few years ago?

Tyrell will never be a beach towel. He just needs to get over it. No one wants his ass tracking sand into the house anyway.

Vaughn Trapp speaks for himself. He's ugly, and he can't even do his one job right. When was the last time he even caught a rat?

Wall. Wall wall wall wall. Wall.

Washford is a manwhore, and somehow, he feels no shame in it. The only reason he has that whole harem is because he's too insecure to be alone.

Willi will never find a stable job again because she's just, not that good. No one wants to hire someone so judgy and uninteresting.

Winnifred basically dating 10 people and refusing to tell each of them is not only manipulative, but toxic too.

I see right through you, Wyndolyn. You're obsessed with other people's lives because you don't have one of your own.

Zoey doesn't even remember how she died. Which is probably a good thing, seeing as it was definitely too boring.

[ackermanrage]

i loved your fanfic of Levi with the lipstick marks on his face! can I request a version of that fluff for gojo x fem!reader? i’m sure his students would have a lot to say hehe

ʟɪᴘꜱᴛɪᴄᴋ ᴄᴏɴꜰᴇꜱꜱɪᴏɴꜱ

gojo satoru x fem!reader warnings: none :) an: your wish is my command~ i hope you like it!

The morning sun hadn’t even finished climbing over the skyline, and yet Gojo Satoru was already up and looking...presentable.

Standing in front of your shared bathroom mirror, he tilted his head left and right, admiring himself from all angles while trying (poorly) to straighten his blindfold.

“You know,” you said, leaning in the doorway with your arms crossed, “for someone who claims he doesn’t care what people think, you spend an awful lot of time doing your hair.”

Gojo grinned through the mirror. “I’m a man of contradictions.”

“You realize your blindfold is inside out, right?”

“…No it’s not.”

“It is. The tag’s sticking out.”

“Fashion is subjective,” he mumbled, fumbling to fix it while pretending he meant to do that.

You stepped forward, tugging his collar back into place. “You’re a man of chaos.”

He leaned in instantly, lips brushing your cheek. “A sexy, lovable chaos.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Debatable.”

He gasped. “Cruel.”

“I’m making sure you don’t show up to work looking like a tornado.” You flicked some lint off his jacket.

You stepped in, arms wrapping around his neck as you leaned your chin on his shoulder. “You’ve got the first years today, right?”

“Unfortunately.”

“Good luck. They were already chaotic before they got mentored by you.”

Gojo grinned. “They’re thriving under my guidance.”

“They’re feral.”

He turned slightly to face you. “You love me anyway.”

“Mhm. Do I?”

“Rude,” he pouted.

You kissed him softly on the cheek in apology. “Better?”

“You missed,” he said, tilting his head like he was telling you where to kiss him.

You kissed the corner of his mouth.

“Still missed.”

You trailed kisses down his jawline, then one just under his ear.

“Okay, okay,” Gojo laughed, flustered but not stopping you. “You’re clingier than usual—what are you trying to do?”

“Nothingggg,” you hummed, carefully planting another kiss just under his jawline, leaving behind a perfect, unmistakable lipstick print. “Just giving you a proper goodbye.”

“Sure,” he said, suspicious. “You never act this affectionate without a reason.”

You rolled your eyes, “There. Properly blessed. Now go teach those unhinged teenagers before they accidentally curse the vending machine again.”

Gojo adjusted his collar with a satisfied little hum, completely oblivious to the bouquet of lipstick marks you’d left all over his ridiculously kissable skin.

You gave him one last, feather-light kiss at the corner of his mouth and patted his chest. “Goodbye, Satoru.”

He adjusted his blindfold again, grabbed a stick of gum, and strolled out the door.

And he didn’t check the mirror again before he left.

Big mistake.

---

Yuji was mid-doughnut when he saw it.

He squinted, chewed slowly, then elbowed Megumi so hard he nearly dropped his coffee.

Yuji pointed, wide-eyed. “Look. Look at his face.”

Nobara turned, eyes narrowing as Gojo approached them with his usual swagger. “What about his—OH MY GOD.”

“I see it now,” Megumi muttered, horrified.

Gojo was gliding across the courtyard with all the effortless grace of a man untouched by stress, shame, or common sense. His jacket puffed dramatically. His blindfold was, miraculously, right-side out. His smile was bright.

And his face?

Covered in lipstick.

“Dude,” Yuji whispered. “Is that—?”

“Lipstick,” Nobara confirmed. “That’s lipstick. That’s three separate kiss marks.”

Gojo stopped in front of them, hands in his pockets, grinning like a man without a care in the world. “Morning, my adorable little demons!”

“Uh,” Yuji said. “Morning?”

Megumi refused to look him in the eye. “Do you—uh, do you know… you’ve got something on your face?”

Gojo raised a brow under the blindfold. “I always have something on my face, Fushiguro. It’s called beauty.”

“Not that,” Nobara said slowly. “Something else. Like… left by someone else.”

Megumi just sighed, “Do you not own a mirror?”

Gojo tilted his head. “I do. I just don’t worship at it.”

“Okay, Gandhi,” Nobara said. “You’ve got a full crime scene on your face.”

Gojo blinked. “Pardon?”

Nobara whipped out her phone and held up the selfie cam. “Behold.”

Gojo leaned in.

Then paused.

Then leaned back very slowly, and shrugged.

“Nice.”

“Nice?!” Megumi snapped. “You’re teaching a class looking like you just walked out of a romantic comedy!”

“I’m making history,” Gojo said. “This is what peak performance looks like.”

Yuji was buzzing with excitement. “So wait—wait. Is this confirmation that you’re dating someone?!”

Nobara clapped. “Oh my god, is it her? The hot woman who dropped off lunch for you last week? The one in the heels and red lipstick?”

Gojo chuckled. “Maaaaybe.”

“She’s so cool,” Yuji said dreamily. “She even said hi to me.”

“She winked at me,” Nobara added. “I blacked out for like three seconds.”

Megumi looked like he wanted to walk into traffic.

“But like—when did this happen?” Yuji asked. “You never date anyone. You just flirt with vending machines and disappear!”

Gojo placed a hand dramatically over his chest. “I’ll have you know I’m a very devoted boyfriend.”

“You’re wearing literal evidence of devotion on your face right now,” Nobara said dryly. “You didn’t even wipe it off.”

“I think he wanted us to see it,” Megumi muttered.

“Are you kidding?” Nobara laughed. “He’s been glowing like a smug, sexy lighthouse all morning.”

“Alright, alright,” Gojo said, waving them off. “Yes, I’m seeing someone. Yes, I’m in love. Yes, she kisses me goodbye like she’s sending me off to war. No, I will not be giving further interviews at this time.”

Yuji gasped. “You’re in love?!”

Gojo only smiled, pushing up his blindfold slightly to reveal a wink.

Megumi sighed into his hands.

And Gojo just walked off toward the faculty building, lipstick still bold on his cheek, humming a love song.

©ackermanrage - please do not copy, translate, or plagiarize my work!

[easyboyrecliner]

THE FOOL. “the embrace of new beginnings”

gravity falls dr : a look into jo morgan’s messy day : diary entry

It’s the second of June. A month and few days until my birthday. And the first month of living in this town has passed. I’ve been working for Stan Pines for a few weeks now. And I enjoy it thoroughly. He is nice, if he pretends not be grumpy. Quite funny too. He is like an uncle to me and he makes sure I am comfortable at work.

dad woke me at ten, because I had to work at twelve. i grabbed mikkel and ventured downstairs. the kitchen awaited me and cornflakes was my food of choice. stole some of my father’s bacon, because who is he to deny his only daughter? we ate in silence, the radio accompanied us. dad usually listens to old movie soundtracks when he is cooking, it’s very comforting. mikkel ate too and then he left to go sunbathe on the porch. he is lazy but he makes up for it for being adorable.

the second i am already on the stairs upstairs, dad calls out to me.

