#is to check off at least three of these things

[fleurriee]

— glasses ; clark kent

pairing ; clark kent x fem!reader

synopsis ; you love to steal clark’s glasses, and clark loves it, too.

themes ; fluff!!! established relationship

warnings ; none!

author’s note ; i’ve not even seen the movie yet… but i’ve seen david & that’s all i need to know. this man is my new obsession <3

main masterlist request a fic!

The first time you stole Clark’s glasses, you weren’t really thinking. You were exhausted, riding on a caffeine crash, and seated across from him in the Daily Planet cafeteria when he took them off to rub his eyes. You reached out without thinking, plucked them from the table, and slipped them onto your face.

“Hey,” he said, blinking at you with a dazed expression, squinting adorably like he couldn’t quite place your features. “Do you… need those?”

“No,” you said, lips twitching. “I just wanted to know what it felt like to wear the most iconic glasses in Metropolis.” You tilted your head playfully, giving him a mock serious expression. “Do I look like a hard-hitting reporter now?”

He stared for a second longer than necessary, like his brain had short-circuited. “You… actually look really cute.”

“Cuter than you when you wear them?” you teased.

Clark laughed softly and shook his head, cheeks faintly pink. “You’re impossible.”

“Correct,” you replied without missing a beat.

He leaned across the table and carefully took the glasses back from you, brushing his fingers along your temple in a gentle, practiced way. Then, as if it were completely normal, he kissed you right on the nose.

You blinked, stunned into silence, while he settled the glasses back on his face like he hadn’t just short-circuited your nervous system with a barely-there kiss and an overly sincere smile.

And that was the beginning of it.

You started doing it all the time — at home, at the office, in line for coffee. You’d steal his glasses during movie night on the couch, or lean across your desks at work and swipe them with a grin. Clark would always blink, confused and squinting, and then smile like he’d been waiting for it. He’d take them back gently every time, with a kiss to your nose or cheek or forehead. It became a quiet ritual, something soft and wordless that filled the spaces between you. He never told you to stop.

What you didn’t know was that he loved it.

Every time you wore them, looking slightly ridiculous in frames too big for your face, he couldn’t look away. He thought you looked adorable — like a mischief-maker playing dress-up, like the person he loved most in the world, wearing a tiny piece of him. It made him feel seen. Known. Yours.

So when he came home one quiet Friday night, saw you curled on the couch in one of his flannels and his glasses perched on your nose while you scrolled through his laptop, something warm and uncontainable filled his chest.

“Hey, Smallville,” you said with a smirk, barely glancing up.

Clark walked in slowly, loosening his tie and setting his briefcase down. “Again?”

“Journalistic research,” you said, still clicking around his article drafts. “I’m checking for typos. Also, for potential puns. You committed at least three crimes of headline punning this week.”

“I thought I was getting better,” he said, slipping beside you on the couch. His hand found your knee, rubbing gentle circles.

“You are. But ‘Krypt-onite to Crime’ is a stretch, baby.”

“I was proud of that one,” he said with mock offense.

You grinned and adjusted his glasses on your nose. “By the way, these things still slide off my face. I’m beginning to think you’ve got superhero ears holding them up.”

He leaned in, brushing your hair back with a quiet smile. “They’re not built for someone as perfect as you.”

“You trying to butter me up so I’ll give them back?”

“Would it work?”

You turned toward him, eyes locked. “…Maybe.”

He leaned forward and, as always, kissed your nose before gently removing the glasses. You sighed dramatically and let him take them, your fingertips grazing his.

“You’re such a dork,” you murmured affectionately.

“You love it,” he replied, pressing another kiss to your temple.

The next morning, you woke up slowly, warm and heavy with sleep. Clark was already gone from bed, but a note lay folded on your pillow in his neat, careful handwriting.

“Stay in bed. I’m making breakfast. Don’t worry — I didn’t burn anything. Yet. Love you. — C”

You smiled and padded into the kitchen, still in his T-shirt, hair a mess and eyes half-open. The smell of pancakes and something sweet filled the air. Clark stood by the stove, humming quietly, dressed in pajama pants and a hoodie, spatula in hand and flour on his cheek.

“You’re domestic,” you said, leaning on the counter.

“You’re early,” he teased. “I was going to bring it to you.”

“You’re covered in flour.”

“I got ambitious,” he admitted with a grin. “Banana chocolate chip pancakes. I even used the good syrup.”

“You’re trying to win Best Boyfriend 2025, aren’t you?”

“I already won,” he said, kissing your forehead and handing you a mug of coffee.

As you wandered into the living room with your cup, something on the coffee table caught your eye — a small, black velvet box tied with a red ribbon.

You blinked, heart picking up pace. “Clark?”

“Yeah?”

“What’s this?”

He glanced over from the stove. “Open it.”

You sat slowly on the edge of the couch and untied the ribbon, fingers brushing the soft velvet as you opened the box. Inside, wrapped in a soft cloth, was a pair of glasses — not his, not exactly. The frames were a familiar dark tortoiseshell, stylish but classic — just like his — but smaller. Made for you, lenses perfectly clear.

Beneath them, folded neatly, was a note in his handwriting.

“So I can always picture you in my heart.”

P.S. These ones won’t slip down your nose.

Your breath caught.

He walked over quietly, pancakes forgotten, watching you with that earnest, gentle look that always undid you. “You always borrowed mine,” he said. “And I loved it — I loved how you looked in them, I loved how it felt, watching you wear something that’s so… me. Like you were saying without words that you’re mine, and I wanted to give you a pair that’s just yours. But still… a little bit mine, too.”

You looked up, heart thudding, holding the glasses like they were made of crystal. Slowly, you slid them on, and he stared like he couldn’t breathe.

“Well?” you said softly. “Do they look okay?”

He stepped closer, hands sliding around your waist. “You look like everything I’ve ever wanted.”

You kissed him then, slow and sweet, letting the glasses press lightly against the bridge of your nose as you leaned in. He tasted like syrup and safety and a hundred mornings you wanted to spend just like this. His hands found the small of your back, pulling you closer until you were wrapped around him, smiling against his mouth.

When you pulled back, you rested your forehead against his. “You’re ridiculous.”

“Guilty,” he murmured.

“And romantic.”

“Also guilty.”

“And completely, hopelessly mine.”

“Always,” he whispered, brushing your cheek with the back of his fingers.

You spent the rest of the morning wrapped in each other’s arms on the couch, your legs tangled beneath a blanket, pancakes balanced on your laps, your new glasses perched on your nose. Clark kept sneaking glances at you, grinning every time like he couldn’t help it. He didn’t say much, but his eyes said everything.

