#that involves cereal
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transgender-catboy · 2 years ago
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Family photo!! This is my goodnight post, ily guys!! See ya tomorrow!
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grimark · 5 months ago
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people who are regularly cooking things for breakfast as their most common meal are like a different species to me. you do that every day? you live like this?
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heavysass · 9 months ago
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as much as i generally like the new reaper-sojourn interaction, as it is nice getting any ties of chase to the og overwatch team and knowing reyes had friends even when his reputation was on its lowest, it also makes the thing they are hellbent on avoiding so much more noticeable
why is one of overwatch's most notable critics, and in that probably one of the biggest haters of blackwatch and their deals, the one offering comfort to the worst offender? and not, you know, his best friend? one of the very few who are actively worried about him as far as current canon lore tells us? at least his protégé who is due to an actual confrontation with him? tbh /to me/ this interaction feels like it could've worked better with anyone else from the strike team, but exposition on why gabriel went to talon concerns jack and cassidy above all else
it genuinely is so strange seeing how connected characters all have something to say to each other even in the non-canon limbo that is in game interactions, but the gabriel-jack bond, which is one of the actual bases of the whole story, and which often shows up when these two are concerned in the extra lore content because it is pretty unavoidable to their characters, seems to be actively glossed over in game /where it actually matters/. they have mean rivalry kill chatter against each other and that is it. all you get is the knowledge soldier 76 is actively following reaper now, no reasons beyond taking talon down. if your only contact with overwatch is what is currently in game and the famous cinematics you could never guess their importance to each other's build up, when every other iconic duo, as ow is obsessed with yin-yang types, has at least some solid nods going on (sounds silly to people who care about any of this, but go check any lore explanation video comment section on youtube and see how many casuals are only vaguely aware of the lore through in game interactions and second hand word)
(it is awkward, since we are getting these little but thoughtful interactions scrapped off pve recently to half the cast. even OW1 never quite delivered anything big about their past but they had their familiarity. and i mean, they did talk to each other at least)
........on the other hand, that interaction is also fascinating because it makes code of violence even more of a bizarre tipping point. gabriel's, and not reaper's, aknowledgement of vivian's support and worry makes his choice of abandoning his friends, his family, his goddamn small child, to play a violent assassin terrorist so funny. this dialogue puts it quite plainly, it was an active choice. they keep painting him as more of a massive asshole or a complete rancorous dumbass with every new personal lore drop, the contrast to what we believed (or knew, before the change of writing direction) of noble gabriel reyes in the golden era up to retribution is almost surreal
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themanwhowouldbefruit · 4 months ago
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dont think i can actually handle doing the food rewatch project after all which sucks because i had a ton of ideas and it would be really fun to do at a better point in time
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errant-light · 1 year ago
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am I seriously turning to ebay for grapefuit spoons because I hate all the alternatives to my old spoons
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iamyounicorn · 1 year ago
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Innovating in the field of eating cereal and milk wrong by eating cereal with powdered milk
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tigresslanzhu · 1 year ago
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General Mills Customer Service
Artica: I’m calling to make a suggestion. You know how you released your frosting filled cereal this week?
Customer Service Representative: You’ve called to complain about how sugary this new cereal is for your children?
Artica: No. I’m never having kids. What I’d like to pitch is the same concept as your Cocoa Puffs Loaded cereal, but with peanut butter flavored frosting inside!
Customer Service Representative: Welcome back, Ms. Kennedy!
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em1i2a3 · 25 days ago
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Got You (Where I Want You)
Pairing: Bob/Robert Reynolds/The Sentry/The Void x Thunderbolts!Fem!Reader!
Summary: You walk in on Bob staring at himself in the mirror.
Warnings: Fluff, with some intimacy thrown in there for good measure, because why the hell not, right? The sweetness is cavity inducing lol
Author’s Note: Had this idea yesterday and had to put pen to paper y’all, I don’t know what the hell got into me that made me push aside my other stuff for this idea, but I liked it too much to not go absolutely bonkers on my keyboard lol…Anyways, enjoy <3
Word Count: 4,785
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Subject: FINAL HR WARNING - CONDUCT REVIEW (Walker/Starr Conflict)
From: HR Officer Marshall Greene
“Agents Walker and Starr are now under internal review for insubordination, hostile communication, and repeated disregard of team mediation protocols. One more infraction and we’ll initiate temporary removal from field rotation. Val has been informed. There will be no further email warnings.”
Walker (Reply All):
“Good to know HR thinks performance under pressure is ‘hostile communication.’ No wonder no one trusts leadership anymore.”
Ava (Reply All):
“Glad we agree that nobody trusts you.”
Yelena (Reply To: Ava and Walker):
“I swear if you get us all sent to HR group therapy again we are going to leave you both at the next extraction site.”
You choked on your own laugh, face half-buried in your pillow as your tablet buzzed again. Notification after notification trickled in like popcorn kernels catching heat–erratic, chaotic, and loud as hell. The entire thread was spiralling quickly, and all you could do was watch the digital tornado unfold before your very eyes. You sat up quickly, nearly dropping the tablet in your lap as you scrolled through the influx of new messages. One leg was tucked under you, while the other bounced with that familiar blend of amusement and secondhand dread.
Ava’s spelling had deteriorated into pure adrenaline–half her words missing vowels, full of heat and fury and thinly veiled threats. Walker had officially gone full defensive, slinging phrases like “operational leadership failure” and “compromised team integrity” like he was writing a dissertation for Val.
You snorted as Yelena replied again but to everyone this time with a simple:
“You guys are literally down the hall from each other, there’s no need to continue to document the arguing, just kill each other now.”
It was definitely a full-blown HR meltdown, and it was definitely going to warrant group therapy again, but the thread was just too good to keep to yourself.
Your thumb hovered over the screen for one more second, then you grinned, tossing the tablet to the side of the bed, because you knew exactly who would enjoy this as much as you.
Bob.
He was never in these threads–more because he didn’t even think to check them anyways. He was never mentioned, never cc’d. He just floated above the chaos like a gentle cloud of soft-voiced concern. He was never involved enough to be a direct problem, but he was always tuned in enough to notice when issues were brewing. He never participated in the drama, but he loved hearing about it. Only from you, though. Only when you read it out loud with your overly expressive hand gestures and dramatic reenactments–like you were performing Shakespeare in the park…But only for him.
It was a tradition. A rhythm that only belonged to you and Bob alone, because every time a thread decided to spiral into a tailspin of arguing, you sought him out immediately.
Sometimes it was in the kitchen over cereal. Sometimes it was on the roof, sitting hip to hip with your legs dangling in the wind. Sometimes it was huddled on opposite ends of the couch with your legs draped over his lap…And sometimes–like right now–it meant running to his room like you were delivering urgent news straight from the battlefield.
You glanced down at yourself–sports bra, and underwear–and let out a low huff. Bob had seen you like this before, technically. That’s what came with the territory of shared safehouses, mission recovery stations, and walking around the compound late at night when you thought nobody else was awake. Those were different situations though.
You padded across the room and yanked open your dresser drawer, rifling through your exercise shirts until you settled on a worn black t-shirt–oversized and thinning with age. You tugged it over your head in one swift movement, letting the hem fall just past your hips, then you grabbed a pair of navy basketball shorts off the back of your desk chair and shimmied into them with a quick hop-step, tightening the strings as much as possible so they wouldn’t fall as you rushed down the hall.
You scooped the tablet back up in your arms, the screen still glowing with the madness you’d left behind.
HR Officer Marshall Greene (Reply All):
“This is a formal thread, please refrain from using inappropriate language and making unfounded comments on others performances.”
The excitement only grew, as you slapped the tablet against your thigh, and bolted into the hallway.
The compound was quiet except for the distant clack of someone’s boots echoing down from the other wing–probably Ava pacing while she types another scorched-earth reply to the recent email. Regardless, you padded forward, barefoot but quick. The hum of the overhead lights casted your shadow along the wall as you rounded the corner toward the kitchen for a quick pit stop.
The fridge gave a quiet suction-pop as you pulled it open and reached for one of the bottled iced teas Bob always hoarded–hibiscus and lemon honey, the kind he insisted was the best. You grabbed one–already cool against your palm even though you had restocked them an hour ago–and tucked it into the crook of your arm as you shut the fridge with your hip.
”What’re you? A professional basketball player?” A voice from behind you asked.
You didn’t need to turn to know it was Bucky–leaning against the wall just outside the kitchen like he’d been planted there to deliver commentary on your outfit. His arms were crossed, dog tags peeking beneath the neckline of his exercise shirt. The glint in his eyes showed unmistakable amusement as he raised a brow at what you were wearing. You didn’t slow your pace though, you just tossed him a look over your shoulder.
”Careful Barnes, comments like that are how group therapy gets scheduled.” That earned a bark of laughter from him–rough and low.
”I’ll tell HR you threatened me with that iced tea bottle,” He called out as you walked off. You raised it above your head in mock-warning without looking over at him.
”Weaponized refreshments fall under Walker and Ava’s jurisdiction. Not mine.” You heard his chuckle echo faintly behind you, but your attention was already zeroed in on the familiar stretch of hallway that led to Bob’s room.
It was quiet here. Soft, almost. The air always felt a little warmer around his end of the corridor–in heat and in emotion in general, there was less tension, less noise, it was very…Bob. use him, his stacks of books, and the faint sound of whatever playlist he decided to put on.
You didn’t knock, you never knocked.
Your fingers wrapped around the handle and turned it without ceremony, pushing the door open like it was your own room, like it was a shared space you were both too sentimental to label.
“Bob! You are not gonna believe this thread..” You said as you were stepping into the room, clicking the door shut softly behind you before turning around.
And that’s when you saw him…And he nearly jumped out of his skin.
”D-Don’t you knock?!” He stammered, jolting like you’d fired a dart into his shoulder. His hands scrambled for the shirt slung half-off his desk chair, eyes wide, and cheeks flushing crimson, “I-I could’ve been–!”
”Naked?” You offered helpfully, lifting a brow as you stepped more into the room, “I think I’ve survived worse than accidentally walking in on someone mid-change.” Your voice had trailed off a little by the time you got to the middle of the room, because it hit you then–just how good he actually looked.