“Is wendy sleeping here tonight?” He asked. because he forgot about it, most likely. so I do what a tired person would do, nod. just smile and wave boys, thank you skipper for that valuable life lesson. wendy, has a license and a car, so after work she’ll drive us home, very cozy. I don’t, cars scare me. especially after I got into an accident with shaggy last year. never again, I tell myself. I mean I trust shaggy, I whole heartedly do but not after spending two nights in the hospital.

the second i am back in my room I am contemplating what to wear. because what do i wear? i love sweaters, they’re a part of me as much as i am a part of them. and it’s a kinda hot day.

after ten minutes of debating what to wear i settle on a white maxi skirt, a tank top and a simple forest green sweater. makeup…not at that hour. it was too early and I really only wear it on special occasions. yet i do my hair, it’s curly and a mess to deal with. i hate styling it, please send help.

half an hour later:

done, i am in the car now. I wished my precious ducklings goodbye, mikkel did not care about me leaving. rude. dad was outside already and waited for me. informing me that one of our horses are sick and he’ll have to take it to the vet. poor priscilla.

i am currently finding myself staring out the window. because who am i not to stare outside the window? boring? gods no. i think of the unicorn i saw last week. was it a unicorn? is my imagination playing tricks on me? unicorns aren’t real…are they? i mean i wished for them to be real when i was younger, because they were so mystical and pretty. the last unicorn didn’t help my fascination, not at all. but how come that gravity falls is so strange and yet no one actually cares? I swear i saw a gnome too… oh! We are there! Fuck—

after work:

I hate Robbie. I hate his stupid friends. I hope he falls down a flight of stairs and never recovers. What does Wendy see in him anyway? If she likes an emo, i can surely…anyway I won’t entertain that train of thought.

his friends come bursting in, while I stand behind the cashier. Wendy? Nowhere in sight. Soos? Fixing the plumbing. Stan? Giving the tourists a tour.

And there were no other people than me and them. It was awkward at first. They kept glancing at me, I kept glancing at them. No one dared break the ice.

I think Tambry is acceptable, so is…Thompson? The rest? I am losing my mind. Nate and Lee were testing my patience with their bullshitting. Robbie kept looking me dead in the eye, as if he was contemplating my literal death. There I stood, glaring back at him with the very same look in my eyes. Our hatred is mutual.

There were some others I didn’t recognize and didn’t speak to. Three of them actually. A blonde guy, kinda cute…kinda dumb. Too blonde-beach waves. He gave California surfer boy energy. Though he does seem very nice. he just has poor luck with thinking! The apparent grandson of McGucket. Quite unfortunate for him.

The other is…dark, broody, tall and mysterious. I’d say pretty if I was in a good mood…how do I put it…he was so quiet it actually unsettled me. And he just kept glancing my way??? If you want to talk to me, do come up to me. I wouldn’t will fuck it up! Did he think I was pretty?Anyway, he didn’t really speak. If he did, very quiet. Even as he spoke with fake-surfer boy. Was very quiet, even when Wendy came and decided to save me. She is my angel, actually.

There was a third one, did some bullshit with Nate and Lee until Wendy came. Curls…pretty? Jolyne, no. Jolyne, Yes. I wanted to steal his shirt, it was striped (black and white). He should take it as a compliment really. Kinda a dork. But uhm once he noticed I was glaring at him he stopped doing bullshit and he even smiled at me. I fainted on the inside.

But the moment that nearly brought me to tears in front of the people whom I absolutely did not like (expect you tambry), was Robbie being an absolute shithead. I won’t go into detail, because just thinking of it makes me so utterly angry. He is a dick. End of story. Fuck him.

Wendy came an hour later, noticed my expression and basically just sent me to Stan’s kitchen and worked the rest of my shift. I will make it up to her! I ended up drawing and texting my friends. That was it basically.

At five pm, me and Wendy drove home. it was silent, she knew that I was still kinda mad/sad from earlier and she decided not to press on it. But once we got home she made sure I was comfortable. We ate dinner (dad made some great lasagna) and then crashed upstairs in my room. Mikkel was back, my happiness was back too. And we ended up watching Glee. Even though we both hate the show. She is asleep as I am writing this, I truly hope my frantic writing doesn’t wake her up.

first entry, kinda nervous. I wrote this as if I already shifted there because that’s easier for me to channel myself ykkk??

taglist: @briiverse , @miainbetween , @l22na4 , @ladigube , @ashstwr , @aliyahshiftsx , @marcellasdiary , @bleedintosun , @killvrkvnt , @auroraisleaving , @sorenverse , @rumitome , @dracuthea

[smth-against-dogs]

Spoilers for wbn ep 53

okay so im relistening to episodes one and two after listening to ep 53 this morning. and i just got to the part in episode 2 where suvi gives ame the stars of the southern sky, and on ame's second investigation check brennan says

You begin to look deeper into the book for something hidden, and I think hit a wall of—because I think, you're looking for something hidden in the way of like, "what's something that would almost be like, intuitive or second nature." Like, you hide things in places where you can still get them, and you're looking at all this stuff and being like, "this is so complicated that a Wizard could hide something in here without even having to hide it. It could just be here, and I'm looking at it, and I don't know what I'm supposed to be looking for."

hide something in here without even having to hide it???? like what brennan? maybe a curse? maybe evil wizards up in their evil tower doing evil shit THE WHOLE TIME

HMMMMM BRENNAN????? I DIDNT KNOW YOUD BEEN REPLACED BY SAM REICH SINCE CLEARLY THIS SHIT HAS BEEN HERE THE WHOLE TIME

GOD

i'm losing my freakin mind over here.

this story is so GOOD and its going to KILL ME DEAD

[ghostboyravenight]

this whole "trans men have male privilege" thing really rubs me wrong because essentially what people are saying is that trans men are escaping womanhood and misogyny to gain the privilege of being a man, which is literally a terf talking point. terfs have been accusing trans men of "trying to escape misogyny" for forever now. and if it really worked, if you could just identify your way out of misogyny and into male privilege, then wouldnt more women be doing that? if it actually worked then wouldnt everyone be doing it? like??

idk man like i still look vaguely woman shaped and people pick up on that. i am not read as male, im read as a weird female. where is the male privilege in that? what does being clocked as a freak do for me?

God literally, I wish people would start realising how much TERF rhetoric they’re repeating, but I’m not even sure they care anymore. There’s a reason hoards of women didn’t just dress up as men to get male privilege throughout history, and it’s because it’s literally not that simple! Why is everyone acting like women can just wear male clothing and cut their hair and they instantly pass as cis men?

Like… think about all of the historical trans men for just a second. Do people really believe it was that easy for them? That they didn’t have to cut off family and friends, risk being outed every second of their lives, risk imprisonment and institutionalisation, etc.? The risks were not worth it for those who were actually cis women, because like we keep saying, once a trans man is outed as being trans, society just treats us as broken women who need to be fixed for our own good. Misogyny doesn’t disappear, it gets worse, and it’s misogyny that’s perpetuated by both cis men and cis women.

Being treated as a trans man before the twentieth century would have been even worse than being treated as a cis woman, so yeah… women were not just doing this willy nilly to gain privileges that they barely received in the first place. I feel like people just look at James Barry and think he unquestionably succeeded in gaining male privilege, but there’s a reason that he was so adamant that no one performed an autopsy on his body. He obviously knew the risk, and he knew how fucking dangerous it would have been if anyone found out he was trans.

Like, it really pisses me off, because TERFs latch onto these historical figures to prove that trans men are just women “pretending” to be men, and you’d think it would be basic transfeminism to view this as transphobic, but people are just turning around and doing the exact same thing to trans men now. Trans men and mascs are not gaining male privilege, they have never gained male privilege, and people encouraging this idea that systemically switching into higher society is possible for trans men to achieve are working on a foundation of survivorship bias. James Barry survived. He had a decent life as far as we can tell (although there’s speculation about his earlier years). But what about the trans men who died imprisoned? The trans men who have been murdered? The trans men who were forced into the most despicable mental institutions by their families simply for cross-dressing? They weren’t rewarded for their maculinity, they were punished for deviating from their perceived role in society.

If you believe that trans men have male privilege, then you are upholding and justifying the TERF belief that trans men do not exist, and have only ever been women trying to escape womanhood. That is contributing to our erasure and to the continued limitation of our rights.

Like, I’m sorry for rambling, but I’m fucking tired of these stupid ass posts insinuating that trans men have male privilege because they’ve maybe come across like two trans guys who fit the exact bill of white, passing, post-everything who are granted conditional privilege in situations where they have to remain closeted in order to be treated with basic human dignity.

