#Pi Skyline

[superblysubpar]

modern!husband!steve harrington x wife!you

2,603 words

warnings: so like, technically, you don't have to read "We'll Call It Love" , my modern steve series, BUT you're missing soooooo much that got these two idiots here, so I really encourage you to do so. This scene is so so so much more fun if you know all that led up to it, I promise. anyways: | alcohol mentions, slight descriptions of use by reader | smut (public - you get caught *kind of* / fingering / piv unprotected intercourse - creampie / wife,mom,breeding, all the kinks from one Mr. Harrington) - 18+ as always

a blurb for the "Trick or Treat, Freak?" event - don't forget to vote for tomorrow at the bottom of the fic!

A/N: I just wanted to say again, thanks for loving We'll Call It Love so much. I actually got to go see the band COIN last night, the music that inspired the fic, the screenplay, and just...wow. I don't have other words for it. Idk, feeling very sappy for all of you today and this story that means so much to me. Thanks for being here, it was fun to revisit these two 💛 and *now* I'm done with them.

Probably.

The day hadn’t been without its issues, but he’d expect nothing less, when it comes to the two of you.

First, there was Eddie’s girlfriend showing up in fake blood, late, covered in swatches of dark and gory fake gashes and goo all down her arms as she frantically rushed past him and shouted something about busy season and don’t worry, his bride was gonna look beautiful and not in a tragically haunting poetic way but in a romantic sunset kissed glowing kind of way.

Which, you did.

But then, there was an issue with the cake, which, wasn’t supposed to be a cake, but a bunch of peach pies. Robin and Nancy were whispering loud enough to bring him into the kitchen, both of their mouths snapped shut as Steve blinked at the largest solitary pie he’d ever seen. It was massive, comically so, and Robin was waving her hands at him, it’s going be fine spilling out of her lips that had just been freshly glossed for photos. Nancy was on the phone with a bakery and then Eddie was stumbling through the door shouting about canceling the order. He smiled at Steve and told him that you started crying which made him frown and start towards the direction Eddie had just come from, but his groomsman and your best man stopped him, assured him that then you started laughing, that you said your parents would have loved it.

Which, ultimately led to issue number three.

Robin had approached him slowly, fixing his tie, before she whispered that they couldn’t find you, but that there was a note, with his name on it. He had grabbed it with trembling fingers, only to find it didn’t say anything like sorry or I can’t do this, but a quote:

“I’ll have what she’s having.”

He rushed past Robin, shouted about being right back.

Steve found you on a balcony, which took a little bit of work, asking the front desk if anyone booked a room under Buttercup, or Allie, Kate, and ultimately Sally Albright. Then they wouldn’t give him the room number till he confirmed his name was Harry Albright, not Harry Burns. His breath caught in his chest when you turned to look at him, chin quivering and a quiet greeting for him before you started crying. It all ended alright, after you talked about your parents and him and all of it and he kissed you and made a joke about wedding curses. If seeing you in your dress before the ceremony already happened, where was the harm in a sunset balcony quickie?

You didn’t go for it that time, only grabbed his hand and pulled him out of the room with you, asking if he was ready to get married.

Which he really fucking was.

The floor to ceiling windows overlooking the skyline had been good in theory, letting in the beautiful, breathtaking sunset as you said your vows. But they also let in the warmth, the room an oven, leading you to laughing during the ceremony and swiping at his temple with your handkerchief and Eddie fanning Robin while she officiated. And cried.

There was so much crying.

But it was perfect.

You were perfect.

“Sir?”

Steve blinked away from where he was watching you take pictures in the vintage photobooth, you, Robin, Nancy, and Eddie’s girlfriend were all crammed in, sitting on each other’s laps, to the attendant in front of him.

Perfect, but distracting.

“So sorry, what did you ask?”

The venue employee smiled, like he knew the look on Steve’s face well, and then he shook his head. “Nothing to apologize for, sir. I was just letting you know that all the gifts are put away and locked in the car downstairs as instructed by your wife. Anything else I can do for you?”

His wife.

Steve looked over at you again, sighing as you tilted your head back in a laugh at the images in Robin’s hand.

He smiled at the man in front of him and shook his hand, “No, thank you.”

You felt him before you saw him, or rather, smelt him.

Your body spun to find the source of the salty and fried scent to see Steve holding a container of fresh french fries and a smile and eyes that seemed to be perfectly made, and only for you.

“Hey Mrs. Harrington,” he kissed your cheek, lips lingered against your skin as he asked, “Hungry?”

“Starving,” you groaned, your body crumpled against his as you exchanged your glass of champagne for the fries you knew would end up being a great late night snack offered. Warmth filled your stomach at the sound of your new last name, like a lovesick idiot you swore you’d never be.