He wasn’t even trying, and that was probably the worst part–because you didn’t want to see him when he was…
The golden hour light poured through the west-facing window like warm syrup, catching the faint dampness along his skin and the light brown locks that his head sported. The light turned the droplets of water that still trailed down his back into halos of shimmer. His chest was broad and high with clean muscle, sharp and thick, and a bit swollen. There were red marks stretched faintly across his collarbones and the tops of his biceps, fresh from a too-hot shower–evidence of his notoriously sensitive skin. A small pink scar marked the space just under one of his ribs, thinned out from more than a decade of bearing it.
You had always known he was strong–he had to be because of the serum–but this was not what you were expecting.
Bob was built like a cathedral. Sturdy like he’d been carved from something permanent, and yet somehow he still stood like he was embarrassed of that.
”Bob.” You started, but he was already trying to pull his shirt over his head and failing–his arms were moving like they had forgotten how sleeves worked. Then after a second of struggling, he gave up with a frustrated sigh and just pressed the cotton against his bare upper torso like a towel.
“I-It’s really nothing…” He insisted, voice strained and high with shyness, “I-I was just…Looking at something.” Your brows raised as you padded even further into the room, placing the iced tea gently on the nearest stack of books.
“Got a rash or something? I know that Sentry suit probably isn’t a pleasant experience. It’s basically painted on…Probably got chafing in all the wrong places.”
“W-What? No! I–I don’t have a rash,” He sputtered, a nervous laugh catching on the tail end of his words. You could see his ears turning red, then watched as the flush crept down his neck and beneath the top he was holding against him. You grinned, leaning against the footboard of his bed, crossing your arms over your chest.
”So what were you looking at then?”
“I-It’s nothing…I swear…” His gaze couldn’t even meet yours, it just darted everywhere but your face: the floor, the ceiling, the bottle of iced tea, his desk lamp. His throat worked as he swallowed, and he shook his head, “It was n-nothing.” You sighed and, without another word, turned and sat on the edge of his mattress, tablet still in hand as you looked around the room–deliberately taking your time, giving him space to breathe. To maybe cool down a little before you asked him the same question again.
His room was neat, but not in a sterile fashion. He had bookshelves stacked high with paperbacks and limited edition copies of stories–science fiction, poetry, philosophy, he even had a few battered field manuals, but they looked like they hadn’t even been opened. A few of the books had some sticky notes jutting out in soft yellows, greens and blues, all in varying shades. There was a well-kept ficus in the corner by the window, catching sunlight in its leaves. One of his walls held a corkboard filled with photographs of places he had been with the team, with little notes he had kept from you–handwriting scrawled on torn napkins or on the backs of receipts. His Sentry suit hung off a hook like a molded second skin, and a flannel blanket was folded with precision at the foot of the bed.
“W-What are you doing?” Bob’s voice cracked with a soft, almost wounded hesitation. You didn’t look up from the bed right away, instead dragging your thumb along the edge of the tablet as you let the silence sit. Then you finally lifted your gaze, brow raised with soft mischief.
“Waiting for you to move,” You said simply. “So I can see what you could’ve possibly been looking at so intently before I barged in.” He shifted on his feet, his toes curling against the floorboards like he was trying to plant himself there and disappear.
”Y-Y/N, I wasn’t looking at anything…” You bit the inside of your cheek, eyes dropping from his for just a second–slowly taking his body in again from the reflection of the mirror behind him, the long, broad line of his back, the way the light caught in every indentation of muscle like it was sculpted for this hour of the day and no other. Then you looked back at him.
”So why’re you hiding from me then?” You asked softly, “You’ve seen me topless before…Thought you might’ve been comfortable returning the favour.” You joked. His eyes flickered to yours, then away again, lashes fluttering like a startled heartbeat. His grip tightened on the cotton he still held over his chest, the fabric slightly damp now from where it met his skin. You set the tablet down with a quiet tap on his nightstand, fingers curling loosely at your sides as you pushed off the bed and stepped toward him. The floor creaked softly beneath your bare feet. His breath hitched–just barely audible–but you caught it. His whole body tensed, like prey too stunned to run, and yet… He didn’t back away.
“Let’s look together, hmm?” You said, voice soft, it wasn’t a command…It was more of an invitation, “Turn and look in the mirror.” Bob’s eyes darted down to yours, nervous and questioning, the light in them flickering gold just for the briefest moment.
“W-What…?”
”Just…Trust me,” You whispered, inching close enough for your hand to find the edge of the shirt he was still holding to his front. You pinched the soft cotton between your fingers, “Turn and look in the mirror…And move this.” He stared at you, searching your face as if trying to find the trap. But there wasn’t one–not with you. So, with hesitantancy, he turned back toward the full-length mirror beside his bookshelf. His broad shoulders squared, his spine straightening instinctively like he expected to be judged, and slowly, he shifted the cotton away from his chest. He didn’t let it drop–he held it against his side like a safety net–but it no longer blocked his reflection.
You stepped behind him carefully, and rose up on your toes, putting your chin on his heated shoulder, eyes flickering over both his reflection and the way his skin flushed beneath you. The heat coming off his body was tangible, like the golden hour sun had been sucked up by his skin and refused to leave. His damp hair curled at the end where it had dried, and the slope of his shoulder tensed beneath your chin.
Up close like this, with nothing but the mirror before you both, it was impossible not to take him in fully–not just the parts you’d glimpsed, not just what the suit hinted at beneath all that gold-threaded armor and pressure. But this. Him.
The soft curve of his clavicle, just beginning to dry, still slightly pink from the heat of his shower. The small cluster of faded stretch marks that swept just beneath his chest, curling slightly toward the soft ridges of his ribs. They looked like pale lightning, half-silver in the light–evidence of how fast he’d grown into himself, into this body he never asked for. Another quiet mutation to accommodate the weight of what lived inside him. There were more across his lower stomach, ghosting down either side of his abdomen where the muscle swelled thicker. They branched just beside his navel and disappeared beneath the waistband of his joggers, pale and delicate, like silk run beneath sharp fingers. You wanted to trace them. God, you wanted to press your mouth to every single one.
His skin was smooth in some places, textured in others, but all of it was flushed with heat. And that light trail of hair that you’d never seen before–white blonde, so soft it nearly vanished unless you were this close–drew a path down the center of him that had you unconsciously tightening your arms just slightly where they curled behind his back.
“You definitely don’t have any rashes,” You said softly, voice light with teasing but thick with something warmer. “You’re just a handsome guy…That’s built like a house.” You gave a small shrug against him, trying to diffuse the sincerity with humor, but it still rang true. Bob’s shoulders stiffened immediately, and his reflection turned red so quickly you thought it might spread across the mirror itself.
“S-Stop it,” He muttered, ducking his head just slightly, like that might shield him from your words.
“Why?” You murmured, brows lifting gently. “It’s not like I’m lying to you.” He didn’t answer right away. The silence stretched for a second too long, and then his voice came–rougher, smaller.
“I-I don’t see it… I just see this…This person who’s not themselves anymore.” His jaw clenched a little, eyes glued to his reflection like it betrayed him. “Not like I u-used to be. Everything’s just…D-Different.” Your frown came slowly, spreading across your face with a heaviness that tugged the corners of your mouth down and softened your eyes into something deeply pained. You finally connected the dots.
He hadn’t been admiring himself in the mirror. He wasn’t checking for a rash or even trying to catch a glimpse of some half-healed wound. He was judging himself–tearing himself apart with every second he stared. Comparing himself to the man he used to be. The one he probably thought he lost the day he became more myth than man. Your heart twisted with it. That quiet kind of ache that came from loving someone too much to let them stay hurt.
“…Can I touch you?” you asked gently, voice barely above a whisper.
Bob’s eyes met yours in the mirror, startled like you’d touched a raw nerve instead of just offering kindness. His lips parted slightly, breath catching in his throat.
“O-Okay,” He said, like it was foreign–like no one had ever asked that before. You moved even closer to him, your chest now pressing against his back. You lifted your hand and just…Touched him.
Your fingertips met the warm skin of his stomach, just above the waistband of his joggers, feather-light. He inhaled sharply. Not in fear–just surprise. His stomach tensed for a second, then loosened, like his body didn’t quite know how to receive affection that came without demand. You smoothed your hand upward, tracing the soft rise and fall of his abdomen, the slope of strength beneath the surface. His skin was warm and velvety under your touch—damp in places from the shower, and soft in others from where his skin had healed from stress and strain and godhood.
“You’re so…” You breathed, thumb sweeping just beneath his ribs, “Unbelievably beautiful, Bob.” He blinked like he hadn’t heard you right. Like that word had never belonged to him.
“I mean it,” You said softly, your hand traveling up his chest now, resting briefly over his heart–feeling the beat pounding steady and strong beneath your palm. “You have no idea what you look like, do you?”
His breath shuddered. “N-Not like this…”
“Then let me tell you.”
Your voice dropped, low and tender, like a vow.
“This body,” You whispered, your fingers tracing the faint stretch marks just below his pecs, “This is a testament. To everything you’ve carried. To how hard you fought to stay here. How strong you’ve had to be. You didn’t just survive…You built this. And you built it with love. With the way you protect people. With how gently you hold things, even when you could crush them.” You leaned in, lips brushing the curve of his bare shoulder, kissing him once. Then again, higher, where the tension lived tight beneath his neck.
He shivered.
Not out of discomfort–but because he knew you meant it. Because your mouth on his skin felt more like an affirmation than anything anyone had ever said to him. His skin jumped beneath each press of your lips. Your other hand slipped around his waist, palm resting over his stomach again–feeling the subtle flex as he tried and failed to keep still.
“You’re real, Bob,” You murmured between kisses. “You’re good. You’re so good. And every inch of you–every mark, every muscle, every breath–is deserving of love.”
He made a sound then–a quiet, choked breath like he was holding something in his throat. His chest hitched slightly under your hand, and when you peeked up at his reflection, his eyes were glossed, gold flickering around the rims like he was lit from within. You tightened your arms gently, holding him from behind like a tether, your forehead pressing into the curve of his shoulder. Your lips grazed the top of his spine.
“Even if you can’t see it… I do.”
The silence that followed wasn’t empty. It was full. Of breath. Of tension. Of emotion so thick it filled the space between your ribs and his.
After a few long seconds, his hand moved. Trembling at first, like he didn’t know what to do without being awkward, before lowering it to cover yours.
His palm was big, warm, and dampened with sweat, but you didn’t mind the way it felt. He held your touch in place like he didn’t want you to stop. His thumb swept softly along the edge of your hand, nervous but desperate to keep you there.