Meanwhile, in reality, trans men have fucking died. And anyone who looks at a group of people who have been systemically abused and killed (particularly the non-white members of said group) throughout the entirety of history and claims that they have privilege in society are woefully ignorant at best and violently transphobic at worst.

[andy-15-07]

hiiii! i have a request for joel miller but if you’re uncomfy with it pls just ignore me!!

basically joel and reader have been together for a few months now in jackson and one evening joel comes home from work around town and reader has been anxious all day and overthinking that joel’s gonna wanna be intimate bc she absolutely doesn’t want to but she’d be willing to do something for him so he doesn’t get mad (she’s traumatised from past men) and maybe he notices her anxiety right when he comes home and asks and reader kinda just starts crying and is scared he’s gonna leave her if she doesn’t comply bc she’s used to that behaviour and joel goes all protective mode and reassures her all sweetly that he’d never do that, that she’s safe with him and that he doesn’t want her to force her to do anything ever etc etc

if that’s weird pls don’t mind me!! either way thank you 🥹

You Don’t Have to

PAIRING: Joel Miller x reader

WORD COUNT: 848| requests are open (send requests, I will gladly answer them all)

Pedro Pascal Masterlist | Pedro Pascal Masterlist II

Joel Miller Masterlist

You’d been wound up tight since noon.

It started as a whisper in the back of your mind,just a little hum of nervousness when you looked at the clock and remembered Joel would be home around six. But then came the thoughts. The doubts. The spiral.

You love him. God, you love him. But still, your body tenses when you think of him pressing up behind you. You’ve been intimate a few times, and Joel has never hurt you. Never rushed. Never demanded. But the fear doesn’t care about logic. About what’s real.

It just remembers the way others had taken what they wanted and left you shaking.

So now, as the sun begins to set and your hands tremble while washing a dish you didn’t even eat from, you try to convince yourself you’re fine. That maybe if he wants to tonight, you’ll just get through it. Just… make it happen fast.

He’ll be tired. He won’t notice how stiff you are. Right?

The door creaks open behind you.

You flinch.

“Hey, darlin’,” Joel says softly. You can hear the smile in his voice.

You shut off the sink, grip the counter, and take a breath before turning. “Hey.”

Joel’s brow furrows almost immediately when he sees you. “You okay?”

You nod too fast. “Yeah, just tired. How was your day?”

He steps closer, slow and cautious like he’s already sensing something’s off. “Long. Fixed up the perimeter with Tommy. Could use a shower, then maybe we can,” he pauses, eyes flicking to yours, voice gentling even more. “What is it?”

“I’m fine,” you repeat, voice tight. You try to smile. You don’t succeed.

Joel frowns now. “You’re not.”

And when he walks toward you again, you shrink back half an inch before you can stop yourself.

It’s that little movement that breaks something.

You press a hand over your mouth. “I’m sorry,” you whisper, but the tears are already coming. “I’m so sorry.”

“Woah, hey.” Joel’s voice drops low and steady, like honey smoothing over cracked stone. “C’mere.”

You can’t move. You shake your head, shoulders curling in.

“I don’t,” your voice breaks. “I’m scared you’re gonna be mad at me.”

Joel’s whole face falls. “What? Mad about what, baby?”

You cover your eyes. “If I don’t… do anything. If I say no. I just,I thought if you came home and wanted to and I didn’t want to, you’d leave. Or get mad. Or shut down.”

It all pours out of you. Shaking hands. Hot cheeks. A crumbling wall you didn’t know you were still holding up.

Joel’s already wrapping you up in his arms. One hand on your back, the other cradling your head like you’re glass he’s terrified of cracking.

“Hey. Hey, shh. Sweetheart. Look at me.”

You can’t, not yet. You sob into his chest.

He doesn’t rush you.

“Listen to me real close now,” he murmurs into your hair. “You don’t ever,ever,have to do anything you don’t want to do. Not with me. Not with anybody. And especially not just ‘cause you’re scared I’ll be mad.”

You sniffle. “But what if,what if you do want to, and I,don’t? What if that makes me a bad partner?”

Joel pulls back just enough to cup your face in his big, calloused hand. His eyes are so gentle it hurts.

“You being honest with me? Telling me what you feel? That makes you the best kind of partner,” he says. “I don’t want your body if your heart ain’t safe in it. I want you. All of you. That includes your no’s, your fears, your off-days.”

Your lip wobbles again.

“I won’t lie,” he goes on softly. “Of course I like bein’ close to you. But I’d rather hold you for a thousand nights than touch you once if it means you’re hurting. You hear me?”

You nod against his hand. “I just get scared. I know you’re not them. I do. But sometimes my body forgets.”

His jaw ticks.

“I get that,” he says. “More than you know.”

And something in his tone,his haunted gaze,makes you realize maybe he’s not just talking about you. Maybe Joel’s known that fear. That betrayal.

He leans his forehead to yours.

“You’re safe with me. Always.”

A shiver runs through you,not from fear, but from the way his voice wraps around your broken parts like warmth.

Joel pulls you into a slow, grounding hug. You melt into it.

After a long beat, you whisper, “You’re really not mad?”

“Not even a little bit,” he says. “Only thing I’m mad about is that someone made you think you had to earn love like that.”

You exhale, your muscles beginning to finally loosen. “Can we just lie down? Just,sleep?”

“Hell yeah,” he murmurs. “C’mon, baby.”

He guides you to bed, doesn’t even change out of his jeans before pulling you against his chest under the covers. One arm under your head, the other splayed over your ribs, his thumb drawing lazy lines against your side.

“You’re safe,” he whispers again.

And for the first time all day,you believe him.

[softguarnere]

Logistical Errors

Natasha Romanoff x fem!reader

Summary: Before you can make some snarky remark about how this is an error on the part of whoever planned the logistics of this mission, Tony holds up his hands in surrender, laughing again.  “Whoa, I didn’t mean anything by it,” he assures you. “I’m just doing what comes naturally to a scientist – I’m making an observation.”  A/N: Hi again! So I didn't expect anyone to read that Sue Storm x fem!reader fic I posted, but people actually seemed to enjoy it? And after a talk with my Bestie about how we didn't see many fics about Natasha on our dashes back in the day, this just sort of appeared in my drafts 😅 This is one of those "I wrote this for me, but I hope you'll enjoy it as well" scenarios 💖 Warnings: assumed homophobia and Tony thinking he's funny

“Okay. Not to be that guy, but it’s kinda hot, right?” Tony’s little snide remarks are usually so coolly delivered. But this time around, some laughter slips into his words. And not the suave, practiced laughter that he does for reporters and any public appearance he deems to be a performance – which, let’s face it, is basically every waking second of the man’s life, considering that his ego is more of a mask than the faceplate of his suit at this point – but a genuine laugh that’s bubbly like champagne and spills through the room infectiously, making some of the other Avengers chuckle as well. 

A scowl tugs at your lips as you cross your arms. From the corner of your eye, you can barely make out Natasha’s expression. But hell, you can hardly look at her through your embarrassment, worried that your face will become even more warm if you dare look her way.

From what you can see, though, Natasha is as cool and as unreadable as always. She gives nothing away. Growing up in the Red Room will teach a person how to conceal their true emotions like that. 

You didn’t have that misfortune. For you, it was just SHIELD training. Which was mostly good for learning how to keep secrets. Like the one you’re currently hoping doesn’t come out as this whole thing unravels before your very eyes. 

“Shut up, Stark,” you snap. 

Before you can make some snarky remark about how this is an error on the part of whoever planned the logistics of this mission, Tony holds up his hands in surrender, laughing again. 

“Whoa, I didn’t mean anything by it,” he assures you. “I’m just doing what comes naturally to a scientist – I’m making an observation.” 

Steve, who appears to be one of the only men in the group with the decency not to laugh, fixes Tony with a cool stare. “Tony,” he chides. “Nat and (y/n) are just sharing a bed for the sake of the mission. There’s nothing more to it than that.” 

“Why would there be more to it than that?” Thor asks with a hearty laugh.