Steve lifted a fry to your mouth, eyes a deep burnt amber in the low reception lighting as he watched your lips part and steal the fry from between his fingers, his tongue with a mind of it’s own, swiping out over his bottom lip as yours brushed the pad of his thumb.

You snorted.

“You’re so easy, Harrington.”

Steve lifted the fries away from you, eyes glinting as you pouted and reached for them half-heartedly, content to just lean against his body instead as he joked, “Hey. We’re married. You have to be nice to me now.”

Warm breath hit his jaw as you huffed, “Well, if I knew that was the rule, I never would have said I do a few hours ago.”

A kiss was pressed to his neck despite your words, right against his two freckles, then a smile ghosted against his skin when you heard the low rumble in his chest.

Steve’s lips brushed your ear as he bent down, speaking softly, lowly, and sending the warmth between your stomach directly between your legs.

“Don’t start something you can’t handle, honey.”

Your head lifted, stares at one another challenging and hopelessly and sickeningly in love to anyone who was watching.

“Oh,” you laughed, quietly, leaned in to whisper against his lips, “I think I can handle you just fine, Mr. Harrington.”

He had you in the bathroom not even a minute later, one hand locking the door behind him and the other pressing over your mouth as you giggled.

Steve’s mouth was all over your neck as his hands found your hips, guiding you to the counter.

“You’re so beautiful,” words warm and sticky and sweet against your skin as your head fell back against his shoulder in a gasp when his lips found a new spot behind your ear. “Can’t believe I’m married to you. Can’t believe you said yes. Can’t believe you’re all-“

His hand smacked at your ass as he grabbed a fistful of it, scrunching up the fabric of your dress you could care less about now as he growled in your ear the word, “Mine.”

“Steve,” you hated how breathless you sounded, hated how he’d barely touched or kissed you and you were wrecked already, “Hurry.”

He whined into the crook of your neck, spun you and let his nose trace along the straps of your dress, across the lace covering your chest as his mouth followed, leaving a trail of goosebumps in their wake.

Steve knelt, regretfully removing his lips from your skin so he could carefully lift your dress, handing it to you with a quiet, “Hold this, honey.”

He pressed a kiss to your check as you did what you were told, but then he got a proper look at you and your lip was captured between your teeth at his groan, from the way his hands ran through his hair.

“Fuck,” he sighed, as his finger trailed up your thigh and found custom, cream colored straps and shiny buckles and pretty lace you’d ordered just for him. “Look at you.”

“You like it?” The question answered by Steve’s own lip bitten raw, his fingers still roaming higher, up the sides of your cunt, already soaked.

“Baby,” Steve laughed, eyes cast down between your bodies, watching carefully as his fingers slipped beneath the wet lace. “Do I like it? I love it.”

“That’s,” your head fell back, exposing your neck his mouth was grateful for. Distracted by the way he dragged his fingers through you, swirled around your clit, the same way his tongue was against your throat. “Go-good.”

Steve pressed against your clit harder, humming against your skin where his mouth was still latched to when your body shook underneath him. Your thighs clamped around his hand, yours clutched at his shoulders with fistfuls of your dress still between your fingers.

He removed his fingers from you, quick to make work of his buckle and pants, aligning himself with you but hesitating just as his tip brushed against your entrance.

Steve looked up at you, under his lashes that cast shadows against pink cheeks dotted with freckles. He gazed at you with the kind of look that you imagined you gave a sunset. Admiring, awed, like you were taking in its beauty the first time every time. Like you knew your time with it might be fleeting, so you had to watch it every second so you didn't miss a single second of it.

He leaned in and let his lips brush over yours tenderly, deciding to take his time and forget the frantic pace you both had started with.

He murmured into your lips as they parted in a sigh beneath his kiss.

“I love you. So much. I think I’ve loved you since I saw you in that bar, I texted Robin about soul mates before I talked to you, I-“

You caught his top lip between yours, an over too quick kiss, but then you were speaking into the corner of his mouth, against his jaw.

“I love you too.”

Steve’s forehead knocked yours, your hips wiggled, making his dick twitch as you stared into each other’s eyes.

“Ready, Mrs. Harrington?”

The tip of your nose brushed his as your laugh bubbled out of you, voice all sarcastic and fond, “Ready? I’ve been ready, Steve. You’re the one taking his tim-ohmygod.”

Steve’s smug smirk twitched in front of you as he thrust into you while fake grumbling, “Me? How about you miss I’m gonna wait over a year to say I love-fuckyoufeelsogood…”

He rolled his hips, only getting deeper, and your thighs tightened on the outside of his, head thrown back against the mirror from the feeling of him inside you, which he followed. His lips skated over your cheek, your jaw, as he slowly pulled out of you and thrust back in.

Your mouth fell open with each drag against your walls that cling to him, that want him to stay there. A noise catches in the back of your throat every time he pushes into you, each time only harder and deeper as he babbled.