Later, when he thought you weren’t looking, you caught him taking a photo of you — soft lighting, sleepy smile, coffee in hand.

“You trying to blackmail me with cuteness?”

“No,” he said quietly, setting his phone down. “I just want to remember the first time I saw you like this.”

“Like what?”

“Like you really believe it,” he said. “That I love you.”

Your throat tightened. You reached for his hand, lacing your fingers through his.

“I do believe it,” you said. “More than anything.”

He smiled, brushing his thumb across your knuckles. “Good, because I don’t plan on ever stopping.”

You leaned into him, warm and full and entirely at peace, the soft frames of your new glasses slipping just slightly as you buried your face in his chest.

And for once, he didn’t reach to straighten them.

He just held you closer.

[bbywhitefox123]

Can we get one where Cath is just so overwhelmed with all the kids, and she’s just annoyed about ready to cry and Rafe has a rough day at work and takes it out on her maybe? Like a small comment leads to a big argument? Please 🙏

Summary: catherine’s got paint on the floor, juice on her dress, and four chaotic kids tearing the house apart. rafe gets home from work and all it takes is one sharp comment before they’re arguing, fucking, and arguing again. the aftermath? sticky thighs and traumatized kids.

Warnings: NSFW (smut), rough sex, domestic angst, emotionally exhausted parents, explicit language, publick-ish sex, kitchen sex, light hair pulling, light chocking,

MASTERLIST

Catherine was on her knees in the kitchen, scrubbing dried tempera paint off the tile with one gloved hand while gripping a rag in the other. Her sundress, once white with little yellow lemons, now clung damp to her hips—Mason had knocked over his cup of red juice in the morning, and she hadn’t had the time to change. Or breathe. The TV blared from the living room—Maisie’s stupid cartoon songs were at full volume—and upstairs, the boys were at it again, Mason yelling something about “you always touch my LEGOs,” while Bradley launched into a shrill defense of molecules or magnets or some other scientific thing that didn’t matter right now.

“Mom!” Lara’s voice rang out from the laundry room, laced with that spoiled, bratty tone she had perfected. “Where are my sparkly tights? I need the gold ones! I’m not wearing the silver ones! You said I could wear the gold ones!”

Cath closed her eyes for a second, rubber glove still gripping the rag, and felt the sting build behind her eyes. Her back ached. Her temples throbbed. She had spent three hours that morning driving around to five different stores hunting for a specific goddamn tutu because Lara had refused to go to ballet without it. Then at school pickup, the principal had taken her aside to inform her that Mason had gotten detention again, and Bradley had been talking about wormholes or rocket fuel or something with such relentless enthusiasm it made the other kids cry.

And now the house was wrecked. Her body hurt. Her mind was fried. And Maisie had used her watercolor set like war paint on her marble floor.

The door clicked open behind her.

Rafe stepped in, shoulders slumped, tie hanging loose around his neck like a noose, dress shirt wrinkled, jaw clenched. His hair was a mess, the way it always got when he was stressed at work—he probably spent the whole day in meetings with people he hated, fake-smiling until his mouth went numb. He tossed his keys into the bowl by the door and started pulling off his jacket.

“Babe, can you check on Lara?” Catherine asked without looking up. No kiss. No welcome. Just the edge of desperation in her voice, the kind of exhaustion that’s half whisper, half scream.

Rafe paused, blinking. “Can I at least get through the door first?”

She looked back at him then, her glove slapping against the floor. Her sundress was bunched high on her thighs, and her ass was round and full in that way he never stopped thinking about—even now, angry, she was beautiful. But her eyes were sharp.

“I’ve been here, Rafe,” she snapped. “All day. You just got through the door, but I never left. I’ve been in the door, on the floor, under the laundry, in the goddamn trenches since seven a.m!”

Rafe exhaled. “Jesus, Cath, I’m not saying you haven’t. I just walked in—”

“And you get to walk in,” she bit out, standing now, glove hanging off one hand, cheeks flushed. “You get to walk in and take your jacket off and sigh and be so tired. I haven’t even peed alone today. You want to switch? Want to find sparkly tights and clean up floor art and explain black holes to a kid who thinks he’s smarter than Stephen Hawking?”

He stepped closer, that thing in him beginning to rise—something hot and sharp and male.

“Don’t come at me like that,” he said low. “Don’t turn this into some pissing contest. I’ve been killing myself out there for all of us.”

“Right,” she laughed bitterly. “You’ve been killing yourself with catered lunch and AC. Meanwhile, I’m knee-deep in kid piss and glitter.”

“You’re unbelievable right now.”

“And you’re—”

He grabbed her wrist, yanked the glove off with a wet pop, and pinned her hand against the counter. Her mouth parted in protest, but he was already on her, kissing her like punishment, like apology, like he couldn’t fucking stand her and also couldn’t breathe without her.

“Rafe—”

“No,” he muttered, sliding her dress up over her hips, not even bothering with ceremony. “This is what you want, isn’t it? You want to pick a fight, scream at me, get me riled up so I’ll fuck you until you remember who you’re talking to.”

“Fuck you,” she hissed, squirming against him.

“Then let me fuck you.”

His fingers found the curve of her ass, the soaked-through cotton of her ruined underwear, and he groaned. “You didn’t even change after the juice?”

“Didn’t get the chance,” she breathed, clinging to him now.

He turned her around, bent her over the counter without another word. The boys were still yelling upstairs, Maisie’s TV still played, and Lara could be heard kicking over a laundry basket with a shriek. But here—here, Rafe held her down like he needed her to stay grounded, to remember who she was beneath all the screaming and wiping and cleaning.

His belt came undone fast. He didn’t even pull her panties down all the way, just shoved them aside, and pushed into her with one deep thrust that made her whimper and bite her glove just to keep from yelling.

“Always talkin’ back,” he growled in her ear. “Always think you don’t need me. Then you melt like this the second I give it to you.”

Catherine gasped, nails digging into the counter. She hated how true it felt. How good it felt to be taken, claimed, seen.

“Don’t stop,” she panted. “Please don’t stop.”

Rafe didn’t. His grip on her hips was bruising now, fingers dug into the soft flesh as he fucked her hard, rough, unforgiving—the kind of rhythm that was less about pleasure and more about power. About control. About the two of them being so goddamn overwhelmed by everything they couldn’t say, they had to speak it through skin.

“You say that now,” he gritted out, voice low and mean, “but you’re gonna be crying in a minute. Always run your mouth ‘til you can’t take it.”

She shot him a look over her shoulder, hair sticking to her sweat-slicked cheek. “I take more than you ever give me.”

“Bullshit,” he snapped, slamming into her harder, making her gasp. “You take everything from me—my time, my sleep, my fucking sanity.”