When he turned to face you, his breath hitched again. His eyes didn’t look away this time. He just stared at you like he was memorizing the moment.
You were still holding his waist. Still close enough that the warmth of him surrounded you like a sun. His hand lifted–slow, hesitant, like the moment might shatter if he moved too quickly. You didn’t breathe. Couldn’t. Not when his fingers brushed your jaw and then curled so gently against your cheek it made your eyes sting.
He held your face like it belonged in a museum among the works of art. His thumb grazed the space just beneath your eye, sweeping along your cheekbone with the softest pressure–as if he was trying to memorize the way you felt beneath his touch. Like if he just held you long enough, maybe he could believe this was real. That you were real. That someone had truly looked at him–all of him–and still wanted to stay.
Neither of you blinked.
The air shifted–thick with something golden and unspeakable, heavy in your lungs but light in your chest. Like standing on the edge of something vast and beautiful and knowing, this is the moment it all changes.
And then he leaned in.
Not in a rush. Not in some burst of passion where your teeth could possibly clash together. But slowly–like the sun melting into the sea. Like a secret unfolding, tender and certain, inevitable as gravity.
His lips met yours with gentleness you didn’t know you were starving for.
It was so soft it almost didn’t feel like a kiss at first. Just a breath of warmth, and a quiet hum of surrender blooming behind your ribs. His mouth moved against yours with cautious wonder, wanting more but keeping his thoughts under control just for this one moment–just so he could display his secret devotion to you.
The world narrowed to the press of his lips, the curl of his fingers that were still on your cheek, the faint tremble in his shoulders, and the heat of his bare skin where your hands moved now–trailing up his sides and over his back. You traced the soft slope of muscles with your palms, admiring, until your fingertips danced along the small of his back.
And that’s when he gasped.
The kiss broke as his body flinched against yours with a startled breath, a laugh hiccuping through the sound.
”I…Sorry,” He stammered, half-flushed, half-laughing, his hand falling from your cheek like he had ruined it. You grinned, still feeling your heartbeat throughout your entire body, your eyes shining.
”Don’t you dare apologize for a kiss like that,” You whispered, and before he could respond back to you–before he could shrink away or stumble over a hundred more nervous syllables–you leaned in and kissed him again.
It was just a quick one. A seal on the moment, something that could contain it. His breath hitched like he hadn’t expected it–like he still couldn’t quite believe you were touching him so freely, so warmly.
You pulled back just enough to smile against his lips and murmur, “Only you would apologize for something that sweet by the way.” Another blush lit his face instantly, rising to the tips of his ears like fire spreading across his skin. You laughed softly and pressed one last kiss to the corner of his mouth. Then you wrapped your arms around his waist and pulled him into a proper hug, letting your cheek press to his chest as he melted into your touch.
His arms folded around you slowly, his forearms curling tightly around your waist, his palms flattening against your spine, pressing your body flush to his like he wanted to make sure there was no space between you at all. You melted into the hold instinctively, sighing against his chest as the tension slid out of you like sand between fingers. Your cheek rested against the warm pillow of muscle just over his heart, and there it was–the steady galloping rhythm, thumping firm and fast beneath your ear. You closed your eyes for a moment, just breathing him in.
The scent of his shower was clinging to him and invading your senses now, there was sage, and a hint of pine, he smelled like a forest, or the wilderness–he smelled like the safest place you would ever come to know.
For a long beat, neither of you moved.
His chin dipped until it came to rest lightly on the crown of your head, a sigh escaping him–low, content, full of something that bordered on reverent. When he hummed, it was quiet and barely even a sound–just a vibration in his chest that pulsed through your cheek and down your spine like a tuning fork finding your frequency so he could slip in and be one with you. You smiled against him.
“So…” You started, voice muffled slightly by his skin, “Is there any chance you’ll start walking around shirtless more often now that I’ve thoroughly showered you with compliments?” He let out a soft, incredulous laugh–half embarrassed, half endeared–and you felt it echo all the way through your ribs. His hands tightened slightly at your back as he ducked his head a little further, his voice feathering warmly against your scalp.
“I-It’ll be u-under heavy consideration now, I think…” He mumbled, voice playful but still laced with that soft-spoken sincerity that was so uniquely his. You smirked.
“Hmm,” You hummed back, fingers curling gently against the thick muscle of his upper back before giving him a teasing squeeze. It made him jolt, just slightly–a tiny gasp of a flinch, like you’d shocked him. He barked out another laugh, and you pulled back just enough to look up at him.
“I’ll take that as a very soft yes,” You said, grinning up at him, your fingers still resting against the planes of his back. His eyes met yours–wide and dilated, but glowing now with something unguarded and bright.
“Y-Yeah,” He said shyly, a smile tugging at his lips, “I guess…I-If it’s for you, it might be okay.” He scratched nervously at the back of his neck with one hand as he looked down at you, then added sheepishly, “B-But you have to promise not to look at me like I’m a sculpture again…I-I almost combusted.” You laughed, arms still around his waist, resting your chin on his chest now so you could meet his eyes directly.
“No promises,” You whispered. “You are a sculpture. Just one that happens to blush when I compliment him.”
His face turned a glorious shade of red, and you watched the smile spread helplessly across his lips even as he tried to hide it. His hands came up again, this time cradling your jaw like it was something precious. His thumbs brushed softly against your cheeks, and he leaned in again–this time a little more sure of himself.
And when he kissed you again, it was with a quiet hunger. Still gentle, still sweet, but layered now with the quiet thrill of knowing that you saw him–really saw him–and loved every part you found.
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gilverrwrites · 11 months ago
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I love imaging Dick, Tim, and Damian sneaking around trying to meet Jasons new gf because they just wanna be involved in his life and they know if they they leave it to Jay they wont meet her u til they're married with kids 😭
AND ‘omg us meeting Jason’s siblings when’
AN: Ngl I love this idea too, its so shitty of them but they have the best of intentions.
Damian
A boy no older than 14 with eyes that pierce the soul was not what you'd expected to find on Jason's couch the very first time he'd left you alone there. Jason had to dip out unexpectedly early, and had promised you run of the place until he got back so you'd slept in as long as you could and were on your way to make breakfast when you're greeted by the hell-child.
Once your initial fright wears off you realise you recognize him from a photo Jay had showed you which makes you feel slightly more at ease.
“Good morning? Damian right?” You offer as you pass him, be-lining for the coffee machine, you're gonna need caffeine if you're meeting any member of Jay's family for the first time. “Can I get you anything?”
“Alfred says it's unbecoming to sleep past 9.” Besides the initial glare he'd graced you with as you emerged from the bedroom, he doesn't even look up at you, his eyes glued to the pages of a book. Like brother like brother, you guess.
“Oh, well. Good thing Alfreds not here then.” You add a small laugh, trying to inject some humour to the situation. Damian does not respond in kind. “Is that a no? I think there's some chocolate cereal around here somewhere.”
“What do you do for work that allows you to be in my brother's home in the middle of the day?”
Jeez this kid is no-nonsense. “Or I could make pancakes, I make really good pancakes.”
“And tell me what exactly are your intentions with my baby brother?” Baby?
“I think there's some chocolate chips around here somewhere. Jason says you like chocolate. Chocolate pancakes?”
“Do you always avoid questions?”
“Are you always so intense?”
He slams the book closed and you nearly jump on the spot. He finally looks at you, really looks at you and as you stare back his features begin to soften slightly.
“I’ll have a coffee.”
You're certain from the sly look on his face that he's probably not allowed coffee. He certainly doesn't need any. But screw it, he's not your kid and if it gets him to like a little, you'll take the risk.
So you pour two coffees and join him on the couch. His questions do not cease until Jason returns about an hour later. He couldn't care less about the coffee, but he does care about Damian breaking in to interrogate his partner and immediately kicks Damian out.
Dick
Dick finds out about your existence from one of Damian’s letters, and he's subtle but pushy about meeting you. Not that you're aware. He keeps ‘dropping by’ Jason's apartment ‘just to see his lil brother’, no other reason but is told to get lost or downright ignored anytime you're there, until he decides to cut out the middle man and turn up at your home instead.
“Let me tell you, you are a hard person to get a hold of.” He informs as he invites himself through your front door.
“Um, hello Dick?” As you stare at his lush hair and sculpted abs you wonder what Alfred feeds these boys.
“Yep! I can't stay so I’ve gotta make this quick.” he gestures for you to come closer, speaking in a playful, conspiratorial whisper. “Jay doesn't know I'm here.”
That would be why he can't stay, Jason is due at your door any minute now.
“But you two seem to be getting pretty serious and I think it's important that we all get to know each other. You following?”
You nod, and he gives you the perkiest, most genuine smile. That or he has that exact look practised to a T. From what Jay tells you, either is possible.
“So, Barbara and I, that's my wife” You nod once more, you're aware of Barbara also. “have booked a table at Casa Gotica for Thursday night. We need you to get Jason there without letting on that it's a double date.”
“I don’t know.” you finally give your nodding head a break. “Jay and I don’t lie to each other.”
“Right. I can't begrudge that. Very glad to hear he's picked an honest one.” He takes a moment to straighten his thoughts, but his moment is cut short but the echo of Jason’s combat boots approaching your door. Dick’s eyes rapidly scan the room for a secondary exit before he settles on an open window. “Don't think of it as lying, think of it as omitting the truth. Whatever you have to do just be there for 6.30. Oh, and it's great to meet you!”
“You too.”
“Thursday, 6.30!”
Before you can agree he’s gone, presumably scaling the side of your building as Jay steps inside.
Tim
Tim was actually the first to be aware of you and your relationship with his brother, however, the very real possibility of being gutted by Jason for snooping in his personal life was too high for him to make a move.
But you seeking him out is a different story; or rather, you being the first to say hi when you bump into each other in line at the grocery store is different. It would be rude not to respond to your attempts at initiating a conversation.
“Hello, hi, are you Tim? You don't know me but I’m Jasons partner. Its so great to meet you.”
“I know who you are.” He states rather ominously, eyes darting around behind you. “Is he here?”
“No, but he's picking me up after.” His shoulders visibly ease.
“Cool cool cool.” He’s suddenly much more personable. “So, I hear you're into…”
That chatting doesn't dry or lul at all as the queue dwindles and both buy your groceries. He waits with you until you get confirmation from Jay that he's on his way. He's easily the chillest sibling you've met thus far.
When Jason arrives he gets out of the car to open the boot and passenger door for you as always, but not before he thrusts his phone in your face. “Where is he?”