That earns a cool look from Steve as well, but it quickly becomes obvious that Thor genuinely doesn’t seem to have any clue why everyone is laughing – he’s just going along with it because he knows something is funny and he doesn’t want to be left out. It’s another moment where it becomes obvious that being a god from another realm has left him behind in a social situation.

Unfortunately, the confusion only makes Tony laugh all the harder as he slaps the god on the shoulder good naturedly. “Well, you see buddy –”

“Nope!” Bruce interrupts. “No! Not going there! We’re not having the talk with a god.” 

“You’ve got a point,” Tony admits, though he’s smirking as he glances towards you and Natasha. “We should be giving it to the ladies.”

“Christ,” you snap, taking a step forward, ready to take a swing at the engineer. 

Before you can, though, Natasha places a hand on your shoulder and tugs you back. Keeping you away from Tony doesn’t seem to be enough for her, though, so instead of letting the argument continue, she guides you towards the bedroom that the two of you are supposed to share during the mission – the room that somehow only has one bed in it. 

Once the door is shut, Natasha fixes you with a look. It’s not hard, but it’s also not happy. It’s somewhere in between, like she’s scolding you and offering you sympathy all at once.

“He was out of line,” you say before Natasha can say anything. 

She steps away from the door slowly as she approaches you. “Stark is Stark,” she points out. “He wasn’t being homophobic, if that’s what you’re worried about.” 

Heat rushes to your cheeks, and you hope Natasha doesn’t notice. You know she will, though, because Natasha is in the business of noticing everything. 

“I just don’t want anyone to find out about us,” you admit quietly so that your voice doesn’t carry through the door or the walls separating you from the rest of the team. “I’m not ready to tell them yet. They might take one of us off the team.”

Natasha takes a seat on the bed, gently guiding you so that you’re sitting beside her. She squeezes your shoulder in a gesture of reassurance. “They won’t do that.” 

You bite the inside of your cheek to keep yourself from correcting her. Now isn’t the time for an argument. Not when this is still all so new and fun and unexplored. 

“Besides,” Natasha says, a small smirk tugging at the edges of her pretty lips. “We got what we wanted, didn’t we?” 

For a moment, you can only tilt your head at her, trying to decipher her meaning. 

“You didn’t . . .”

Natasha’s smirk only grows. “Of course I did,” she replies smoothly. “The room only having one bed wasn’t a mistake made by some poor schmuck in logistics.”

[sherlocked-hunter-in-the-tardis]

*Runs around like an excited chihuahua* EEEEE I'd love to see a fic where Dick goes baby infront of the family for the first time!!! maybe even make it angsty, like everyone was too busy or Bruce just snaps at Dick >:)

*gasps dramatically* Why, why LOOK AT YOU with all the fantastic ideas!!

I would like to write that very much... in fact, HERE IT IS!!! 🍼💔 Have some angst, darling!!

Prepare for tiny baby Dick Grayson's emotions, Batfam chaos, and Bruce having to fix it real fast before his baby bird flies away 😭💥

Let me know what you think!!

🕊️ Where You Don’t Belong

Tiny!Dick Grayson | Daddy!Bruce | Age regression | Angst

It started in the Cave. Of course it did.

They’d just gotten back. Everyone, for once, bruised and battered but breathing. The tension had been simmering the entire patrol, and it finally boiled over as they stripped off their armor. Clayface had ambushed a GCPD convoy, and things had spiraled into chaos. Bruce hadn’t liked the way Dick had taken charge, hadn’t liked the call he’d made that got Stephanie hurt, and definitely didn’t like that the rest of the family had listened to him instead of Batman.

Bruce peeled off his cowl with a jerk, voice already steel. “We’ll debrief in twenty.”

Dick winced. “Bruce, I didn’t mean for her to get hurt. I thought Clayface was—”

“You thought wrong,” Bruce snapped, not even turning around. “That’s always been your problem, hasn’t it? You never stop and think. You act like this is a game. Like you’re still the circus kid playing hero.”

Tim, standing behind the computer, froze. Damian’s nostrils flared. Jason, shirt halfway over his head, paused mid-yank.

Dick’s voice dropped. “I wasn’t playing.”

Bruce turned. He looked tired. Unforgiving. “And maybe that’s the problem. Maybe this whole thing — the cave, the mantle — me — maybe it was never meant to be yours.”

The silence was immediate and suffocating.

Dick blinked, lips parting. “What?”

“You’re not—” Bruce exhaled sharply. “You’re not my son. Not really. I raised you like one, but that doesn’t mean I owe you the cowl. Or this family.”

The words dropped like a guillotine.

Jason made a choked noise. “What the fuck, Bruce.”

Tim dropped the datapad. It hit the ground with a clatter. Damian looked stunned, his mouth hanging open like he'd been slapped.

And Dick?

Dick stood in the middle of the room, gloves dangling from his limp fingers, face pale and hollow. A deep, shuddering breath trembled through his chest, but he didn’t speak. He just stared at Bruce like he'd been shot through the heart.

Bruce finally looked up.

And saw it.

Dick’s bottom lip was wobbling. His pupils were huge. His body had started to shake, not in rage. In some horrible internal unraveling. His voice didn’t come back.

He let out one shaky breath… then another… then dropped to the floor, hard, like his legs gave out.

And then he sobbed.

Not loud, not angry. Just tiny, heart-wrenching, helpless sobs. The kind that couldn’t come from someone who was big.

The kind that only came from a child who’d just lost everything.

Bruce took one step forward. “Dick—”

But Jason was faster.

“No!” Jason barked. “Don’t you dare. You don’t get to touch him right now.”

Damian was already crouched at Dick’s side, gently easing the gloves from his brother’s hands. “Grayson?” His voice was soft. He looked scared. “You… you need to look at me, please.”

Dick just curled tighter. Thumb popped into his mouth. A soft, wet suckle sound followed, almost reflexive. His sobs grew smaller, tighter, more desperate.

Tim had already grabbed a blanket from the medbay storage. “He’s little,” he whispered. “He dropped. Oh my god, he dropped.”

Bruce paled. “I didn’t know—”

“Because you never ask,” Jason snarled. “Because you never listen! Jesus, Bruce, you told him he wasn’t your son.”

“I didn’t mean—”

“Do you ever mean what you say?” Damian snapped, clutching Dick tighter. “Because your words hurt. Every single time.”

Dick hiccuped, tiny and trembling, curled in on himself like a child hiding from a monster.

Jason didn’t care how calm Bruce was trying to be. “You broke him,” he said coldly. “You fucking broke him, and he was the only reason any of us survived this goddamn house growing up.”

“Enough,” Bruce growled, low and guttural. “Enough. You can kill me later. He needs us now.”

---

Dick was placed gently on the couch, wrapped in soft fleece, thumb still in his mouth, tears soaking his cheeks. He didn’t speak, didn’t look at any of them. Just cried. Silent, pitiful, heartbreaking little sobs that came from somewhere deep and young.

Bruce approached slowly.

“Baby bird,” he murmured, low, almost a whisper. “I know I messed up. I know I said something really bad.”

Dick whimpered and turned his face to the back cushions.

Bruce knelt beside the couch. “You are my son,” he said firmly. “Always. From the moment I held you in my arms. I’ve made every mistake, but that? That’s never changed. Not for a second.”

A tiny sniffle.

“I’m sorry,” Bruce said again. No tears. No panic. Just steady, quiet, real. “I love you. I’m sorry I hurt you. Can I hold you, baby bird?”

Dick didn’t answer.

But he didn’t pull away when Bruce gently reached out and picked him up like a baby.

Curled up in Bruce’s arms, head tucked under his chin, Dick shook and sobbed. So very, very tiny.

Bruce rocked him gently. “It’s okay to cry. I’ve got you. You can be as little as you want.”

Jason, standing by the wall, arms crossed and eyes burning, muttered, “We are gonna kill you later.”

Bruce didn’t argue.

He just kept rocking, kept whispering… and Dick’s hand curled into Bruce’s shirt.

---

The family room was filled with the sound of quiet, careful breathing, except for one heartbreaking voice.

Dick couldn’t stop sobbing.

He was curled in Bruce’s lap, cradled tightly in his father’s arms, rocking steadily back and forth. His face was blotchy and flushed, hiccuping so hard his chest shook. Bruce held him close and steady, rubbing soft circles into his back, trying not to falter even as guilt chewed through every nerve in his body.