“And you think you don’t?” she barked back, her voice cracking under the weight of it all. “I gave you four kids, Rafe. I gave you my life.”

“And I gave you mine,” he growled, grabbing a fistful of her hair, forcing her to arch back into him. “Don’t stand there and act like I’ve had it easy. I’m out there breaking my back just to keep us from falling apart.”

“We’re already falling apart,” she spat, breath hitching as he drove into her again. “You just can’t see it because you’re never fucking home.”

He yanked her up, chest to her back now, hand around her throat—not choking, just holding, like he was trying to keep her from vanishing. His mouth was against her ear, his voice a rasp. “You think this is easy for me? You think I want to miss everything?”

“You’re missing me,” she whispered, and that was the first thing that landed like a gut punch. It cracked something open in both of them.

But he didn’t stop. His hand slid between her legs, fingers rough and fast as he worked her while fucking her, breathing hard in her ear.

“I’m right here, Catherine,” he muttered. “So don’t tell me I’m missing you. You just forgot how to see me.”

“I see you, baby” she gasped, shuddering now, her legs starting to give. “I see you.”

And God, she hated how good he felt inside her—how every snap of his hips burned like fire under her skin, how she could hate him and need him at the same time. He was the only one who could tear her apart like this and then kiss her like she was holy.

He slammed into her again, her body jerking with it, the slap of skin loud and filthy in the chaos of the house.

“You want me to stop now?” he asked, cruel and breathless.

“No,” she whimpered, sobbing a little now. “Don’t you dare.”

He let go of her throat and pushed her back down against the counter, pounding into her mercilessly, his hand slapping the side of her ass—hard, sharp, the kind of hit that stung.

“You drive me fucking crazy, Cath.”

“You are crazy,” she spat back, even as her voice broke. “You’ve always been crazy.”

“Yeah?” His voice was ragged now. “Then you must be insane for staying.”

“Maybe I am.”

“You like this, don’t you?” He was grunting now, on the edge. “You like it when I fuck the attitude out of you.”

She couldn’t answer. Her jaw was slack, her eyes rolling back, the coil in her belly wound tight enough to snap.

He reached down and grabbed her chin, forcing her head up. “Say it.”

“I—” Her voice hitched. “I like it. I like it when you fuck me when you’re mad at me.”

He groaned, low and deep, losing himself in it. “You make me so fucking mad, Cath.”

“Good,” she snapped. “Then do something about it.”

He did.

He held her down and fucked her through it—through the mess, through the noise, through the rage. And when she came, it was with a cry she couldn’t swallow, shaking like she was going to fall apart. He came a second later, buried deep, growling her name like a threat and a prayer.

They stayed like that for a moment—panting, ruined, pressed together in the middle of the chaos.

Upstairs, something crashed.

Maisie’s cartoon looped again.

In the laundry room, Lara screamed, “I said gold, not silver!”

Catherine finally let out a breathless laugh. It was half hysterical.

Rafe leaned his forehead against the back of her neck and muttered, “We’re fucked.”

She nodded. “Completely.”

But when she turned around, his eyes were on her again—not angry now, just exhausted and raw.

“Still love you,” he said quietly.

“Still hate you sometimes,” she replied, just as soft.

They kissed like they meant both.

Rafe’s hands cupped her face, thumbs sweeping along her jaw as if he could memorize her through touch. He didn’t want to stop. Didn’t want to come back to the real world yet.

Her hands were working between them, quick and practiced—tugging his pants back up over his hips even as he tried to keep her mouth on his. She reached for his belt, threading it back through with one hand while the other pressed to his chest, half pushing, half grounding him.

“Baby,” he whispered against her lips. “Just—one more second.”

But her breath was already gone. Her lips pulled away. “Nope. They’re coming.”

He groaned, holding her face like he might pull her right back in, but she was already smoothing down her dress, wiping her inner thigh with a paper towel like a war medic patching herself up between battles.

The door to the kitchen banged open just as Rafe got his belt buckled.

Mason stormed in first, fists balled, cheeks red, eyes wild.

“I want my own room!” he shouted. “I’m done with his molecule bullshit! He doesn’t shut up!”

Bradley followed behind, looking smug in his science T-shirt, a juice box in hand. “It wasn’t even about molecules, it was about dark matter, and he doesn’t understand because he refuses to learn basic principles of physics!”

“Because it’s stupid!” Mason yelled. “You’re stupid! And I hate sharing a room with you!”

“Hey, no cursing under my roof,” Rafe barked, stepping forward, his voice low and dangerous. “Try it again and see what happens.”

Mason folded his arms but looked at the floor, already sulking.

Catherine stood behind Rafe, hands on her hips, expression blank—beyond tired, beyond annoyed. She was seconds from giving up and letting the house implode. And then—

Bradley tilted his head, squinting at her legs.

“Um,” he said slowly. “Did Maisie throw up on your leg?”

Rafe blinked.

Catherine blinked.

Rafe turned to glance at her, and sure enough—despite the paper towel and the panic-clean-up, a glistening trail still ran down the inside of her thigh, just barely catching the light.

Catherine closed her eyes.

Rafe turned back to Bradley.

“Go to your room.” His voice was flat. Final. He didn’t even yell.

“But—”

“Go. Now.”

Bradley opened his mouth again, then thought better of it and turned on his heel, dragging Mason with him by the shirt collar.

Mason yelled, “You’re not smarter than me, just ‘cause you have books in your bed!”

Their footsteps thundered upstairs. A door slammed. Then another. Then silence—blessed, fragile, temporary silence.

Rafe exhaled and dragged his hand down his face. “Jesus Christ.”

Catherine grabbed a new paper towel, this time not even bothering to hide it. She lifted the hem of her dress again, wiped herself, tossed the towel in the trash like she was filing for divorce.

“I’m burning this house down,” she said flatly.

Rafe looked at her, chest rising and falling, still dazed from what just happened.

“Let me get the gas can,” he said. “You want me to start upstairs or in the laundry room?”

She stared at him.

And then, as if they weren’t both standing there reeking of sex and barely-hinged rage, she cracked—laughing, sharp and bitter and breathless.

Rafe smiled. Just a little.

“C’mere,” he said, grabbing her around the waist and pulling her back against his chest.

“No,” she said, eyes still shut as she leaned into him. “We don’t have time.”

He kissed the side of her head anyway.

In the living room, Maisie yelled, “I took off all my clothes because they were itchy!”

And somewhere in the laundry room, a small avalanche of tights and socks hit the floor.

Rafe sighed. “I’ll deal with it.”

“You’re a good man,” Catherine muttered.

“I’m trying,” he whispered. “Even if I just filled you up a little too good and traumatized our sons.”

She groaned into his chest. “Don’t remind me.”