Displayed on the screen is a selfie of Tim with you in the background, you absolutely do not remember it being taken.
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teddypoi-qd · 11 months ago
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YOU - "Man, it sure is muggy out today."
LOGIC [Trivial: Success] - No it is not. It has barely been above freezing for the past week.
ENCYCLOPEDIA - In fact, 'muggy' is not a sensation that graces the isola of Insulinde often at all. For it to be muggy would require a sizable shift in the climate that surrounds you.
SHIVERS - Somewhere, northward, a Coupris Kineema is being taken apart, bit by bit, as a pair of young geniuses reverse engineer its creation. The blueprints-in-progress are lying on a damp crate, held by two heavy cans of beer. The wind tugs at them, to no avail.
KIM KITSURAGI - "Detective, if I go outside and there are mugs all over the ground, I *will* kill you."
EMPATHY [Legendary: Failure] - He's raising his Eyebrow. He might mean it.
ESPIRIT DE CORPS [Easy: Success] - No, he wouldn't. If nothing else, the paperwork involved wouldn't be worth it.
[COMPOSURE - Medium 10] Meet Kim's eyes.
[DRAMA - Godly 16] Convince Kim you don't know what a mug is.
Say nothing.
COMPOSURE [Medium: Success] - You raise your eyebrow back at Kim. Without breaking eye contact, you sip your coffee from a cereal bowl.
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mydear-corinthian · 2 days ago
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old man
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synopsis - after a mission, you and Bucky were forced to stay in a cabin until Steve and the others arrived. In the middle of a small argument, you said something you regretted… or did you?
pairing - bucky barnes x avenger! reader
warnings - SMUT +18, enemies to ..?, small argument, one bed trope, dom!bucky, overstimulation, creampie, squirting, dirty talk, p in v, (y/n) mentioned once
notes - inspired by that one fic of duncan vizla i read here ^_^ divider by enchanthings-a
main masterlist | marvel masterlist
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For how many months was the Avengers' primary mission to locate the small Hydra bases around the world? It's not exactly a new task for you. You and Bucky were assigned to this mission, which involved searching Romanian woods for a batch of super-soldier serum.
It painted the white, cold snow, and the bodies of the Hydra soldiers covered in blood adorned the area outside the small base.
“We got ‘em, Cap,” you said as you touched your earpiece, breathing hard after you just fought the last Hydra men. 
“Good. You two must stay put first while the others continue to locate bases in the area. There is a bunker in that location. You and Bucky can stop by there until everyone is done with their mission and then we’ll pick you up.” Steve replied on the comms. 
A frown replaced your smile. What do you mean stay on put? With Bucky? 
It's not really the kind of person you get along with, Bucky Barnes. He’s mysterious, cold, distant– everything. You don’t exactly have a good relationship with him. The both of you often argue with the smallest things– from a box of cereal, when training, just every single interaction you had with him. 
It felt more like divine retribution than an assignment when Steve revealed that you and Bucky would be working together on the mission. Like the universe had looked you dead in the eye and said, “Yeah, suffer.”
Out of all the people they could’ve assigned, they gave him Bucky. The one person you swore you’d never work with. 
What a wonderful day right!
"Aw, come on! We retrieved the serums already. Can we just go home and call it a day?” you groaned.
“Yeah, Steve. I’d rather go home. Or into a coma. Whichever gets me out of this faster,” Bucky muttered.
You didn’t bother hiding your annoyance, eyes rolling before Bucky even finished his sentence. It was exhausting to be around him, as if seven years of your life were being chipped away by every second. But he’s right, you’d rather get out of this mess immediately. 
The both of you heard Steve chuckled from the comms, “I’m sorry, lovebirds. You guys really gotta wait. Make this a perfect moment to stop fighting each other and offer peace.”
Lovebirds
Fuck that.
“Whatever. Just send us the coordinates.”
“Sending now.”
~
It took almost an hour to find the bunker. Every step felt slow and heavy, and the entire trail was blanketed in thick snow that was at least a foot deep. The cold wind blew through the trees, and everything was quiet except for the sound of your boots crunching the snow.
When you finally saw it, the bunker looked small — way smaller than you expected. It was hidden at the edge of the clearing, almost buried under snow. The walls were old and rusty, and the roof looked like it might cave in if it snowed any harder.
“What a nice AirBnB huh,” you sarcastically commented as soon as you saw it. 
Bucky didn’t mutter a single word and went inside right away. You hurriedly followed him, not wanting to get locked outside. As soon as he opened the door, your mouth hung open.
One bed.
“You’ve got to be kidding me.”
You put your go-bag on the little table in front of the bed, exhausted and defeated, while Bucky locked the door firmly and looked for items the S.H.I.E.L.D. had left behind. You removed your black parka jacket and folded it beside your bag. On the other hand, Bucky found two guns covered in a plastic zip-lock that was placed under the bed. 
“You gonna shower?” you asked, looking up at him. “You can go first. I’m still arranging my stuffs.”
Bucky simply nodded, not having the strength to argue anymore. He grabbed his whole bag and brought it with him to the bathroom. You sighed, getting up and grabbed the guns. Ripping the plastic open, you inspected them carefully before putting the bullets in then placed both on the nightstand. One for you, one for Bucky.
The mattress was supringsly soft but still small for the both of you. Your head was clouded with thoughts as soon as you sat on the bed. The both of you fight. A lot. Practically every time the both of you talk. And yet… sometimes, you wish we could just sit down and have a real conversation. Just talk. But you know it’s not that easy—especially not with someone like him. He’s so quiet, so withdrawn, like he’s always trying to disappear into the background. You get it. They broke him and made him into something he never wanted to be, and you know what Hydra did to him. Everyone talks about the Winter Soldier as if he were just that. But you don’t care about that. I want to know James. Bucky. The man. Not the myth, not the weapon. Just… him
Your thoughts were interrupted as soon as you heard the knob twisted from the bathroom. Bucky got out of the shower with some new clothes on. The sight was.. something for you to feel things.
The tight active dry shirt was hugging his biceps so much. He was also wearing a plain shirt and his hair.. oh god his hair. It was still a bit wet but god he looks good.
“You can go next,” Bucky said while he wiped his hair with a white towel that was sitting on his shoulders. 
You instantly grabbed your clothes and towel to cover up the blush that had appeared on your cheek. Closing the bag, you walked past him and went inside the bathroom.
It was small but it’ll do. It was a miracle that it has a heater— definitely can’t find that in a cabin like this. As you started rubbing soap all over your body, you can’t help but thought of Bucky again. Are you actually having a crush on him? 
He’s smart, tall, strong.. and definitely handsome. He might be cold and harsh but there are some times that he’ll ask you if you're okay after debfreifing and he never doubted your skills– which is a big thing for you. 
After you finished taking a shower, you found Bucky reading his own copy of The Hobbit. His face looked calm, collected, and.. hot?
"What is up with you and that book?" you asked.
"Huh?"
You rolled your eyes. "That's the 1937 book, right? The one that you've been bragging and literal is old like you."
"I'm not that old," he sighed, putting the book on top of the night stand.
"You're like 120 yea—"
"107."
"Same thing! You even got that old man's attitude."
"Oh really now?"
“You’re so old I bet it won’t even stand up anymore,” you bit. 
Oh shit.
You definitely did not dodge a damn missile on that one.
Bucky paused for a bit. He looked at your eyes and god you were terrified. You thought that maybe you slipped through the line with that joke. You were mentally punching yourself. You were waiting for a slap on your face or even a gun but nothing. Why the fuck did you even say that?
It wasn’t nothing.
But his lips on yours.
Bucky’s hands suddenly grabbed your face, firm and desperate, and before you could breathe—he kissed you. Hard. Your heart slammed against your chest, wild and thunderous, like it was trying to answer him.
"You really need to shut that mouth of yours, huh?" he murmured.
Your mouth parted when his tongue brushed your lips, asking for an entrance— wait asking? He didn't need to. He did it right away. Bucky's rough palms guided towards your neck, titling it to taste you more.
"Mmm—" you moaned.
He didn't hesitate to slide his fingers down to your stomach then to your shorts, toying with the garter as he continued playing his lips with your mouth. He swiftly removed your black shorts, together with your panties— soaking wet—, and tossed them somewhere the room.
You whimpered when you felt his fingers brushed your pussy, making a slick of wetness sound. You arched your back and clenched your fists around the bed linens.
"Jesus— you're soaking," he teased.
Bucky's vibranium arm left your face and started to unzip his pants swiftly. His cock sprung free. Hard. And definitely big. Pre-cum leaking out from his swollen tip.
Aligning himself, he began to slide it in— swiftly. Bucky smirked at the sight.
"Oh my god. Fuck— my dick fits perfectly inside you, huh?"
"Bucky! Wa-it—!" you choked.
Bucky was stretching your hole so much that it hurt. You didn't expect for him to be big— THAT big. You can feel his veins kissing your walls, his tip meeting your pelvis aggressively. Your eyes rolled so much you felt like your eyes were facing backwards now.
"You take me so well, doll. You're squeezing me like your pussy knows me, so don't even pretend you don't like this."
As he sank farther, your legs locked with his. You whimpered, groaned, and repeatedly chanted his name as if it were a damned prayer. You never imagined for this to feel good and to be doing this with.. Bucky. Someone who gives you a cold glare. Someone who doesn't even talk to you. Someone you never thought you'd fall for.
Bucky looked at you. Your eyes.
Not with lust.
But a hint of love.
It was wrong, and he knew it. It was wrong for someone like him to fall to a woman like you. He's a murderer. A criminal. A monster. But he shook his head mentally, ignore all the negative thoughts for now.
"F-feels good, Bucky.. aah—"
Bucky's arms were beside you, holding himself as he thrusted in and out. The silver dog tags on his neck moved crazily. His biceps were flexed at his pace. He leaned forward to you until his face was just half a inch apart from you. You can feel his hot breath whenever he groans. You can see how his eyebrows furrowed everytime you clench on him.
You broke the distance; kissing him up. It was sloppy. Wet. Lusful. An action that speaks to continue and pace up. Both of your lips were glossy. You heard him groan again as he went inside deeper. Bucky was hitting the spots that your fingers cannot even reach— and damn he is good at it.
He looked at you with that dumb smirk of his and broke the kiss, leaving a trail of saliva between your lips and his.
"Didn't know that a damn insult is all that you need for me to fuck you like this, hm?"