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, chum,” Bruce murmured again, voice low and steady like a heartbeat. “I didn’t mean it. I wasn’t thinking. You’re my son. You’ll always be my son.”

The words didn’t help. They made it worse.

With every gentle, loving whisper, Dick wailed harder. Raw, babyish cries that cracked in his throat. His fingers clung to Bruce’s shirt, then shoved him away, then clung again with desperate panic. He was trying to escape and burrow closer at the same time. Tiny. Confused. Shattered.

Jason stood frozen in the doorway, fists clenched. “He doesn’t know if he’s allowed to love you anymore,” he hissed, voice sharp and shaking. “You told him he was never your son.”

“That’s not what I meant,” Bruce said, more to himself than anyone else. He didn't look up. His entire focus was on Dick, his baby boy, who was shivering and soaked in tears and still too little to form words. “I wasn’t thinking. I was angry and I—”

“Too late,” Damian snapped. He was kneeling beside Bruce now, hand hovering over Dick’s blanketed knee. “You broke him. Do you see that? Look what you did.”

Tim sat in silence, face pale. He was kneeling too, watching Dick like he might crumble if anyone touched him too suddenly. “He’s really little. I've never seen him like this. Has anyone?”

“No,” Cass whispered. “Never.”

“None of us have,” Jason muttered. “Because he always had to be big.”

“I didn’t know,” Bruce said quietly. It wasn’t an excuse. “I didn’t know he needed to be this little.”

Dick cried harder.

The more Bruce rocked him, the more shattered he became. The more comfort Bruce offered, the more Dick trembled like he couldn’t believe it, like it hurt worse, to be held by the same man who’d shoved a knife in his heart not an hour before. Bruce’s arms tightened, cradling him close but never forcing it, whispering soft reassurances into his hair:

“You’re my son. My boy. My baby bird. I’m sorry. I’ll say it as many times as you need, Dickie, okay? I’m sorry. I love you. You can be little, you can be anything. I’ll never push you away again. You’re mine.”

Dick choked on a sob so violent it sent him into hiccups again. His thumb wobbled in his mouth, but never stayed there. Too overwhelmed, too lost. His little body curled tighter, trying to disappear in Bruce’s chest.

Jason dropped onto the floor, back against the couch, wiping at his face angrily. “Let me know when I can beat the hell out of you,” he muttered.

Damian was sitting beside him, breathing in tight huffs. “Not yet. Baby bird comes first.”

Cass didn’t speak. She just rested a hand on Dick’s ankle, still and warm.

There was the soft sound of footsteps.

Alfred stepped in with a warm bottle in one hand and a folded, worn blankie in the other. He didn’t say a word as he placed them in Bruce’s waiting hands.

Bruce adjusted Dick gently, supporting his head, curling his arm under his legs. “Here we go, sweetheart,” he whispered. “I’ve got you. Daddy’s got you.”

Dick made a broken little sound in the back of his throat. The bottle touched his lips.

He didn’t latch right away. He was too upset, hiccuping, gasping, tears still running freely. But Bruce was patient. He stayed steady. Kept rocking. Kept whispering.

“It’s okay. You can be little. You’re safe. You’re safe with me. I love you.”

Finally, Dick latched.

He suckled in shaky little bursts between hiccups and quiet sobs. His fists curled in Bruce’s shirt. He still trembled like he expected to be dropped.

“You can say it, baby,” Bruce murmured. “You can still call me that. Always. Nothing’s changed. Say it if you want to, okay? Dada’s right here. Dada loves you so, so much.”

Dick’s lips wobbled around the bottle.

Tears poured down again, silent now. Devastated.

Bruce’s eyes closed, pain flickering across his face.

“I’m here, little bird. Always.”

And he kept rocking.

---

Dick nursed slowly, hiccuping through his sobs as the warm milk soothed his throat, but not the ache in his chest. His fists were clenched in Bruce’s shirt, fingers trembling with every breath he dragged in. Bruce had one hand cupped protectively around the back of Dick’s head, the other supporting the bottle as he rocked gently in place on the couch, murmuring softly the entire time.

“I’ve got you. You’re safe. You’re my boy. You’ll always be my boy, Dickie. I’m so, so sorry.”

Dick whimpered, curling in tighter, but his sobs didn’t stop. If anything, they got worse, muffled around the nipple of the bottle as he tried to breathe and drink and cry all at once.

He wanted to call him Dada. The word trembled on the edge of his lips, clung to the back of his throat. But he was scared. What if he wasn't allowed anymore? What if Bruce didn’t want to be that, not really, not after what he said earlier?

What if he wasn't allowed to be Bruce’s baby anymore?

“Shhh, baby. Shhh,” Bruce whispered as he felt the tiny body in his arms shudder again. He gently rubbed Dick’s back in circles, slow and rhythmic. “You don’t have to be scared. I didn’t mean any of it. You’re my son, no matter what. You’ll always be my son. My baby boy. My first.”

Dick let out a tiny whimper that ended in a fresh sob, louder than before.

Tim sat crouched at the side of the couch, his hands clasped tightly in front of him. “He’s really not calming down…”

“He’s trying,” Cass said softly, her eyes locked on Dick. “He wants to. But he’s scared.”

Carefully, he stood with Dick cradled in his arms, the bottle still held to Dick’s lips. Dick whined faintly as they moved, but didn’t protest beyond curling tighter into Bruce’s chest.

Jason stood with arms folded across his chest, jaw tight, a storm behind his eyes. “Yeah, well, I’m not exactly eager to let him take Dick upstairs alone right now,” he muttered, not bothering to keep his voice down. “Not when he’s the reason he’s like this in the first place.”

Damian scoffed beside him, but didn’t argue. “Grayson is clearly distressed,” he said instead, looking like he was trying to suppress his own panic. “If Father had the decency not to traumatize him—”

“Enough.” Bruce’s voice was quiet but firm, still rocking, still feeding. “I deserve every bit of your anger. And we can talk about it later. But right now, he needs me. You know he does.”

Dick let out a broken squeak, curling impossibly closer.

“He needs all of us,” Jason hissed.

Bruce nodded. “He does. But right now, he’s hanging on by a thread. And I’m the only one he’s holding.”

Tim hesitated, voice unsure. “He… might fall apart more if we take him from Bruce.”

Jason looked like he’d rather throw a batarang into the wall. “He already fell apart.”

“And pulling him away from what he’s clinging to won’t put him back together any faster,” Tim said.

Silence. Dick sucked weakly at the bottle, tears still tracking down his cheeks, breath still hitching every few seconds. His eyes fluttered closed, but his arms wouldn’t stop clinging to Bruce’s shirt.

After a long beat, Jason sighed like it physically hurt him. “Fine. But if you screw this up again, Bruce—if you hurt him again—I will make you regret it.”

“Understood.” Bruce nodded once. “We’re going upstairs; he needs sleep. And quiet.”

“I’m coming with you,” Damian declared, but Bruce shook his head.

“No. I’ll call if I need you.” He looked at each of them. “I won’t leave him alone. I won’t fail him again.”

Jason muttered something under his breath that sounded like “Too late,” but didn’t stop him.

As Bruce carried Dick up the stairs, he kept whispering to him, over and over, like a mantra. Like a lullaby.

“I love you. I love you so much. You’re my little Robin. You’re my son. You’re my baby.”

And though Dick still didn’t speak, not even a mumble, not even Dada, he buried his tear-streaked face in Bruce’s shoulder and held on like he never wanted to let go.

---

Bruce nudged the door open with his foot, arms full of his broken baby bird. His bedroom was dark, quiet, cavernous, just like he preferred it. But tonight, it felt cold. Hollow. Like it had swallowed all of Dick’s warmth and light along with his laughter.

He didn’t even turn on the overhead light, just the small lamp beside the bed. Enough to cast a soft golden glow across the room.

“I’ve got you, chum,” Bruce murmured, voice low and endlessly gentle. “Dada’s got you now. Gonna take care of you.”