Too late.

Rafe leaned down and kissed Catherine again—soft this time, lingering, nothing like before. Just a quiet promise between the chaos. Her hand brushed his jaw as he pulled away, and for one fragile moment, she forgot the floor, the screaming, the stains on her thighs.

“I’ll check on the girls,” he murmured, already heading out of the kitchen.

He always had a soft spot for them. It was in the way his voice changed when Lara was crying or when Maisie babbled nonsense from her play mat. He spoiled them without hesitation—extra marshmallows in their cereal, a thousand sparkly hair clips, saying yes even when Cath gave him the look. The boys made him strict, sharp, but the girls made him soft.

Catherine bit her lip as she watched him go, the ache between her legs not yet gone, her heart tugging in opposite directions. She loved him. God, she loved him—but love didn’t clean the goddamn floor.

Her smile faded as she turned and looked down.

The paint was still there—Maisie’s whole Jackson Pollock moment smeared across the tile in blues and greens. The rag she’d dropped earlier was stuck to the floor, half-dried. She sighed, bent down again, and pulled her pink glove back on with a snap, cursing under her breath as she scrubbed.

Upstairs, the boys were less settled than she hoped.

Mason was back on business, bouncing on Bradley’s bed like it was a trampoline. Bradley had his science book open, eyebrows furrowed as he tried to ignore the vertical chaos across from him.

“Brad,” Mason said, suddenly dropping to sit cross-legged at the foot of the bed. “What was that… that thing on Mom’s leg?”

Bradley didn’t look up. “What thing?”

“The shiny stuff. Like slime or wax or whatever. It was all drippy. I don’t think Maisie threw up like—like… it didn’t smell funky.”

Bradley blinked, slowly looking up from his book.

“I don’t think that was throw up either.”

“Well, what was it?” Mason leaned in, serious now. “Do women do that? Like, melt? Like candles or something? ‘Cause of periods?”

Bradley stared at him, mouth slightly open.

“I know a few things about periods,” Mason added with a shrug, like he was an expert on the female reproductive system by virtue of having six serious girlfriends by the age of twelve.

“Ew,” Bradley muttered.

“Shut up and just tell me,” Mason whispered automatically, eyes wide.

Bradley sighed and snapped his book shut. “First of all, that’s not how periods work.”

Mason tilted his head. “Are you sure?”

“Positive. It wasn’t… that.” Bradley swallowed. “I think… that was probably… Dad.”

Mason went quiet for a second.

“Like… Dad’s… science?”

Bradley nodded, face dead serious. “Dad’s science.”

Mason made a noise of horror and rolled onto his back, hands over his face.

“Ughhhhhh. That’s so gross. I touched the floor in the kitchen!”

“Don’t ever say anything. Ever.” Bradley pointed at him like he was sealing a pact. “If you say a word, we’re dead.”

Then they both fell silent, staring at the ceiling, the weight of horrifying adult discovery heavy between them.

[suzukiblu]

WIP excerpt for Tabetha Rasa behind the cut; "superbat apiary". content notes: apiary dynamics, not QUITE feral behavior but definitely mentally-compromised behavior. (( chrono || non-chrono ))

“I really don’t feel like that’s the issue here, honey,” Lois says. “I very much do not feel like that’s the issue here, in fact.” 

“But he doesn’t like me!” Clark says helplessly, and barely keeps himself from buzzing about it again. Or–vibrating, technically. Technically it’s vibrating, he guesses. 

He doesn’t know, it just feels like buzzing. 

Well–he thinks it does. 

“You are one of the, like, three things not his kids that he does like, Clark,” Lois says, frowning consideringly as she taps her pen against her notepad. 

“Which he doesn’t want any of from me!” Clark says, throwing his hands up in frustration again. “He has so many and he doesn’t want even one from me! I–one sec again, sorry.” 

He’s still in his suit, at least, so he only has to slip into super-speed this time, and four seconds later he’s fishing Stalker and Wonder Girl out of both the ballpit and the pile of alarmingly strong and extremely aggressive animatronics that they were just suffocating under while Spoiler was shrieking some very creative curse words and hitting with Stalker’s bo staff. The animatronics, Clark means, not Stalker and Wonder Girl. 

. . . well, mostly not Stalker and Wonder Girl. 

Clark kicks one of the . . . yes, no, those are definitely the Freddies or whatever they were called from that game Jon spent six months of last year scaring himself with Let’s Plays of . . . Clark kicks one of the Freddies out of the ballpit and into the whack-a-mole machine, which goes off flashing and wailing with alarms, and then retreats with Stalker and Wonder Girl as the other Freddies lunge for them. 

Alright then, Clark thinks, then snatches up Spoiler and Impulse with his other arm and extracts all three of them from the . . . yes, it is an actual pizza place where they were just getting smothered by giant animatronics in the bottom of a ball pit. Again: alright, then. Still not the weirdest thing he’s ever had to deal with on the job, honestly. 

“Arrowette wasn’t with you, was she?” he checks, though he’s already X-raying the building even as he asks the question. “Or–sorry, that wasn’t a kind question, was it.” 

“We appreciate the thought, Superman, but she did very decisively quit, yes,” Stalker says. “And also she’s on house arrest at least until the official sentencing hearing. So no, it’s just the four of us.” 

So the five of them, Clark translates reflexively, but the mist girl doesn’t really have to worry about physical injuries and has also apparently filled up the entire arcade with smoke and fog that appears to have left the animatronics all thrashing and twitching and screaming unholy demonic static as they all fall to pieces on the cheesy eighties-era carpet, so he decides not to worry about it. Kids need some room to work things out for themselves, and these kids have their secrets for understandable reasons, in his opinion. And, well, after everything with the DEO, and then the Arrowette incident . . . 

Definitely understandable, that Young Justice isn’t always particularly forthcoming about all of their teammates. 

“Does Batman know you’re not in Gotham this weekend?” Clark asks as he lets go of Wonder Girl and lets her take Impulse with her. Stalker and Spoiler he keeps holding himself, given they're both Bruce's. And anyway, Wonder Girl is their team’s only–well, their team’s only public flyer, anyway. They really could use another one of those, honestly, but they do have the Super-Cycle, he supposes. 

“I mean, probably, it’s Batman,” Spoiler says with a shrug, turning her hands up. “But beats us, Super-fly.” 

“Hm,” Clark says. “Well, Agent A’s making pot roast tonight, if you want a ride to the Batcave.” 

“Score, free pot roast!” Spoiler immediately whoops, throwing her hands up in the air. 

“. . . do we actually have a choice about the ride to the Batcave, Superman?” Stalker asks. 