"Mmp—! F-fuck you, Barnes."
"I am, doll."
Bucky straightened his posture. His metal arm grabbed your left leg and then placed it on his shoulder, allowing himself to push himself even further. You let out a loud moan when you felt him fucking the spongy spot. His head rolled back and eyes were closed from the pleasure.
"Please.. Bucky," you beg as a knot forms in your stomach.
"Please what, doll?"
"'m so close— I think I'm gonna cum.. Oh god!" you writhed.
He let out a chuckle. His pace going faster, harder. More desperate. More power. More possessive.
"Yeah? My girl's gonna come? Go on, doll."
After a few more thrusts, the knot on your lower stomach finally ripped off. You clenched on him as you came hard. You were a moaning mess.
But Bucky didn't pulled out just yet. You felt a cold touch on your clit; his finger circling figure of eights with his thumb. You whined and whined from the continuous pleasure until you felt like it was too much. Too hard to handle. Too good.
"No— wait! Too much, Bucky! I can't!" you whimpered.
"Shh.. I know, doll. But I can't just stop especially when you're still squeezing me."
You curled up your toes, arching your back, and gripped the pillows tightly as the pleasure became too much. You were overstimulated and overwhelmed. The sound of your bodies slamming into each other echoed all over the small cabin. His finger flicking your clit so fast and well until you felt another wave of orgasm incoming.
"Aah!— Too much.. too much! Mmp—"
You finally squirted. Your juices were all over his cock as he continued pumping inside you. A wet puddle started to soak on the white bedsheets.
"Jesus Christ, doll— So good for me. Look at you so vulnerable, so addicted."
Your eyes closed again from the overstimulation. Your legs were trembling. Bucky's pace slowly slowed down and turned sloppy. His moans and grunts were getting louder and louder.
"You were talking shit about me earlier and now I'm cumming inside you," he teased.
With one final deep thrust, he spurted all of his cum inside you— rope after rope after rope, filling you. His head rested on your shoulder for a bit, waiting every drop to store inside your fucked pussy.
Your legs collapsed. Your chest violently heaved up and down. Bucky then pulled out slowly and when he did, his cum dripped down on your ached hole. Letting out a choked moan, you clench on nothing; suffering from the phantom cock.
"All you need is pissing me off so I can fuck you? Very smart idea, doll."
~
The next morning came. The both of you finished packing. After a few more minutes, the sound of the Quinjet rang into both of your ears. The door opened, revealing Steve and Natasha.
Bucky walked first, holding his black backpack that was hanging on his left shoulder. He greeted Steve and looked at you. You grabbed your go-bag and wobbled to Natasha.
"Woah, (y/n). Are you injured?" the red hair woman asked as she offered her hand to you. "What happened? We'll bring you to the Medbay as soon as we ar–"
"Oh trust me, she's fine. She just did cardio last night," Bucky replied with a smirk forming on his lips before going to the Quinjet.
Steve's eyebrows furrowed. "How can she do cardio in the middle of the ni— OH."
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cupidpony · 3 months ago
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going grocery shopping with your f/os ...!
♡ feeling their arms wrap around your waist as you look at the different prices between cereal or anything on the shopping list (or vice versa, you wrapping your arms around their waist!)
♡ subtle sneaks of a snack you/your f/o really wanted that wasn't on the list but still craved it anyway. bonus if you (or your f/o) try and give excuses on why this tasty treat is totally needed for the list amongst like bread and milk
♡ just casually holding hands while walking down the aisles in the store. it's a public setting yet you two still feel like its a private setting for a couple like y'all.
♡ bickering about what type of washing detergent is better, especially if you/your f/o are the stubborn sort and cannot decide on a thing.
♡ yet even in such a casual setting such as shopping for groceries, just the idea of spending time with your f/o can feel like the grandest thing in the world. anything with them involved is.
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fortunxa · 1 month ago
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❝ HOT & COLD ❞
Jinx x fem!reader / modern AU
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summary: Jinx and you are over—officially. But the lease says otherwise. Add a blizzard, a broken heater, one very unfortunate bed-sharing arrangement, and too many grudges to count. The blanket is thin, but the line between hatred and muscle memory is even thinner. Who knew emotional repression could be this warm?
contents: soft angst & fluff, exes to… something, forced proximity, only one bed trope, accidental intimacy, domestic tension, mutual pining, yearning, idiots (still) in love, poor communication skills, sleepy confessions, romcom fic, modern AU.
wc: 4.4k
Jinx masterlist ⭑.ᐟ
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Jinx and you broke up.
Like, broke up broke up.
With tears, screaming, one shattered mug (accidental), one shattered phone screen (less accidental), and silence, in the end. Not the peaceful kind—just the kind that buzzed with all the things you didn’t say and probably wouldn’t.
It was Jinx who muttered, “Fine. We’re done,” and you who said nothing in response.
Not because you agreed, but because you didn’t want to beg. Again.
But, in your infinite brilliance, neither of you remembered to check the lease. Or maybe you did remember—just silently hoped the other would cave first and move out.
Because rent was hell, and pride was worse. And if you left, Jinx would win.
She was absolutely thinking the same thing.
Weeks passed. Two months, technically.
Two long, passive-aggressive, emotionally charged, death-by-a-thousand-paper-cuts months of sharing the same apartment like strangers who knew exactly where the other kept their trauma.
She holed herself up in the bedroom, headphones always on, voice rising in chaotic bursts during gaming streaks or mechanical rants to no one. You took the couch, curled into yourself at night, watching bad movies on low volume, mouthing along to the dialogue just to feel less alone.
It was the kind of breakup that involved changing the other’s profile picture on Netflix to their least favorite character just to push buttons, arguing about mugs that were mysteriously “stolen” (Jinx still maintained that the “World’s Okayest Girlfriend” mug always belonged to her), and a dramatic declaration from you that you needed “space to grow without someone damaging your Minecraft village every night.”
You coexisted in a very passive-aggressive ceasefire, held together by sheer spite and a mutual agreement to pretend the other didn’t exist outside of kitchen-related war crimes.
“STOP EATING MY CEREAL” became a recurring sticky note on the fridge.
“STOP BUYING SHITTY CEREAL,” Jinx wrote back, underlining shitty three times.
You labeled your food with threats like a deranged librarian. She responded by using your fancy almond milk to water your plants.
“You poisoned my fern!”
“She was a bitch anyway.”
One particularly tense morning, you found all your movie posters defaced with crudely drawn mustaches. Jinx’s crime was marked by the signature blue Sharpie and the fact that she cackled for ten minutes straight when you discovered it.
You retaliated by unplugging her gaming setup mid-boss-fight.
The scream could probably still be heard echoing down the hall.
She logged into your shared Spotify account and replaced your sad indie playlist with Yodeling Kid remixes.
You bought a life-size cardboard cutout of some D-list actor she hated and propped it up in the hallway.
She put googly eyes on it and called it her new roommate.
It was a cold, petty war. Very stupid, but livable.
Until the blizzard hit.
It came out of nowhere. No gentle snowfall or cinematic build-up—just a sudden, blinding white wall outside the windows, like karma finally cashed in all its receipts. Within the hour, the entire city went quiet, like someone had unplugged the world.
And then came the outage—lights gone, Wi-Fi dead. The fridge stuttered to a halt with a shudder, and everything fell into a hush thick enough to taste.
You were in the kitchen, standing over a sad bowl of reheated soup—portion for one—trying to stir some kind of comfort into it. The only light came from your phone’s flashlight, its narrow beams cutting through the room like a lighthouse in a sea of passive-aggressive clutter.
Jinx emerged from her room like a startled raccoon, squinting at the sudden dark. She blinked blearily, purple hoodie half-zipped, screwdriver still tucked behind one ear, and a half-disassembled drone clutched to her chest like a wounded animal.
“Hey,” she muttered, “did you pay the—?”
“It’s the storm,” you said, not even bothering to look at her as you angled the flashlight toward the stove. Your tone was flat and practiced. The tone of someone who had once shared a bed with her and now shared nothing but bills.
She paused. Processed.
“Cool,” she said flatly. “I love the apocalypse.”
“You would.”
There was a beat of silence. Then she scratched her neck, the way she always did when she was about to say something either vaguely important or incredibly stupid.
“So, uh,” she began, rocking back on her heels, “the heater’s dead, too.”
You turned your head slowly, deadpan. “What.”
“It was making this noise like eeeeeeeeeeeck—” She flailed one arm vaguely, mimicking an engine dying mid-scream. “Then nothing.”
You stared at her. “I told you we should’ve bled the radiator last week. It was already wheezing like a dying Victorian child, gasping out its final confession.”
Jinx just shrugged, unapologetic. “Yeah, well. He died doing what he loved. Making terrible sounds and being a nuisance,” she shot back like a stubborn teenager before realization hit. “Wait—were you just speaking to me like we’re still on speaking terms?”
“No, I was speaking to the other emotionally stunted idiot I share rent with.” You rolled your eyes, but your jaw tightened.
She blinked at you for a long second, eyes catching the flashlight. “Must be a crowd in here, then,” she finally muttered under her breath.
The tension had been simmering all evening—quiet, sharp, inevitable. You and Jinx stood in the darkened apartment like two ghosts who hadn’t figured out how to leave the place where they died. Wrapped in too-thin hoodies and thicker layers of resentment, you both waited for the other to break first.
“We could light candles,” you offered eventually, voice clipped, arms folded across your chest like armor.
Her head turned slowly, eyes glinting. “You mean my candles? The ones you took from our room after the breakup?”
You scoffed. “You don’t even like vanilla sugar cookie.”
“I like spite,” she snapped back. Then, of course, she went and fetched them anyway. She lit each one like she was performing a ritual—striking matches with far too much intensity, her face flickering in the flame’s glow like she was summoning a demon instead of basic warmth. You watched her set the candles down on the windowsill, the kitchen counter, and the old coffee table stained with memories.
The room was suddenly full of soft light and the scent of synthetic sweetness. It clung to the air like nostalgia—unwelcome and too familiar.
You pulled on another hoodie and cocooned yourself in a blanket from the couch. Lukewarm soup in hand, you sat cross-legged in the living room, the spoon tapping gently against the ceramic bowl like a nervous tic. Jinx paced behind you like she couldn’t stand still for too long without combusting.
“Bedroom’s warmer,” she finally muttered, not looking at you.