Dick whimpered around the bottle, lips still locked around the nipple, though his throat worked with hiccupping sobs. His eyes were wide and red, overflowing even now. He hadn't stopped crying, not once, and he was holding on so tightly that Bruce could feel the tiny tremors in his fists, the way he clung like a drowning boy.

Bruce moved through the room and into the adjoining bathroom, one arm supporting Dick, the other flicking on the smaller lights above the vanity. It bathed the tiled space in soft white and silver. Steam began to rise as he turned on the tap in the sunken tub, testing the temperature with his wrist before twisting the bubble solution into the stream.

Suds foamed up fast.

All the while, Dick kept his death grip on Bruce’s shirt.

“Hey, hey, it’s okay,” Bruce whispered, kissing the top of his hair as he gently sat down on the edge of the tub, baby still in his lap. “I’m not going anywhere, sweetheart. Just getting you cleaned up, alright? You’ve had a big day. You’ve been so brave.”

Dick let out a hiccuping squeak, sucking harder on the bottle like it might muffle his sobs. His tears just kept falling.

Slowly, slowly, Bruce worked his way through Dick’s suit. His shirt was rumpled, clinging with cold sweat and tears. His pants were twisted from how tightly he’d curled up in Bruce’s lap. He eased them all off carefully, whispering soft apologies each time Dick whimpered or flinched.

“S’okay,” Bruce soothed. “Just me, baby. Just Dada. Not gonna let go. Never ever.”

Dick finally let go of the bottle only when Bruce cupped both his cheeks to kiss his damp forehead. “Stay,” he rasped, voice raw. “Staystaystay—”

“I’m staying,” Bruce whispered instantly. “Right here. The whole time.”

Bruce lifted him into the water, but even then, Dick wouldn’t release his hands. The water sloshed gently as Bruce knelt by the tub, sleeves rolled, never letting go. He lathered up the sponge and cleaned Dick’s arms and chest and legs with such care, such reverence, as if he could wash away the heartbreak, too.

Usually, bathtime with Dick was all splashing and giggles. A war zone of floating ducks and Bruce pretending to get soap in his eyes. But tonight…

The bubbles felt too bright. The water too still. The only sound was the wet sniffle of a broken boy, and the constant soft murmur of a father’s reassurances:

“You didn’t do anything wrong.”

“You’re my son, always.”

“You can cry, baby. I’ve got you.”

“You’re allowed to call me Dada. Forever and always, baby boy.”

By the time Bruce lifted him out, Dick was practically boneless in his arms. Still sniffling, still sobbing, but exhausted. Bruce wrapped him up in the softest towel he could find, sky blue and plush, and kissed his damp hair again.

“You did so good, little bird. Dada’s so proud of you.”

Back in the bedroom, Bruce sat Dick down on the center of the bed just long enough to fetch the emergency little kit from the tall wardrobe. It had a section for every one of his kids, timed pacifiers, soft onesies, soothing creams, and calming drops, each with a tiny label in Alfred’s handwriting.

He laid Dick gently back on the bed. The boy's eyes fluttered in confusion and panic as soon as Bruce’s arms left him, but Bruce was back instantly, hands on his thighs, voice like a balm.

“Just putting your jammies on, baby. I’m right here. Right here.”

He worked quietly and quickly, murmuring to Dick with every motion. A dusting of powder. A soft wipe of lotion. The fluffy blue diaper was pulled snug and secured with tapes that had tiny little stars on them. Then came the snap-crotch onesie, frilly at the collar and wrists, pale as a robin’s egg. Bruce snapped the buttons gently, rubbing his knuckles across Dick’s belly afterward.

Then, at last, he picked him up again and returned to his place at the head of the bed, where he leaned back against the pillows and resumed rocking.

Dick was still crying.

Still.

His whole body trembled with it, and his fists kept curling into Bruce’s shirt, his sobs half-muffled against Bruce’s chest.

“I love you,” Bruce whispered, brushing his lips against Dick’s temple. “I love you so much, baby bird. You’ll always be mine. Always.”

He felt the stuttering breath, the way Dick clutched harder, and then the softest, tiniest whisper yet:

“D-d… Dada…”

Bruce didn’t cry. But his chest ached like it might.

“Yes,” he whispered, cradling Dick tighter. “Yes, baby. That’s right. I’m your Dada.”

And Dick, still crying, finally started to nurse again from the bottle Bruce offered, his sobs hitching between every few swallows, but the tension in his spine eased just a fraction as he rocked, wrapped in safety, tucked into the arms of the man who never should’ve let him fall in the first place.

---

The bottle emptied with a soft gurgle.

Bruce gently shifted it aside onto the nightstand, never moving from his place at the head of the bed. Dick lay limp against his chest, hiccuping softly between sobs, face sticky with tears and flushed from exhaustion. The tiniest bit of formula clung to the corner of his mouth. Bruce wiped it away with his thumb, slow and careful.

He kept rocking.

Back and forth. Back and forth.

The room was dim, warm with the low hum of the bedside lamp casting a golden glow. Bruce murmured soft nothings, just sounds of comfort now, nothing coherent. “Shhh… shhh, love you so much, baby boy… Daddy’s here, Daddy’s here…”

Dick’s hands were still balled in Bruce’s shirt. He hadn’t let go the whole time.

Even after finishing the bottle, even as Bruce’s arms curled tight around him and kept moving, Dick hadn’t stopped crying. He wasn’t sobbing hard anymore, just those helpless, endless whimpers of someone who had nothing left. It was like he didn’t trust the silence, like he didn’t believe this peace would last.

Bruce rocked until he felt Dick’s weight grow heavier, his breath finally evening out, not calm, never quite calm, but tired enough that sleep slipped in. His little face, flushed and damp, pressed under Bruce’s chin.

Only then did Bruce lie back against the pillows, curling on his side with Dick cradled against him. He didn’t bother pulling the blanket up. He just held him close, two arms wrapped securely around Dick’s little form in his frilly blue onesie, the soft padding of the diaper rustling slightly as he moved. Bruce’s legs curled protectively around him. He kissed the top of his head, over and over, whispering promises like prayers:

“You’re my son. My baby. You’re everything to me, Dickie. I'm not going anywhere. Never again.”

Eventually, sleep took him, too.

---

Sometime deep into the night, Bruce stirred with a jolt.

“...Dada?”

It was a whisper. Barely a breath. A whimper at first, like Dick was afraid to say it too loud.

Bruce blinked the sleep from his eyes, only to find Dick already halfway awake beside him, curled tightly against him like he never wanted to move again.

“Dada…” Dick whimpered again, like testing the word, as if he was afraid it would get taken from him.

“I’m here,” Bruce said instantly, voice soft, steady. His hand curled around Dick’s back and pulled him even closer, a hand carding gently through his sleep-wild hair. “Right here, baby. Daddy’s got you.”

Dick sniffled. “M’sorry…”

“No,” Bruce whispered, voice immediately breaking. “No, sweetheart, no. You don’t have anything to be sorry for.”

Dick shook his head. “I’m sorry you had to raise me. I know—I know I was hard. You didn’t… I wasn’t supposed to be yours. Not really. You shouldn’t have had to—”

“Baby, no—”

“I’ll stop,” Dick mumbled, blinking hard. “I’ll stop being Nightwing. I’ll stop pretending to be your son. You said you didn’t owe me the cowl, and you were right. I—I shouldn’t have acted like you owed me anything either. I’ll stop. I’ll stop everything. I promise.”

Bruce made a sound like he’d been punched in the stomach.

His arms wrapped tight around Dick’s smaller body, pulling him up against his chest so close it almost hurt. “No. No, baby, don’t say that. Don’t ever say that.”

Dick just cried harder. “But it’s true—”

“No,” Bruce said again, louder this time. His voice trembled, but he forced it out. “I was wrong. I was so wrong, Dickie. I didn’t mean what I said. I was scared. You were out there, getting hurt, and I—I lashed out, and I didn’t think. I hurt you. I didn’t mean to. I didn’t mean it, baby.”

Dick clung to him like he might disappear. He buried his face in Bruce’s chest and sobbed, little broken hiccups wracking his body, muffled against Bruce’s shirt.

“You are my son,” Bruce whispered fiercely. “You’ve always been my son. My first. My baby boy. Nothing can change that. Not Nightwing. Not the cowl. Not anything.”