“Well, yes,” Clark says. “But you’re probably worrying Batman by being out of town, and I just picked Red Robin and Arsenal up from a killbox about ten minutes ago, so I feel like he’s worried enough for one day already.” 

“. . . we’ll go to dinner,” Stalker sighs.

[lubnabowsandpoetry]

Stained Glass

Simon ''Ghost'' Riley x reader (angst, established relationship, people need to learn how to communicate, tw: unhealthy habits, ed)

You are absolutely necessary to Simon. He couldn't be happy without you. If only he knew how to show it. Every night he is plagued by his insomnia.

Ghost is yearning final boss you cannot convince me otherwise.

Part IV of Hollow Faces also on ao3

Falling into a restless slumber meant having to see you again.

It was as if you were permanently etched into his eyelids.

Her skin was glowing beneath the hot sun. Laying by the beach with a drink by her side and an untouched book. Something was off however, he noticed it right away. He couldn’t put his finger on it. It seemed like an innocent scene. The clouds started to get darker, the acid rain, cold and heavy, started to pour down. With her eyes closed she kept on laying on the sunbed as if the rain couldn’t harm her. Unable to reach her, he tried calling out to her, begging her to get up. His legs were stuck and sand started to fill up his mouth. He began to choke until his world shifted. Suddenly he was on a battlefield with blood gushing from his mouth. Crawling on his hands and knees he started searching for something. Was it her? Himself? He was as clueless as a child. Wandering the earth, still not understanding why he was alive.

His insomnia always got worse when it got hotter, especially now that he didn’t have you by his side. He thought he had gotten better. The nightmares were gone for a while. At least the army had issued an apartment for him to live in. It was nothing grand, but it was in a quiet part of the city and it wasn’t too uncomfortable. The apartment itself was lifeless, your decorative skills were missing and Simon couldn’t keep a plant alive even if he tried. So the place had the necessities and that was it. Going out with his team gave him a distraction that only lasted a couple of milliseconds. Until he would see a woman with hair like yours, or a woman with the same height as you, or the bartender who coincidentally wore a shirt you also owned. Everywhere he looked he saw you, you were everywhere and nowhere at once.

No calls, no texts, just radio silence. It had been three weeks without hearing your voice, three weeks since you yelled at him. Three weeks without you. Price noticed something was wrong when he saw Simon checking his phone every once in a while, he didn’t say anything, just raised his eyebrow at him. He knew Simon, he would talk to him when he felt ready.

One day a couple of days ago, you were at brunch with a couple of friends. The conversations were flowing while you were doing your best to maintain a smile. You didn’t want to rant about your relationship problems again, you didn’t want him to occupy your mind. One of your friends tapped you on the shoulder.

‘’What’s up?’’

‘’You like cats, I remember you been wanting one for a while.’’

It was true, but with everything going on with your relationship you had forgotten about it.

‘’So my mom took in this stray cat, like a year ago. Remember I told you about her, and that the cat was pregnant?’’

You didn’t.

You nodded anyways.

‘’Anyways, she gave birth a couple of months back and my mom is trying to give the cats away.’’

Instantly you felt a flare of hope for some brighter days. You needed something the fill the hole in your heart. You glanced at the cigarette resting in between your fingers. This could help you feel better than the other things you tried to stop the aching in your heart.

So now you had a black cat wandering in your living room. You named him Mishti. Simon never really had pets because he wasn’t home often, so there was no point in having an animal to take care of. You had the urge to take a picture of the adorable cat and send it to Simon before you realized you two weren’t talking.

Just like that your day was ruined. Everything came back to you in waves, threatening to drown you. Grief was so strange when the person was still alive. You wanted to pretend this wasn’t hurting you. Every day you had to pretend that it wasn’t killing you that you couldn’t reach out to him. Idle hands would reach out to hold his, but he wasn’t lying beside you anymore. You wondered, did it kill him like it killed you?

No one read into him, not in the way you did. The turmoil caged him. Making him stay up late. You would have found a way to release him from his thoughts. You would have gently grabbed his face and led him back to bed. Since you weren’t there with him he was relentlessly pacing on his balcony. He was on his third cigarette.

And perhaps he forgot to eat anything beforehand.

The dizziness made him stop in his step. His eyes shifted towards the sky. The ground beneath him seemed to shake slightly.

Something in him begged you to come back tonight. Desiring violently until the universe would bring back what was rightfully his. Simon had never been religious. Never believed in a higher power who was merciful and kind. He thought of it as fairy tales people would recite to make themselves feel better about the horrors of this world. To him, there was no God, and if there was one, he was cruel and sadistic. Some things about religion seemed nice, he used to get mesmerized by the stained glass in churches.

He only saw the stained glass but his legs never found a place on the benches of churches. Praying felt useless when the world only ever gave him shit. Life always seemed unfair to him. Because it was.

But tonight, he prayed to whoever was listening. To give him back the one thing he could not live without.

Knowing him, he was surely destroying himself. You were spiralling. You thought it would get better being apart from him. It was a way for you to gather your thoughts and see if the relationship was still worth saving. Your suspicions were confirmed when you got a text from Simon’s teammates. They were asking you if you were okay, what had happened.

And then you asked them how he was doing

They weren’t trying to guilt you, that was obvious. But you couldn’t help but feel guilty about the miserable state he was in.

But guilt never made anything better. It changed nothing. You wouldn’t let anyone come back to you just because you felt bad for them. Simon was no exception. Even though you craved to trace his scars, to run your hand though his messy cropped hair, to make him feel safe again.

Praying for forgiveness was futile, he was fully aware of that fact. He knew he had to change.

Change is hard when the bottles become brighter and the fear of hurting you was looming in the air.

[heldbybarnes]

Whatever You Say, Captain Walmart

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x reader, Child OCs (Amelia, Harlow, Quinn)

----------

You’d been warned—multiple times, in fact. Every time Bucky muttered “great, him again” under his breath during mission briefings. Every time his jaw clenched just a little too tightly at the mention of John Walker. Every time the kids overheard Bucky say things like “you couldn’t pay me enough to trust that poser” or “he’s like a walking action figure, but knockoff.”

Still, you never expected the unfiltered hatred to be passed down like a family heirloom to your three little girls—especially considering they'd never even met John Walker before.

That changed today.

Bucky had to check in at the compound for some mission debrief, and since it was technically your day off and the girls had been pestering him for weeks to see where “Daddy works,” he caved. You didn’t blame him—you knew exactly how persuasive Amelia’s logical arguments could be, how Harlow’s puppy-dog eyes always managed to win, and how Quinn, your youngest and smallest, had a way of simply declaring things as done, no questions asked.