You raised an eyebrow without lifting your gaze, watching the soup swirl in your bowl like it held some kind of moral high ground. “Because you hoard all the blankets.”
“It’s called survival instincts,” she replied, leaning one hip against the doorframe. “Sorry you weren’t born with any.”
“I was too busy being born with emotional maturity.”
“Boring,” she tossed over her shoulder and turned on her heel, feet thumping softly against the floorboards.
But she left the bedroom door open.
You stared at it for a while. At the golden light pooling in the hallway. At the shape of her shadow disappearing inside. At the crack in your own will widening with every second.
Eventually, logic won.
Or loneliness did. Hard to say.
Ten minutes later, you stood in the doorway like a reluctant truce offering with crossed arms and toes curling into the icy floor through your fuzzy socks.
“You’re hogging the whole bed,” you said, trying for annoyance and landing somewhere closer to exhaustion.
“You weren’t in it,” she replied from somewhere under the blanket, her voice muffled.
“You left one pillow.”
“I am one pillow.”
“Gross.”
“True.”
You climbed in anyway.
The mattress creaked beneath you like it remembered things you didn’t want to. The blanket was warm in the places she’d already been, cold everywhere else. She didn’t move to make room, and you didn’t ask. Just shifted into the empty space beside her with the kind of caution reserved for old battlefields.
The silence between you was immediate and loud, only broken by the wind hurling itself against the windows like it had a vendetta. You lay stiff and awkward, the air filled with unsaid things and the scent of faint shampoo and stubborn memories.
“I’m still mad at you,” Jinx muttered into her side of the bed, her voice muffled and sullen, breath fogging faintly in the frigid air.
You didn’t bother turning around. “Then don’t cuddle me.”
“I’m not cuddling you,” she huffed defensively, indignation wrapped in shivers.
After a muttered argument and one poorly constructed pillow wall that collapsed under the weight of pettiness and shared body heat the moment you moved, the two of you ended up back-to-back, pressed together beneath the blanket like awkward divorcees forced to share a hotel bed at a family reunion. Two ex-girlfriends, one blizzard, zero dignity. But a whole lot of silence, tension, and regret.
Then, softly—reluctantly—she mumbled, “…Move closer, dumbass. I’m freezing.”
You rolled your eyes so hard it could’ve powered a generator. “Unbelievable,” you muttered, but you scooted back, just a little. She moved, too, slowly, like she wasn’t totally desperate for warmth. Or the smell of your hoodie. Or the shape of you.
Her toes bumped your calf, and you flinched. “Your feet are ice,” you hissed.
“You’ve got the warm ones. Share, frost witch.”
You kicked at her half-heartedly, but she just tangled her legs into yours like it was nothing. You both squirmed, adjusting awkwardly—arms crossing, knees knocking, elbows bumping into ribs—until you landed in a mess of limbs that felt more like a habit.
Jinx’s nose brushed against your shoulder—accidentally, on purpose—and neither of you mentioned it.
A long pause settled over the room. The kind of silence that comes after too many almosts and not enough apologies.
“…Are you still mad at me?” she asked softly, her voice barely above a whisper, like the question had snuck out before she could stop it.
You stared at the ceiling for a moment, then exhaled. “I don’t know,” you admitted, the words leaving your mouth half-formed, like they didn’t want to exist outside of your chest.
Silence settled again. Not cold, but careful.
“I saw you crying during Finding Nemo last week,” she blurted out, trying—and failing—to keep the amusement out of her voice.
You turned your head slightly, just enough to glare half-heartedly. “That movie is devastating. He literally loses his son.”
She grinned in the dark. “Yeah, but I was emotionally dead inside before the stingray scene.”
You let out a short, reluctant laugh—sharp at the edges, but real. “You’re the worst.”
“You love it.”
“I did.”
The air shifted.
Not just the temperature, but the weight of everything unsaid, and you could’ve sworn you felt the mattress dip with the gravity of it.
“…So. Past tense,” she said quietly.
You shifted beneath the blanket, fabric brushing against her leg. “Don’t do that.”
“Do what?” Her voice was too innocent.
“Make it sound like I’m the villain in your sad indie song,” you murmured.
Jinx blinked. “I would never.” Then, she smiled. Softly, almost fond. “Your vibe is more… tragic lesbian who dies in Act III.”
That earned another huff of laughter from you, but quieter this time. Sadder.
You turned to face her—just barely—and your noses nearly touched. Her breath was warm against your mouth. You didn’t move, and neither did she. The space between you was almost nothing, but still everything.
For a long moment, you simply stared at each other in the half-dark. Breathing the same cold air, wearing the same old ache, still pretending the word love wasn’t curling in both your throats like smoke.
Her eyes fluttered. You could see her trying to stay present, to stay with you. But every few seconds, her gaze would soften, blur a little, until she blinked hard again and refocused on you—like your face was something she didn’t want to lose track of.
Your chest rose, and so did hers. In time.
It was around 3:00 a.m., though neither of you knew it. Because Jinx was curled against you like she forgot you broke up and lost the right to touch, and you didn’t remind her.
Maybe neither of you cared.
You fit together the way people who’ve fought and fucked and forgiven each other a hundred times always do—like old puzzle pieces with frayed edges, soft from use.
You weren’t really awake, but not quite asleep either—somewhere in the middle, suspended in that liminal space where your body acts before your brain does.
So when you stirred beside her—shuffling closer, sighing softly into the crook of her neck—it felt natural to respond. Familiar, like muscle memory. Her arm curled instinctively, draping over your waist like it used to.
You didn’t flinch. Simply exhaled, deep and steady, while your nose brushed against her collarbone in the dark. A second later, your lips followed, grazing soft skin—too lightly to be deliberate, too precisely to be random.
“You still grind your teeth when you’re about to fall asleep,” Jinx mumbled suddenly, her voice low and heavy, half-buried in the pillow between you.
You smiled into the dark—one of those worn-in smiles that surfaces from memory before thought. You didn’t mean to. It just happened, the way muscle remembers softness even after months of tension.
She exhaled, her breath warm against your temple, slow and even like the rhythm of a tide she couldn’t resist. Her lips brushed skin—not purposefully, not quite. But close enough to blur the line.
It wasn’t a kiss.
But it wasn’t not a kiss.
More like an echo.
A ghost of the old days, when goodnights always came with kisses and mornings meant shared coffee—too sweet, made one-handed while you still wore your blanket like a cape—and legs entangled in sleepy domestic knots.
An entire life lived in tiny routines.
You shifted slightly, voice drowsy as you murmured, “You’re breathing on me.”
“Can’t help it,” she mumbled, her words slurred with sleep. “You’re warm.”
“You’re dreaming.”
“Probably,” she hummed in response, a quiet, contented sound. The words melted into the quiet like honey in tea.
You moved again, slowly, thoughtlessly—half-lost to sleep yourself. Your nose brushed the curve of her cheek, skin to skin in the dark. “You’re soft.”
Jinx didn’t respond to that.
Because what could she say?
That she knew?
That she’s only ever soft with you?
That the word soft coming from your mouth made her want to cry in a way nothing else ever did?
That she missed being called that more than she’d miss breathing?
So, she said nothing.
She just leaned forward and pressed the gentlest kiss to your forehead—so light it could’ve been imagined, so instinctive it didn’t feel like a choice at all.
Not even thinking.
Just moving. Reacting. Remembering.
“I still set the kettle out for you,” you whispered suddenly, voice barely audible in the dark.
She stirred beside you. “What?”
“Every morning. I don’t know why.”
She went quiet for a long moment. The kind of quiet that meant she was holding something between her teeth, turning it over.
“I still charge your phone when you forget.”
You blinked, eyes stinging suddenly, inexplicably. The quiet pressed in around you again, heavy with all the things you hadn’t said.
“…We’re so dumb,” you said, almost laughing. It came out cracked.
“The dumbest.”
Another silence, but not empty.
Never empty.
Then she shifted, just slightly, like her whole body braced for impact before the words even left her mouth. “You know,” she said, quiet and careful, “I didn’t stop loving you. I just got tired of trying to become someone you could stay with.”
Your breath caught.
You didn’t respond right away. Not because you didn’t have words, but because none of them felt like enough—not for this, not for her, and not after everything.
But slowly, tentatively, your hand found hers under the blanket. The touch was gentle, almost shy. Yet when your fingers slid into hers, they fit the same way they always had. Like nothing had changed. Like everything had. Like love learned how to hold on even when you tried to let go.
Your thumb brushed over her knuckle once. “You were always someone I wanted to stay with,” you whispered. “I just didn’t know how to stay with you and not lose pieces of myself in the process.”
Jinx’s grip tightened, just a little. Just enough. “I would’ve given you space,” she murmured.
“You didn’t know how,” you said, not unkindly, just true.
“I do now.”
Silence again.
Then, slowly, she tilted her head. Her mouth brushed the edge of your jaw—featherlight, slow, like she wasn’t sure she had permission. Like she was trying not to wake you. Like the memory of loving you was still rooted in her muscle memory, twitching to life in the dark.
And you let her. Turned into it, just slightly, because you were too tired to pretend you didn’t miss the way her lips used to know exactly where to land.
You met halfway.
The kiss was nothing like the ones you used to share. No urgency, no hunger, and no frantic pulling at clothes or gasps between apologies.
It was soft and short and not entirely awake—it happened so gently, so sleepily, you didn’t even realize you were kissing until it was already over.
Just a peck. The kind people don’t mean to give—like a sigh, or a yawn, or reaching for the light switch in a room you haven’t lived in for months but still remember.
Like coming home for three seconds in the middle of a snowstorm.
And then, without thinking, you leaned forward and pressed another kiss to the tip of her nose. Barely a whisper of contact. Just enough for her to breathe in sharply, like even now, even half-asleep, your affection still caught her off guard.
Then a third one—this one landing a little off-center, a little clumsy, brushing messily across the corner of her mouth.
A hello.
I remember you.
This still lives here.
Jinx made a small, involuntary sound—something between a sigh and a whimper—low and soft against your lips, like her body remembered you before her mind could. Your noses bumped lazily, and you smiled into it like it hurt.
When you finally paused for air, foreheads pressed together, you whispered, “This doesn’t mean anything… right?”
She nodded against you. “Right. Just… survival. Warmth.”
You huffed a quiet laugh, breath puffing against her lips. “Like penguins.”
She cracked a smile. “Exactly.”
“So if I kiss you again—”
“It’s so I don’t freeze to death,” she finished for you.