Bruce could feel the tears sliding down his own cheeks. A few of them dropped onto Dick’s hair and cheek, but Bruce didn’t wipe them away. He didn’t say anything about them. He just held on, rocking slightly again even while lying down.

Dick’s sobs didn’t stop, but they softened slowly into sleepy sounds. Whimpers and small, shuddery breaths. Bruce stayed there, curled protectively around him, breathing in the scent of baby lotion and formula and tears. Watching the way Dick’s fingers curled tightly around the front of his shirt.

Even as Dick drifted, exhausted, into sleep again, he didn’t let go.

Bruce watched his flushed cheeks, the way his lips trembled in his sleep, the leftover tears on his lashes. His chest ached with the weight of guilt and love both, unbearable and endless.

“I love you, baby,” Bruce whispered into the dark. “So, so much.”

He kissed Dick’s forehead, then finally let his eyes close.

He didn’t sleep deeply. He just stayed there, heartbeat pressed to his son’s chest, listening to the little sleepy sobs as they slowly, slowly faded into the night.

---

The golden slant of early morning sun slipped through the heavy curtains, lighting the edges of the room in soft warmth. Bruce stirred first, slowly blinking awake, arms still wrapped around the warm weight of his son. Dick was curled against him, small and limp in sleep, breath puffing gently against Bruce’s chest. Tear tracks still stained his cheeks, but his brow had smoothed out sometime during the night.

Bruce didn’t move, not at first. He just stayed there, one hand moving gently through Dick’s dark hair, fingers brushing through the strands in a slow, careful rhythm.

He had said you’re not my son. He had meant it in fear, in anger, in the heat of something deep and wounded in himself, but hearing those words in Dick’s broken, whispered apology, watching his son curl up into himself with shame and grief—

It was unforgivable.

He pulled Dick a little closer, as if he could shield him even from the memory of it. His heart ached in a way he hadn’t let it ache in years, decades even. And yet, even with the guilt gnawing at his chest, he was filled with something else, something he didn’t often give himself the grace to feel.

Love. Gratitude. The weight of being lucky enough to hold his son like this.

He brushed Dick’s hair back from his forehead, watching him in the golden light. Eventually, Dick stirred. A small twitch of fingers. A shifting of weight. Bruce could tell the second his son started to surface, not from the way his eyes blinked open, but from the tension building in his shoulders. From the quiet way he clutched Bruce’s shirt like he didn’t know if he was still allowed to.

Bruce laid a warm hand on Dick’s back, rubbing gently.

“Morning, sweetheart,” he murmured. “You're okay.”

Dick blinked up at him slowly. His eyes were clearer than last night, but still red-rimmed and uncertain. Bruce could feel it, the hesitation, the vulnerability. Dick was right on the cusp. A single breath would tip him either way.

“Hey,” Bruce said softly. “Before anything else... we need to talk. You and me. As adults.”

Dick flinched slightly at that, but Bruce cupped the back of his head gently.

“Just for a little while,” Bruce added. “And after, if you want... if you trust me... I’d like to take care of you again. Baby you a little. You don’t have to say yes. But I want you to know that I want to.”

Dick’s throat bobbed as he nodded, still quiet. His breathing started to change, more controlled, sharper. More grown.

Bruce helped them both sit up, pillows behind their backs, the comforter pooling in their laps. Dick looked down at his hands, picking at the fabric. Bruce took a breath, steadying himself.

“I need to say something,” he began. “And I need you to let me finish before you say anything. Okay?”

Dick nodded silently.

Bruce reached out, took one of his hands, and held it.

“I meant what I said last night,” Bruce told him, voice trembling with the effort of truth. “You are my son. You've always been my son. You’ll always be. I was scared when I said otherwise. I was scared of losing you again. But that doesn’t excuse it. It doesn’t make it okay.”

Dick’s lips parted, but Bruce squeezed his hand.

“Let me finish,” he whispered. “Please.”

A beat. Then Dick nodded again.

“The day I got custody of you... that was the happiest day of my life. I hated how it happened, what was taken from you, but being your dad? That’s the best thing I’ve ever done. I didn’t know what I was doing. I was young, and scared, and angry at the world. But you—Dick, you made me a father. I didn’t know I could love someone like that until you came into my life.”

His voice cracked, but he pressed on.

“I loved raising you. Watching you grow. Every moment. And when you moved out, when we drifted apart—I tried to understand, I did—but it broke my heart. And when you let me back in, little by little... when we started to talk again... it meant more than I can say.”

Dick’s eyes were glassy again, but he didn’t look away.

“When I found out you regress,” Bruce continued, “I won’t lie—I was relieved. I was happy. Because I got the chance to hold my little boy again. To take care of you. And it’s not about control, or wanting you to stay small. It’s because... Dick, when you call me ‘Daddy,’ it’s the happiest I ever feel. You give me something I thought I’d lost forever.”

Bruce swallowed hard.

“So, no matter what I said before... I need you to know that those words will never come out of my mouth again. Not ever. Not even in fear. You’re my son. My first son. My baby. And it would mean everything to me if you’d let me keep being your dad. Your daddy. Because in my heart, I never stopped being.”

Silence.

Dick sat still, tears sliding down his face silently, his breath coming in small, hitching gasps. He opened his mouth, closed it, tried again.

“...Can I still call you that?” he asked, voice impossibly soft. “Call you Daddy?”

Bruce let out a breath like he’d been underwater for hours.

“Of course, sweetheart. Of course you can. I’m Daddy forever. Don’t forget that.”

Dick didn’t answer, not with words.

He climbed into Bruce’s lap and clung, fingers gripping his shirt as his frame began to shrink, fold inward, soften. His face crumpled as he melted back into regression, and Bruce held him close, rocking him gently back and forth.

“You can be tiny now,” Bruce whispered into his hair. “I’ve got you. Daddy’s got you.”

Dick whimpered once, then buried his face in Bruce’s chest.

He was safe now. In Daddy’s arms.

And Daddy loved him.

---

HOLY MACARONI, DUDE!!! THAT WAS SO HARD TO WRITE!!!!

I wrote 3 different versions before I was somewhat okay with it. And I still don't love how it ended up being, but I just lost over 40 fanfics I hadn't saved, so now I'm too sad to care. Ops.

Anyways, I hope this was at least okay...

@shortsquatch3, @queertrashcrow, please help me out here. Is this passable at least??

PLEASE, let me know what you guys think about his one. I'm really not a fan, but I DID try.

Okay, that's it. Talk to me, my lovelies!

[gendiebrainrotreceipts]

Good morning.

I saw you say that you aren't getting many anon haters anymore. I thought I would contribute.

1. Your focus on helping women is wrong because there are ACTUAL PEOPLE in the world suffering. I am very progressive.

2. Why improve anything if you can't fix everything? Check and mate.

3. Be kind. Just be kind. Wouldn't the world be so much nicer if women, i mean everyone, was kind? I think you should be 50000x more nicer to your opponents. They do not need to change however because they are on the ✨️right side of history✨️ i decided.

4. Ummm threat of violence. It's justified tho bc I'm right and you're a mean uppity woman.

5. Omfg please??? Please? I'm literally saying please to you right now so you have to do it or you're mean&cruel!!!!!

6. Slur. If you take it personally/call me out I'll ridicule you for being offended. I literally only insulted you, god, so sensitive. 🙄

7. Defend yourself to me! I am positioning myself in the role of judge, looking down on you waaaaay down there beneath me. Justify yourself to me in detail while I pick apart every detail, move the goalposts constantly, and condescend freely. You have to be polite though or you lose.

In conclusion: I am right and you are wrong. I'll be waiting for you to delete your blog, which i know you must in the face of my overwhelming and superior logic.

Thanks, be sure to send the same message again every month until one of us dies

[olenvasynyt]

I was tagged by @themadmorrigan for WIP Wednesday! Thank youuuu 💕

This is for Eris Week! It is a few years into the human War and Eris needs important information from a prisoner. Fortunately or unfortunately, that means he has to get his secret-lover Ensel’s help, Beron’s daemati and half-human servant who has to obey the High Lord’s every order.

“I don’t recall getting a letter asking for an audience with me, Eris.”