So now here you were, hand-in-hand with Bucky, your daughters bouncing beside you as you stepped into the sleek, polished floors of the Avengers compound. Amelia, the eldest at ten, wore a serious expression and a Captain America hoodie that Bucky pretended not to comment on, though he tugged his own jacket a little tighter over his broad shoulders. Harlow, your free spirit at eight, skipped along the hallway humming some made-up tune, while Quinn, who was six and full of quiet judgment, kept her eyes peeled for anything she could file away for later commentary.

It was all going well. Until Walker walked in.

“Oh no,” Bucky muttered, just low enough for only you to hear. He stiffened, body language tensing like a spring.

Your girls, immediately attuned to the sudden shift in their dad’s demeanor, followed his gaze.

Amelia stopped walking. “Is that…”

“The shield stealer,” Harlow finished, squinting at him like a suspicious librarian.

“He doesn’t look like a real Captain,” Quinn said bluntly. “He looks like someone trying to play Captain.”

“Girls,” you warned gently, holding up a hand, but it was too late.

Walker was already striding over with his usual pomp, flashing a performative grin. “Barnes,” he said. “Didn’t know it was bring-your-chaos-to-work day.”

“They’re just kids,” Bucky said, keeping his tone civil but his smile nonexistent. “This is my family. My wife, and my daughters—Amelia, Harlow, and Quinn.”

Your girls didn’t offer polite hellos. Instead, they stood in a neat little triangle like they were preparing for battle. Amelia was the first to speak.

“Did you ask for the shield, or did you just take it like a big baby?”

Walker blinked. You could see the exact moment the wind got knocked out of his ego. “I… earned it.”

“Mm,” Amelia said, clearly unconvinced. She turned to her sisters. “He didn’t ask. Mommy says that’s stealing.”

Quinn, hands tucked in the sleeves of her hoodie, frowned. “Thief,” she said plainly.

Walker looked at you for backup. You gave him a sympathetic shrug. What could you do? They were perceptive. And maybe a little vengeful.

Bucky’s lips twitched, like he was barely holding in a smirk. “They’ve got strong opinions.”

“I wonder where they get that from,” you muttered, nudging him.

The rest of the morning passed in relative peace—or so you thought. While Bucky was in his meeting, you supervised the girls from the lounge, letting them color quietly while you scrolled through your emails. Or at least, you thought they were coloring.

In truth, Quinn had crawled behind the monitor in the briefing room and unplugged John Walker’s presentation screen. Harlow, ever the little scientist, had snuck into the kitchen area and swapped out his vanilla protein shake for Sam’s bottle of extra-spicy lemon-lime pre-workout. And Amelia? She had convinced Peter Parker to show her how to access the compound’s name badge system. Walker’s badge now read “Captain Walmart” in glittery font, complete with a flashing red border. And no, she did not feel bad about it.

The chaos fully erupted when Walker returned to give his mission rundown. He clicked the remote. Nothing. Clicked it again. Still nothing. Finally, he gave up and took a sip from his protein shaker, only to immediately start coughing and wheezing as the pre-workout lit his throat on fire. Sam barely held in his laughter, and Bucky? Bucky folded his arms across his chest and leaned back in his chair like he was watching a Broadway show.

“Someone switched my drink,” Walker choked out.

“I wonder who could’ve done that,” Sam said innocently. “Maybe someone with tiny hands and a vendetta.”

Walker glanced around and saw Quinn watching him from the hallway, her arms crossed. She mouthed something at him, deadpan.

“Whatever you say, Captain Walmart.”

The words echoed louder than they should have. Walker’s face flushed red. Bucky lost the battle with his smirk. You heard him mutter under his breath, “That’s my girl.”

Later, as you tried wrangling the girls toward the car, Bucky crouched in front of them, trying—and failing—to instill a little order.

“Okay, listen. You can’t just mess with people because you don’t like them.”

“Yes we can,” Amelia said. “You do.”

“That’s different.”

“How?” Harlow tilted her head.

“Because I’m… an adult. Sort of.”

Quinn’s eyebrows shot up. “Are you sure?”

Bucky looked up at you, completely betrayed. “Are you hearing this?”

You gave him a sweet, unbothered smile. “I warned you. Mini yous.”

He turned back to them, sighing. “Just… next time, maybe don’t switch out anyone’s drink, or hack the ID system, or unplug mission equipment. Okay?”

Amelia shrugged. “No promises.”

Back inside, Walker was still fuming. You passed by him on the way out, and he muttered, “They replaced my Bluetooth playlist with Baby Shark. I’ve been trying to remove it for an hour.”

You blinked. “That… actually wasn’t them. That was probably Sam.”

Walker’s eye twitched.

“I hate kids,” he mumbled.

“Careful,” Bucky said as he passed him, casually adjusting the baby pink backpack Quinn had insisted he wear for the day. “You say that around my girls again and we’ll have a real problem.”

“They're like little soldiers of chaos,” Walker hissed. “What are you teaching them?”

Bucky turned and looked him dead in the eye. “Loyalty. And how to spot a fraud.”

And then he walked away.

Later that night, tucked into bed with Quinn snuggled between you and Bucky, the house finally quiet, your husband stared at the ceiling with a thoughtful expression.

“You okay?” you asked gently, running your fingers through his hair.

He nodded slowly. “Yeah. Just thinking.”

“About what?”

“About them. About how they didn’t even need me to explain it. They just… knew.”

You knew what he meant. His trauma, his history, his guarded heart—somehow, your girls saw it all and chose to defend him anyway. Even without the full context. Even without understanding who John Walker really was.

“They love you,” you said. “All of you. Even the parts you don’t think are lovable.”

He went quiet again before turning to look at you, eyes soft. “That’s the part I still don’t get.”

“You don’t have to get it, Buck. Just accept it.”

A pause. Then Quinn stirred in her sleep, half-asleep and mumbling, “Walmart… not my Captain…”

You both burst into quiet laughter, your chest shaking as Bucky pressed a soft kiss to your forehead.

“Guess I can’t deny it anymore,” he murmured. “They’re definitely mine.”

A week later, a glitter-penned note appeared on your fridge, pinned up by a sparkly llama magnet.

Operation Anti-Walmart: Complete. Phase 5 pending. – Barnes Girls, CEO of Chaos

Below it, a laminated John Walker trading card had been defaced with googly eyes, devil horns, and a speech bubble that read, “I peaked in high school.”

You sighed, sipping your coffee. “Bucky…”

“I didn’t help them,” he called from the living room. “That time.”

“…That time?”

You glanced over at your daughters in the corner, huddled around an iPad, whispering like a think tank.

You smiled. There was no denying it.

You were raising Barnes girls.

And the world—especially John Walker—had better be ready.