“Obviously.”
Another kiss.
This one lingered—longer than the last, warmer, steadier. There was a quiet kind of certainty in it.
“Penguins mate for life,” you whispered against her lips, the words soft and teasing, but not without weight. Like you tried to make it a joke so you didn’t have to admit it sounded like a promise.
Jinx blinked, caught mid-breath.
“…Shit.”
You laughed, breathless, and buried your face in her neck again, smelling her body wash and deciding not to comment on the fact that it smelled suspiciously close to yours.
Her arms slipped around your waist, pulling you closer. “Sleep,” she murmured, voice raspy with exhaustion and something far too tender. “Before we say something even dumber.”
“Too late,” you mumbled back, the words muffled against her collarbone.
You fell quiet again, tangled up in heat and history and every part of you that never quite let go, her thumb tracing something lazy into your spine.
“We’re a mess,” she whispered.
“Always have been.”
“Still want toast in the morning?”
You smiled, eyelids heavy now, the weight of the moment pressing down like warmth. “Yeah.”
Jinx’s grin was lazy and crooked, her voice slurring at the edges of sleep. “I’ll burn it just how you like.”
Outside, the storm continued.
Inside, two idiots kept forgetting they ever broke up, suddenly remembering how to be soft again.
And maybe the heater would come back.
And maybe you’d go back to hating each other in the morning.
But the body doesn’t lie the way the mouth does.
Because love doesn’t vanish—not really.
Sometimes it just moves into the living room and leaves sarcastic sticky notes.
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yippeee i haven’t forgotten how to write softness!!
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greenglowinspooks · 5 months ago
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Hey. Shakes you by the shoulders. DCxDP where Eobard Thawne is Danny’s cool distant “uncle” that he never sees but always sends in the coolest gifts for the holidays.
~
Danny had grown used to seeing people injured at a surprisingly young age.
He wasn’t injured on the regular, or witness to some sort of extraordinary amount of violence; his parents’ lab was just… very volatile, and they were unprofessionally lax on safety measures on the best of days.
As such, when he saw an unconscious, incredibly injured man wearing some sort of superhero suit in their backyard in the early hours of the morning (he had gotten up to get a glass of water when he heard a thump outside), he didn’t panic, as any young child should have in his situation.
No. Instead, Danny dragged the man inside (with considerable difficulty; despite how thin he was, he was heavy), treated his wounds as best he could (it’s difficult for a child younger than 10 to do stitches, you understand), put a blanket over the man, and went back to bed.
After losing a fight to the Flash and passing out in a random suburban lawn, the last thing Eobard was expecting to wake up to was a small child sitting on the floor in front of him, noisily eating a bowl of cereal.
(He had thought, maybe he would have been found by the Flash and brought to some Justice League holding cell. Or, found by a civilian, and brought to the police. Perhaps, in his feverish state, he had remembered the prison he ended up in from his time, with their brands and chemicals and torturous therapies.)
For some unknown reason, this child had found him, not recognized him as the monster he is (perhaps due to the boy’s age), and helped him—even if his healing factor would have fixed him eventually, having all his parts in the right order certainly sped up the process.
Usually he wouldn’t care for civilians. He’d killed enough that he’d lost count what felt like an eternity ago—and yet, somehow, he felt indebted to this boy. This boy, who had helped him so selflessly, who was so entirely clueless to the evil right in front of him.
This boy, who was all alone in an empty house, whose sister was away, whose parents had gone on a trip and left him behind.
(It didn’t matter the explanation the boy gave for it, Eobard’s mind whispered to itself regardless. Kin. Like calling to like.)
And so, he worked hard to free himself from this debt he had incurred.
He traveled through time, working his way into the family whilst posing as a distant relative. It was remarkably easy; the Fentons didn’t have an incredible memory of their relatives; all he had to do was forge a few papers and mention a few people and he was now “Uncle Eo”.
It was, however, taxing on the mind. These people were absurdly friendly, not to mention talkative. The effort had become a multi-year operation, popping in every now and then for large family gatherings and home visits.
It felt… nice, to be wanted for once. To be noticed in his absence for more than just his status.
To be liked.
He made sure to send the boy a gift on the right holidays, as well as on his birthdays. With his skillset, it wasn’t too difficult to follow him around and see what he liked and wanted. It also wasn’t difficult to spy in when he opened them, to ensure that he had done an acceptable job.
Of course, he couldn’t let this sort of thing cut into his time spent fighting the Flash, so he wasn’t too present. The last thing he wanted was to drag trouble into the boy’s life from his presence.
But then, it happened.
He found out that this boy, and the one known in his time as Phantom, were one and the same.
It was, as a historian, thrilling.
It was, as a villain, horrifying.
In all his travels, he had never intended to involve himself with that mysterious being which shadowed the Justice League. That ghost with the power, in some timelines, to bring about the end of all things.
Of course, he was also capable of doing that, but it isn’t exactly fun to meet someone who’s powers are a match for your own.
Especially if you couldn’t find it in yourself to end him, should he make himself your enemy.
Still, he had a debt to repay, and a boy to look after.
He delivered things to the boy’s room to help him; tactical gloves, a lightweight protective suit, weapons and equipment. All uncredited, since the boy seemed to value the idea of a secret identity.
He took it upon himself to shift the odds in his favor a few times, even; making faster-than-light adjustments to the boy and his combatants during fights to shift the odds in his favor.
Somewhere along the years, he had formed some sort of odd affection for the boy, if he was capable of doing so at all.
And so, when that ghost-boy sought his Uncle Eo out all the way in Central City, carved open and scarred, a distant look in his eyes, he took him in without a second thought.
He would protect this boy, who once had protected him.
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suguann · 7 months ago
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✎. you aren’t happy about your roommate’s party until you meet the attractive guy down the hall.
tags. fem!reader, future installments will contain smut, age difference, original characters, college student reader, one-night stands, angst, dirty talk, hurt/comfort, size kink, unplanned pregnancy
featuring. simon
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It’s your first semester living off-campus, and Finn is boundlessly enthusiastic about all things that involve cheap liquor and crowded spaces, even more so now that she roped you into being her roommate after promising to split the cost of furnishing an apartment that’s probably too expensive for two undergrads working part-time, low-pay jobs.
You don’t like parties, really. 
Movies and the social connotations surrounding parties have always made them seem like some monumental proverbial chip in your college experience; the real thing, once the bright-eyed shine of trying something new wears off, is more or less a bunch of random people packed into a room like sardines who abate their social awkwardness with alcohol and loud music.
So, no, you can’t exactly say that you enjoy the thought of Finn’s friends (and everyone she hardly smiles at) cramping up your already tiny apartment—especially when one of them is Miller from one of your business classes, who gives you the creeps. 
And leave it to Finn to invite him, anyway.
"Now he knows where I live," you grumble into your bowl of cereal—something probably too sweet and (definitely) full of sugar for breakfast.
Finn shrugs, not at all worried for you, as she pours more sticky orange batter into the hot pan on the stove. "The guy has a crush on you. I think it's cute. And he seems harmless."
“Harmless until I end up in a ditch somewhere.”
You don’t have to see her face to know she’s doing that thing with her mouth whenever you say something she thinks is ridiculous. “If you’d agree to split the Netflix bill, you wouldn’t be stuck watching horror movies. Why do you only own horror movies, again?”
"That's easy for you to say.” You roll your eyes, ignoring her question. “You don’t have to sit by him every week.”
(As if that would ever convince her to change her mind.)
"Ow! Shit!"
You look up right before Finn drops a steaming pancake onto her hand and rushes to the sink to run it under cold water. The mutilated pancake lay forgotten with the others that didn't survive her last several attempts.
"Finn, I think this is unnecessary," you tell her after swallowing a mouthful of cereal. "Can't you do something more practical? Like sticking a note to their door?"
Finn looks up from the sink, her wild, red curls bouncing from the movement. "Oh, come on! Don't chicken out now. I've already made fifteen of these things." She points her pink spatula at the tower of not-quite pumpkin-shaped pancakes on the counter. "Plus, who's going to turn down free food? Now, go put on your costume and hand these out."
You shovel another spoonful of cereal into your mouth, scowling. "I'm not wearing the costume you picked out. It's so...inappropriate."
You’re pretty sure Finn picked out your costume from the dicey sex shop down the street rather than an actual Halloween store—the amount of mesh compared to solid fabric only solidifies the theory.
Finn finally turns the water off and gives you a stern look, amused eyes set under a furrowed brow. "I can find the one you own in the children's section at Costco."
You roll your eyes. "I really don’t feel like flashing my tits to the neighbors while offering them breakfast.”
She grins, wide and teasing. "You have nice tits, though.”
"Yeah, I'm sure the old woman down the hall would love to see her neighbor in the equivalent of a thong and nipple coverings at the start of her day." You don’t think you’d ever be able to look her in the eye again.
"Miss Yado is cool,” Finn says, returning to the stove to continue cooking. “She'll probably just tell you to wear a jacket or something."
You pick up your empty bowl and lean over the counter to put it in the sink. "I didn't know you talked to our neighbors."
Finn shrugs, flipping the pancake in the skillet. "She normally walks her dog while I'm heading to class. I stop to talk to her sometimes when I'm not running late." 
“Oh?”
She shoots you a wry grin over her shoulder. "You'd know the neighbors too if you didn't scowl all the time."
In response, the corners of your mouth tip down. "I don’t scowl."
"Now, would you go change? These are getting cold." 
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Several minutes later, you come out of your room wearing the same costume you'd worn the past two years. Finn pouts when she sees you forwent the one she had picked out. However, she doesn’t do more than shake her head and shove a handful of food containers full of pancakes into your hands.
“You’ll be fine. Just remember to smile,” she tells you before the front door closes behind you.
You start on your end of the hall, going door to door and handing out the small containers. The whole time, you’re wondering why Finn couldn’t do this herself, considering you’re hardly a people person as is. Thankfully, nobody seemed too annoyed about being bothered on a Saturday morning—only one neighbor shut the door in your face before you could say anything.
But it’s fine. You’re not going to let it ruin your day. Plus, you only have one person left.
There’s a small pit of nerves in your stomach when you knock this time—half expecting another door to the face. What you don’t expect, however, is the tall and imposing guy who answers.
Who also doesn’t appear to be any less annoyed.
Your mouth opens and closes helplessly, all words stuck to the back of your tongue, watching as stray water droplets drip down from his wet hair and travel down the side of his face before dispersing into the dark stubble lining his jaw.