“No, I’m sorry, High Lord. I came with a request.”

He forced himself to pause, waiting for his father’s permission to continue. He could very well refuse. Say that nothing he does is as important as a High Lord’s busy schedule. Send him out like a scolded boy and go back to drinking and planning parties while the war rages on.

Beron placed his hand on his fist and gazed down at him with a bored expression. “What brings you here, my son?”

“I have a Hybern captain who has information that is pertinent to our position in the war, but my usual methods of interrogation have been futile.” He hesitated. “I need Ensel.”

Ensel’s eyes remained emotionless as he gazed at him from his corner. Beron glanced over at him before turning to Eris. “It is necessary that Ensel continues to remain at my side for security reasons.”

Security reasons. What a fucking lie. Ensel was insufficient with a sword or spear or bow, since he was never allowed to train or even touch a weapon. Beron kept Ensel close for two reasons and two reasons only: to fuel his paranoia and pretentiousness, and to keep him out of Eris’s hands. “I can bring my prisoner here, then. It gives you an opportunity to see my work.”

“Your work,” his father mused. “Your work, from how you describe it, has been unsatisfactory for the past two months, so I am not sure if I want to witness it.” He sighed, drumming his fingers against the gnarled armrest of his throne. “I am quite disappointed that your usual methods have been unsuccessful.”

“I am as well.” No excuses, no apologies—Beron saw weakness in both.

A smile curled at Beron’s lip. He studied him for a moment before turning to his daemati. “Ensel.”

Ensel’s dark eyes were still fixed on Eris. “Yes, High Lord.”

Gods, his crooning voice was so quiet, so perfectly cool and self-assured. Eris forced his hands behind his back, knowing what Beron was about to do.

“Tell me what he is thinking,” he ordered. “And answer truthfully.”

At first, Eris felt nothing. Then, like Ensel’s magic slid into him before hitting a barrier.

I know you can open yourself up to me a little bit more than that, Eris, Ensel’s amused voice said against the walls of his mind.

Clenching his fists at his sides, he lifted the barrier an inch to allow Ensel further in, only enough so that he could give a proper answer.

Cauldron fucking boil him… it was like a hand slipping its way through his clothes, searching for any bit of vulnerable skin. He didn’t realize such a feeling could arouse him like this, especially one so invasive. So personal in the way it stripped him bare of his dignity and power. Eris closed his eyes and took a breath.

“Well?” Beron demanded.

The daemati tilted his head. “He is very frustrated. And angry.”

“Of course he is. Tell me, Ensel: is he angry with me?”

“I suppose so. But he knows he’s at your mercy. He’s angry with this War, and he wants it over with so desperately that he is willing to do anything.”

Beron chuckled at that, as if his daemati said some witty joke. “Anything?”

Ensel bowed his head mockingly. “Anything, my Lord.”

It was the truth. Eris was willing to do anything to end this fucking War, including burning this fucking throne to the ground along with his cowardly father and taking what he needed. But of course Ensel omitted that thought. Eris prayed Beron would not prod it any further.

Ensel’s eyes burned into him. “He thinks,” he continued slowly, “about how much he misses home and his mother. He was thinking of going to her after the meeting—to eat a meal with her, since he hasn’t done so for so long. But he decided against it. He doesn’t want her to see the blood on his hands.”

Surprise as well as pleasure shot through Eris, even as his body shrunk inward. He didn’t expect Ensel to utilize his thoughts of his mother, even though they had sat on the surface of his mind. It was quite clever. He managed to see every inch of him, to pick apart what he needed and lay it out to Beron like a carefully composed painting. He kept his face blank as he looked to his father for a reaction.

The High Lord contemplated him for a moment, his chin resting on his fist and his eyes narrow and amused. “He’s just a boy in this war,” Beron said quietly. “A boy who misses his mother.”

It was a slight. Beron’s coy sneer was evidence of that. Frustration crawled over Eris’s skin, but he shoved the feeling away.

There was a moment of silence as his father studied him. Then suddenly, Beron said, “Fine. You will bring this Hybern captain to the House and Ensel will assist you. If you need added security to ensure a safe transfer, then Raivis will supply males to assist you.”

Thank you for tagging me! There’s a few minutes left for Wednesday haha but here’s some no pressure tags if someone still wants to share! @clockwork-ashes @the-darkestminds @jon-snows-man-bun @buffy-vanserra @clarafae @nocasdatsgay @irithiadourden

[nogoodmoony]

"she's clearly a gryffindor, Lupin."

these four boys, you thought, were the kindest thing God had made, they were all so different yet so similar.

James was kind and soft and warm in a way you had only ever heard about in books and movies but never believed was possible to be true, he knew that, hence sometimes he'd make cocky remarks.

Sirius was bold and loud and dramatic, he'd scoff and use such fancy words that you were sure even the dictionary would fail to understand, but his eyes were always the mirror of his true thoughts.

Remus was quiet and calm and probably the one who kept the former two's ego anchored. you noticed his book, the one he is trying to read for so long but fails to because of all the chaos the other two are making.

then there's Peter, the one whom you trusted in the beginning, these 3 boys, for some reason are too good, too perfect, but Peter looks...normal, Peter with his missing tooth and fidgety fingers, Peter who talks about chess and plants and laughs with James when Sirius dramatically scoffs and mutters something in what you assume to be french.

but one thing was common in all of them, even though it had only been a few hours since you entered this cabin, it was clear to you, that no matter how different they are from one another, their love for each other is exactly the same.

"hey", you are pulled out of your thoughts and find James looking at you, "we will reach in sometime, why dont you go and change into your robes, yeah?". you nod and hurry out of the cabin.

once the door closes behind you, the air shifts a little, "who do you think those boys were?", Peter asks.

"i bet they were those Slytherins, no other house would treat a literal 11 year old that way.", Sirius answers with a hard expression.

"there's no point bringing this up now, we can't do anything about it, lets just hope they leave her alone now onwards.", Remus says, clearly wiser among the lot.

"and if they dare disturb her again, i would fight them, since she's definitely going to be a Gryffindor, i will know where she is and if she's in trouble."

" we dont know for sure if she would be sorted into Gryffindor, Black. Given the way she was fixing Pete's band-aids and sharing her "special sweets", seems like a Hufflepuff to me."

"she's clearly a Gryffindor, Lupin." , Sirius says back like its obvious. " she got bullied, she got hurt, and yet dragged that gigantic suitcase all the way here, didn't cry, not even while telling us what had happened, that's the kind of bravery and strength you can only see in a Gryffindor."

remus just shakes his head and smiles, knowing there's no end to this conversation, right then you enter and Sirius chuckles.

"aww look at you, didn't understand how to wear the robe? " ,its true, you didn't know how to properly wear it, you had never seen any clothes like this, forget about wearing.

" wait, let me fix it." Sirius says while getting up and then starts fixing your robes.

"there, all better now isn't it- hey, Regulus!”,you look back to see a boy, looking extremely similar to sirius, standing at the cabin door, in robes just like yours.

"hey, what happened? you need something? " Sirius asks the boy while fixing his hair.

"no."

" well i am glad you came here either way, want you to meet someone.", Sirius says while gesturing towards you.

"she's a first year like you."

you smile, finally meeting someone your age, you step forward, hold out your hand and introduce yourself, "hello, you must be Sirius' younger brother!”

" get away from me!" Regulus says, his tone harsh and you somehow keep yourself from flinching, your smile falls as you watch him walk away.

"Regulus, come back what's wrong?” Sirius yells behind him, but the younger boy doesn't look back.

"dont mind him, sweetheart. he's not the exactly the friendliest person, its not your fault okay?”

"what if i dont get sorted in Gryffindor, will i not see you all then?”,you ask in a small voice, already imagining what would happen if this were to be true.

you mutter a hmm and return to your seat, waiting for the castle to arrive, thinking about what would your life be if you get sorted into those boys' house, or even in the same with Regulus.

"oh honey." James coos, "no matter what house you get in, we will still see you, everyday okay, and you will tell us all about your day and your new friends, hm?, you see, we aren't easy to get rid off, even if you want to." he ends with a wink and the same grin he gave you when he called you the first time.

and just like that, the castle comes into view, and for once in this long long train ride, you feel calm.