[octuscle]

Condemned

Mario’s life? Kinda chillin’ lately, not gonna lie. Dude had wrapped up his uni grind, landed a sweet gig that actually paid decent, and scored an apartment just three subway stops from the office. Solid setup. Only thing bugging him? Zero gym time. Back in college, man had a tight, shredded bod. Now? Kinda soft. Just a bit. He caught himself thinking, Damn, I’d kill to get jacked again, as he climbed up the subway stairs.

And then—boom—at the top, outta nowhere: this dude. Mad good-looking, straight-up model vibes, squeezed into fire-engine red compression gear, standing at some promo booth. He flashes Mario a grin that could blind satellites and holds out a shaker cup.

“Yo, this the ultimate way to get ripped fast and stay there, bro,” he says, all charm and glow.

Mario laughs, takes the cup, nods, keeps walking. Then stops. Wait—did that guy’s eyes just flash red? He turns around—poof. Booth’s gone. Dude… I need a vacation.

At the office, it’s meeting hell all day. PowerPoint. Emails. More meetings. By the time Mario’s packing up, he’s forgotten all about the cup. It’s just chillin’ there on his desk. He checks it out: looks like a standard gym shaker. Cracks it open—inside, there’s a few sachets of some powder, a note saying:

“One pouch with water instead of dinner. One per workout. Get huge.”

Plus a random gym voucher for a place out in bumfuck New Jersey. Dinner’s overrated anyway, he thinks. So he fills the shaker, dumps in a pouch, shakes it up. The thing glows red for a sec. Huh. Cool. He downs it on the way to the subway. By the time he’s home, he’s bouncing off the walls. Takes the stairs to the 10th floor like it’s nothing. Let’s fuckin’ goooo.

4:00 AM. Eyes snap open. Mario’s locked in. Time to lift, baby. The gym’s an hour away, but he don’t care. He wants to crush it. Bad. Only weird thing? He left with just his laptop bag. No gym clothes. But somehow… that felt right?

5:00 AM sharp, he struts into the gym. Front desk bro—Steve—greets him like they’ve been lifting together for years.

“Knew you’d be first, man,” Steve grins, fist-bumps him.

Mario laughs. “Ain’t no gains without grind.”

Heads to the locker room like it’s muscle memory. Opens his locker—yep, there’s his gym gear, damp from last time. Wait… last time? Had he even been here before? Whatever. Suit off, shirt off, tie off. Training gear on. Still wet, still smells like testosterone and pre-workout. Perfection.

He slams another pouch into the shaker, fills it, downs it. Red glow again. Let’s f’in’ move.

Two hours of full-throttle lifting later, he’s toast. Chest on fire, arms dead, sweat dripping. It’s 7:30. No time to shave. Somehow makes it to the office by 9:00. Shirt and tie? Whoops. Forgot. But that snug tee under the blazer? Fire. He feels like a beast.

Receptionist gives him a look. Boss gives him the look. During the client meeting, Mario’s brain’s all fog. Midway through, he’s already dreaming of deadlifts and pump. Lunch break hits, he crushes a 500g steak with some sad lettuce. Colleagues blink at him.

“Bulking season,” he shrugs. Then launches into macros and meal plans like a possessed diet coach.

Clients bounce. Boss pulls him into the office. Full-on verbal smackdown. Mario zones out halfway through. His to-do list? Meh. He mostly ends up watching lifting vids and checking creatine reviews.

Next day? Rolls in at 9:45. At least he’s got a shirt on this time—even if it’s screaming across his pecs. Meetings are a struggle. He’s doing dips in the break room, air squats waiting for the elevator, flexing in the bathroom mirror. All he thinks about is gym… and maybe sex. Mostly gym, though.

Evening lift? Savage. At home, he considers skipping the third pouch. But then again—a lot helps a lot, right? Slams it, crashes into bed.

Next morning? 10:30 arrival. No shower. Track suit. And then the big L: had to sneak off mid-meeting to jerk off in the bathroom while his boss was RIGHT THERE. HR didn’t need a whole explanation. Security walked him out, gave him a handshake like he’d just benched 500 lbs.

“Shame to lose a unit like you, man,” one of 'em says. Hands him a card. “We’re hiring. Always got space for muscle.”

Fast forward two months. Mario’s living rent-free in the gym basement. Cleaning shit, doing odd jobs, hitting the weights like a religion. That’s the deal. Gym work for gym time. Every day’s another prep day. Another step toward Mr. Olympia. Just half a year to go.

He sips from his glowing red cup. Smiles to himself.

“Ain’t no way back now. I’m fuckin’ condemned to succeed.”

I'm glad you condemned me to this story, @rapids0!

I'm glad you saved this story, @clevertreephilosopher

[moody-alcoholic]

NikPrice Week Day 6

Day 6 - I missed you SFW WC: 700 CW: Nothing. AN: sorry this one is a little shorter, this was the only prompt I had nothing planned for.

Previous - masterlist - next

Learn more HERE

Enjoy <3

They only get another week before John’s forced to leave. 

“It’s only for a few days.” He reminds Nik as they lay together, their bodies a naked entitlement. 

“It’s a few days too long.” Nik sighs. John hums. 

“I’ll fill the fridge up so you don’t have to go out, that ankle of yours needs to heal. When i’m back it will be time for your check up.” John says. 

“Just be safe John, it’s a long drive to London.” Nik says, John turns in the bed so he’s facing Nik, his hand brushes through the hair on his chest. 

“Three days maximum.” John says, reaching up to kiss him. Nik likes to kiss slowly, taking his time with John’s mouth. He likes to touch too, running his hands up and down John’s body any chance he gets. 

“Three days.” Nik replies, pulling back from the kiss. John nods and smiles.

…

For John it was the drive down to London that was the worst. Each mile he put under his belt hurt. When he did finally get to the base the distraction was more than welcome. 

“How’s Nik, Cap?” Johnny asked, slapping him on the top of his back. 

“Good, thank you again for letting us borrow the cabin.” John says with a smile.

“No problem! It should be doing something other than sitting there empty.” Johnny beams before Simon comes over with his arms full of paperwork. John sighs, fucking buraccuracy, he should have sorted all this before he left. He nods at Simon following him into his office. 

…

It’s late again as John runs his hand down his face. He looks over at the clock on the computer. It’s almost midnight. He should call Nikolai at least and ask how his day was. He picks up his phone and brings it up to his ear as the call rings through. 

“Kaptain.” Nik’s voice comes through. It makes John instantly relax into his chair. 

“Sorry it’s so late.” John says. 

“No, don’t worry about it. I was just thinking about you.” He says, a warmth booms in John’s core at the thought of Nik thinking about him. 

“Oh yeah?” John asks playfully. His mind going back to a few hours ago when he was making out and cuddling up with him. Now he’s alone in his dark temporary office. 