You stare. And stare. Eyes, most likely, bugging unattractively out of your head.
How did Finn never mention the super hot neighbor who lived six doors down the hall?
He gives you a once-over, and part of you suddenly wishes you’d gone with Finn's costume instead. Only because here, at that moment, you’re willing to admit that maybe the one you have on looks like a six-year-old picked it out—especially when this guy, who is way out of your league, scrutinizes it for a second longer, mostly your frilly crew socks. 
"Can I help you?" he asks, his voice low as if he hasn’t been awake for long.
You blink, mild embarrassment rushing through you from the sudden realization that you’ve been standing there and saying absolutely nothing.
"Hi, um, I'm your neighbor from down the hall. My roommate and I are throwing a Halloween party, and we're inviting people in the building." Annoyance slowly melts off his face.
"Thank you,” heavily tattooed arms cross over his broad chest, and he leans against the door frame (and you definitely don’t stare at how his biceps seem to strain against his black t-shirt). “But I think I'm getting a little old for parties."
The corners of your mouth tip up in what’s the beginning of a smile.
"Okay, sure. You're, what, twenty-five?"
It’s a stupid joke, and for a moment, you panic, afraid he’d been unimpressed, but then his lips quirked slightly. "Not quite. Nice costume. Let me guess, fairy?"
"Witch, actually. I’ve always gone with something more original," you babble and bite your lip before you can say something else.
"It’s cute." 
Cute?
You’re unsure if you should feel elated that he thinks so or self-conscious—that he might be making fun of you—so you settle with a mumbled “thanks.”
"So, what's with the container?" he asks, nodding toward your hands.
"Oh, um, my roommate thought she could bribe people with food to come to the party." Truthfully, it’s to prevent potential complaints from the neighbors, but you decide not to mention that part, although you think he knows by the way the corner of his mouth subtly lifts.
You give him the plastic container and watch as he stares into it with a furrowed brow. "It's a... pancake?"
"Er, yeah. My roommate likes to go above and beyond for everything."
"What's it supposed to be?" he asks, glancing up at you.
"Um, a pumpkin..."
You look between him and the container and find Finn had accidentally mixed up her presentable pancakes with the throwaways. And the pumpkin shape is...well, it isn't.
"Ah, I see," he nods, his slowly drying hair falling onto his forehead. "That makes more sense."
You can’t stop the giggle that bubbles to the surface. "You think you can do better?"
"Yes, actually," he grins back, all cocksure, with a flash of white teeth. "Maybe I’ll bring some over some time."
"I won't tell her you said that." However, you can't wait to rib Finn later.
"Right, it probably wouldn't make a very good first impression." Then he sticks out his free hand, "Simon."
You shyly shake it—ignoring the little skip in your chest at how big his hand is compared to yours—and tell him your name, too.
His eyes flicker down to his watch, and he curses under his breath. "Well, it was nice meeting you. But I have to finish getting ready for work."
Only then do you take note of the tactical pants and heavy boots he’s wearing.
When you meet his gaze again, you find amusement there, and you consider, with a new rush of mortification, that it probably seemed like you’d been openly eyeing his crotch. 
You clear your throat, the back of your neck feeling hot, and you pointedly pretend your voice doesn’t hitch when you breathe a soft, tremulous, "Okay, sure.”
"Tell your roommate I said thanks for breakfast."
"Yeah, I'll tell her. Um, I guess I'll see you around." No longer able to make eye contact with him, you turn away and begin walking (though it’s probably closer to running) toward your door.
And you definitely don’t look over your shoulder to see if he’s still standing there.
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You spend most of the party hanging out near the front door, quietly hoping Simon might show up—even though it seems unlikely. After all, he did mention that he’s too old for parties, and a small, insecure part of you wonders if it was his polite way of turning you down.
"The guy was running late,” Finn had tried to reassure you. “I'm sure he was thinking about how to beat expressway traffic before the lunch hour rush hit. Not about the crazy lady in a witch costume running away from his door."
That was the initial deciding factor between your witch costume and the one Finn’s been trying to force you into—only so you don’t have to hear another person call you cute just to seem nice.
And leave it to Finn to jump at the opportunity to help you get ready, though she nearly freaked out when you popped into your joint bathroom with an old tube of mascara that you rummaged out of your nightstand.
"Do you know how many germs are probably on that thing?" Finn’s nose scrunched up as she threw it away in the waste bin near the toilet. "Please tell me you haven't used it since you bought it?"
You had rolled your eyes. "Probably not."
Finn sighed, then smiled. "Luckily for you, I own more than a crusty mascara tube." 
You were about to argue, but when Finn told you to sit on the toilet lid with a dangerously sharp liner pen, you’d clenched your jaw instead, unsure what you were more scared of when Finn brought the pen close to your face: that your friend might potentially stab you in the eye or that you’d come out of the bathroom with raccoon eyes.
Thankfully, when Finn finally finished, neither was the case, except the number of looks you’ve been receiving anytime someone stops in the kitchen to get more drinks is something you hadn’t anticipated—especially when one of them happens to be Miller.
You’ve been avoiding him and his overly bare chest from the moment he walked through your front door. It grew more challenging after Finn left your side (the traitor) to talk to a guy you’ve seen her hanging around with on campus a few times. 
And with the apartment feeling smaller than it already is, you’re only option is to blend in with the group hanging around your kitchen island.
You’ll be fine, Finn said.
Right, you think as you adjust the scanty tube top under your mesh shirt, trying to cover more of yourself with what little fabric you have at your disposal, and you wonder if it’s too late to change—
A knock at the door makes you perk up, regardless of how noisy the room is, with eardrum-shattering music and loud college students. You pull it open, expecting to see Simon on the other side, only to be disappointed when it’s one of Finn’s friends and her girlfriend instead.
"Hey, Roma." You realize you probably sound rude and attempt to give them your best smile—which is more or less a grimace.
Roma smooths out her extremely short referee-style dress. "Sorry, we're late! I couldn't remember where you lived. There are way too many blue apartment buildings around here..."
Everything she’s saying goes in one ear and out the other when you spot Simon stepping out of the door to the stairway across the hall. You hold your breath, waiting for him to look up from his phone.
But he keeps walking.
"Uh, yeah," you say distractedly before speeding up the conversation. "Hey, Finn is in the living room, but I'll see you guys inside, okay? I need to do something."
You step around them to catch up to Simon, which you learn isn’t easy in heels. So you call his name, hoping he hears you and smiling when he turns toward you. And you don’t miss how his gaze trails down your body slowly.
It makes something inside you quiver as you nervously play with the short hem of your skirt.
“Hey,” he says, sounding every bit as tired as he looks—his shirt from that morning now wrinkled with bluish hollows under his eyes—though he tries to hide it with what you think is an attempt at a smile.
And your cheeks burn because you feel guilty. 
"Hey," you repeat dumbly. 
Your eyes lower as his smile melts into one of faint amusement at your lack of tact. You fidget, shifting from one foot to the other. Maybe, you think, you should have let him walk into his apartment before you could embarrass yourself further today.  
After a moment, you meet his gaze again. 
"Uh, I just wanted to see if you still wanted to come over…But I imagine you're probably not up for it, so I’ll leave—"
Simon surprises you when he shrugs his shoulders and says, "Sure."
Your mouth gapes, unsure if you heard him correctly. "Wh-what?"
"I just need to shower and change, and then I'll be over. Okay?"
"I... yeah, okay," your nod is shy, trying not to betray eagerness.
A lazy grin stretches across his mouth. "Nice costume, by the way," he disappears into his apartment before he can witness how his words make you flush.
And you walk back to your apartment feeling a little more floaty than when you left.
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gaywineauntsstuff · 4 months ago
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Headcanon that when extremely sleep deprived Dick tells Jason wayyy too much traumatizing lore about his life.
Bc he kinda forgets that Jay wasn’t there for it
Since he was hallucinating the bastard (yeah I know in canon it was obviously a hallucination idk)
So Dick will accidentally just lore dump about the most insane shit bc well Jason was there (no he wasn’t)
And when he’s offensively sleep deprived it goes the other direction and he forgets that Jason ever came back.
So he’s just in the corner watching what he believes to be a hallucination of his baby brother except for some reason his mind decided he needed to see what Jay would look like grown up.
Dick on day 7 without sleep watching Jason beat up a gang member: maybe my therapist was right
Jason: the fuck are you-?
Dick: Maybe I DO need to go back on anti-psychotics
————————————————————
Dick alone in his apartment with a bag of shredded cheese and a plain cereal box in one hand ready to have what is probably the Most depressing depression meal: hmmm hmmmm hmmm
Jason who climbed through a window while dick was distracted: Sup
Dick: ah look a wild hallucinajason appears
Jason: what the fuck did you the call me
Dick patting Jason’s cheek: oh they’re somatosensory now too! That’s new! Anyway bye bye baby bird
Jason watching his brother leave the kitchen: ….okay what the fuck?
——————————————
Dick only on 3 days without sleep: this reminds of the time I was about the sign my marriage license!
Jason: two things 1) why does a shootout remind you of being at the courthouse 2) WHEN THE FUCK DID YOU GET MARRIED
Dick: I didn’t get married?
Jason: then what the hell are you talking about
Dick: idk the last time I tried too get married way more guns than necessary were involved and you know when I tired to get married Jay you were there!
Jason “was dead at the time” Todd: what the fuck are you talking about?
Dick: yeah! I mean you really hated her so you told me I’d be a disappointment if I married her and then disappeared. Which like granted I also didn’t wanna marry her but that was harsh
Jason: ….. I? I don’t even know what the appropriate response is? Here
Dick: an apology would be nice?
Jason who is now 50% sure his ghost haunted his brother 25% sure his brother was hallucinating and like 25% sure Bruce used his image as a tool to get dick to do what he wanted: ……. You know what… nah she was a bitch and I’m glad you didn’t marry her
Dick: I mean.. same
—————————————
Dick has a caffeine IV Grayson : this brings me back to the good old days
Jason dodging an alien: ??? When you were Robin ? How?
Dick: no! When Donna died and I didn’t have to worry about saying alive so I could do insane shit like infiltrating an alien spaceship with no protective gear
Jason:??????????????? Dick what the fuck
Dick: OH come on??? You were there! Very quippy 10/10 would be haunted by again
Jason:…. I- yeah you know what I’m not touching this one
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