“Da, I miss you.” Nik’s voice comes back with a low soft hum. 

“It’s only been a few hours.” John scoffs, he misses him too. He misses the feel of Nik’s hands on his, the way Nik will take any opportunity to press kisses into his neck. He misses the feel of Nik’s strong legs or arms wrapped around him. The way he smiles at him or looks at him first thing in a morning with sleep still in his eyes. 

“I miss you too.” John smiles. He hears Nik hum down the line, it sounds like he’s still in bed. Christ, he wishes he was there, anywhere but stuck on a base reading pages and pages of reports. They all started to blur together in the end. Why he couldn’t just allow Simon to sign off on them was still bugging him. Fucking burracuracy. 

“Are you in bed?” John asks. 

“Da.” Nik replies sleepy. He should leave him, let him get some rest. Instead he finds himself reaching into his pocket for his earbuds. 

“Put the camera on.” John says moving his phone away from his ear and turning his own on before resting it up against his monitor so it’s facing him. He smiles as he hears Nik rusting and moving on the bed. A second later Nik shows up on the screen, Nik smiles at him and stabilises the phone. He must have it propped up against the light on the bedside table. 

“That's a lot of paperwork.” Nik sighs. 

“You should see the other pile.” John scoffs. Nik yawns relaxing in the bed. He’s shirtless, the low light from the bedside table lights up his features. Christ, he misses him, if he spends a little longer doing these now he could be on the road back by tomorrow afternoon. 

“Are you going to watch me sleep malýsh?” Nik asks with his eyes closed, one of his strong arms is tucked under the pillow, his other hand is resting over his stomach. 

“Yes, that's exactly what I’m going to do.” John says, Nik opens one of his eyes and smiles. 

“You need to rest too.” He says yawning. John smiles watching him relax even more into the bedding. 

“I will don’t worry.” He says lowering his voice. Nik just hums in reply and John picks his pen back up. He gets through a few more paragraphs on the report before he hears the gentle snoring in his ear. He looks back at his phone seeing Nik passed out, his mouth open slightly. 

John smiles watching the man he loves sleep soundly. He wishes he could walk in the next door and find him sleeping softly but for now he can handle this compromise. 

John hums. “Love you, Nik.” He whispers. Nik doesn’t move or react. Good, he needs the rest. John should go to bed to prop the phone up in his  bedroom somehow and pretend he’s sleeping with him. No, he should keep going. The quicker he gets this done the quicker he can get back to him. 

He smiles listening to Nikolai’s snoring as he gets back to his report.

next

Banners - guild-ui

[tomasweetheart]

[batcavescolony]

Katniss is such an unreliable narrator. She says "Then something unexpected happens. At least, I don't expect it because I don't think of District 12 as a place that cares about me" girl you deliver strawberries to the Mayor, you hunt and trade for the district, when you fell at Prim being chosen someone caught you, when you went to Prim people parted for you, when you volunteered EVERYONE stopped. Idk how to tell you but I think you're a pillar of the community.

[exaltedgrimleal]

but why do some people have the audacity?

when i was twenty, i went on one date with this guy in my college program. it went fine, and we were getting along, but i didnt want things to progress and it ended with me kind of cutting ties with him

only for this guy to follow me on instagram and unfollow me

at least three times

once per year

and this only stopped because i blocked him because stop?

so now it's seven years later and this guy stumbles upon my dating app profile, under a different name and different pictures, and he decides to send me a super like

sir i promise you the answer is and will always be no

[seaofreverie]

Society if I didn't have to go all the way to (at least) Berlin for (almost) every concert by an artist I enjoy

[microwavetoaster-selfships]

Me when I don't know what to do with the character but I don't wanna just draw another profile shot so I put them in The Void.

Ignore how Strangeglove's is like 10x more chicken-scratched than Tenna's I. Don't know what happened there. I'd actually been wanting to post this art piece of Stranglove for a long while now(along with another one) but for whatever reason kept talking myself out of it even if I actually really really like it! I'm. Still feeling out how I draw Tenna since it's been such a minimal amount of time of me drawing him but..yeah. when in doubt! Blast them into The Void. The "This Could Be A Magazine Cover Perhaps."

Sorry I got so upset over how different they looked that I re-outlined Strangeglove's and also added pretty highlights. I mean I only put highlights on Tenna cause hos suit is shiny but whatever. Shiny stars be upon ye. I totally know how to highlight things andddd wwhHOOPPSSSS SORRRYYY Fishlips I. Forgot to erase the circle on you uhm. He'll. He'll be fine. Anyway original Strangeglove drawing below the cut. It's really not that different. I'm just sticking it below the cut so I don't like. Clog this with pictures somehow. I also didn't remove the chicken scratch note I wrote uhm. It's fine we're fine. I'll be here all night if I keep going "Ooh! Actually I want to. Change that."

[free-luigi-mangione]

I'm so sorry you're being bomboarded by trolls. I hope you don't leave tumblr; as it is, most luigi blogs have stopped, and there is hardly any discourse about luigi on the internet anymore. There seems to be a toxic undercurrent in the luigi community. His support is imploding in on itself, and it's not pretty to watch.

the toxic undercurrent isn't brought about by any of us tho. it's brought about by anons who're so terrible i don't even know how to describe them in one word. i don't care about the actual trollish anons – the ones who might pick fights but will never do things that would make you want to deactivate. in fact i wish i could say that the actually problematic anons can be brushed off as easily, but that's the point of those anons i guess, they're there to make people have an emotional response (eg.– panic after getting doxxed, shock at graphic details of violence, both shock and fear at rape threats against the blog owner or subject of blog and after getting death threats) and they definitely succeed at getting the emotional response from us at least. a lot of people have deactivated because of these second sort of anons and since it's pretty clear they're incels and quite probably a single anon, i don't even know what to say.

[sagaapprentice]

This next chapter is just me dropping cult Easter Eggs like it’s a fucking Marvel movie

Az sighed. “They’ve definitely got the weird hippie theology thing. Also a bunch of their cult members work at a vegan restaurant, so that’s a couple points.”

”Is…is ‘vegan restaurant’ a cult thing?”

“I mean by itself no but if you’re ever looking for a vegan place to take a date to you should probably double check to make sure who owns it.”

”What?!”

“Any group that is cutting people off from friends and family is dangerous, but they’re not all buying new Nike’s.”

”…I don’t even want to know what that’s in reference to.”

”Heaven’s Gate.”

”Why do you know this stuff?”

[skrunksthatwunk]

household enemy to the yyh watchthrough number one is the olympics. it's taken us a week to get two episodes into the gamemaster fight

[mariathechosen1]