“Sorry, I wanted,” he grunted, mouth finding yours only to kiss you once and keep talking, “The first time I have sex with my wife to last, to linger, to-“

Your mouth captured his in a kiss this time, tugging on his bottom lip and gasping into his open mouth when he thrust faster, shallower, your name a begged breath between the two of you.

“Sorry, I didn’t want to wait anymore,” you whimpered, your dress left your fingers so you could grip the back of his head, card your fingers through the hair at the nape of his neck and tug, “To finally have sex with my husband.”

Steve moaned at the word husband, twitching inside of you, which made you grin at the way his hips stuttered, at the way his bottom lip pulled between his teeth.

“Yeah?” You gripped at the back of his head a little harder, knowing what each other liked now. He frantically pushed under the fallen dress to find your clit again with ease, trying to get the upper hand once more as you asked, “You like me calling you my husband, Steve?”

Your mouth brushed the apple of his cheek, it kissed his temple as he fell forward, thrusting faster and making quick figure eights against your nerves, gasping at your teasing.

“Wanna tell everyone I’m your wife? Tell ‘em I’m a Harrington?” Your stomach clenched at the thought too, at the pace which Steve slammed into you even harder, hips meeting in a filthy grind as your head knocked against the mirror. The thumps mingling with the sound of how you were coating him, all a little louder in the bathroom and only making you both a little more turned on.

His forehead pressed to yours as he nodded, lips of parted mouths catching every time he thrust. He moaned, he begged, “Yeah, yeah. Wanna tell them. Wanna…want…pregnant. Mine.”

Your back arched, hand searching until it found his, lacing your fingers together. His others grew sloppy against your clit, slipping over it as you nodded. Chest aching from his admission, from the way you sort of wanted it too, how it didn’t scare you as much anymore, not when it was him.

“Yeah?”

“Ye-yeah, fuck, honey, I can’t-“ Steve kissed you. Passionate and breath stealing as he held your lips to his like he’d wanted to all day. Your clasped hands hit the counter, the click of your rings together made you whine into his lips when they parted. You let him go, his name loud in the bathroom, echoing against tile and sure to be heard even on the moon as his hips stuttered when you clenched around him. Your stomach burned and your eyes blinked rapidly, sure you weren’t on the planet anymore from the amount of stars you could see as his warmth spilled into you.

It takes a second for you both to come back down to earth, for Steve to laugh, for you to press your hands to your cheeks as you looked down at the mess you’d made of yourselves.

Steve kissed at sweat kissed skin, tenderly cleaning you up as you joked with each other, sleepy eyelids and content smiles. Slow kisses that left you both sighing in between lingering touches that weren’t out of necessity, but just because you wanted to be touching.

Completely in love.

He helped you off of the counter and winced at the way your dress fell down all crinkled and obviously mussed. You shrugged before running a hand though his hair, messing it up even more than you already had, then you untied his tie and let it hang from around his neck saying something about it only being fair.

He grabbed your hand, fingers curled into yours as he kissed your knuckles and led you out of the bathroom.

Robin was the first to slow clap.

Your nose pressed to his shoulder, a groaned god dammit on your lips against his suit jacket.

Then Rocketman was blasted on the speakers, a loud “Annnnnnnd Buckley owes me one hundred dollars!” comes from Eddie at the bar, earning a smack to his chest from his girlfriend, which was nice, until she said “I get fifty of that and you know it.”

And it’s all fine, Steve doesn’t really care, because most of the guests are gone and you’re laughing and heading over to grab pie, flicking Eddie’s ear as you went.

Robin slid up next to Steve, shaking her head. “Wow. I really had faith in you Harrington. A bathroom? On your wedding night? I know you two are animals, but you couldn’t wait to have your wife in, oh, I don’t know, a private bedroom?”

Steve only smiled at the way Nancy handed you a water as you caught peach filling from your lip, while you played with the little ‘S’ dangling between your collarbones with your left hand, the large blue sapphire stone sparkling next to glittering diamonds in the light.

His wife.

For those of you who don't know, Leather and Lace was an Eddie series I started when I first started writing for the fandom. I only posted two chapters, and I just fell out of writing it. It was something I was holding close to me, and I wanted to really tell it right. I've been poking at it a lot lately, and the story has changed so much, and I'd love to share it again soon. But for now, have a little blurb from it tomorrow, and I'd really love to hear what you think. This Eddie is a childhood best friend, an enemy, a stranger, and hopefully, one day, a lover. Okay, anyways, happy voting!

*voting will close at 10am CST tomorrow, 10/3

[alwritey-aphrodite]

Pumpkin Pie

Pairing: dad!Peter x mom!reader

Part of the Charlie May Universe

Word Count: 1.6k

Author’s Note: Thanksgiving is a shit holiday to me for a variety of reasons, but I really am incredibly thankful for each and every one of you, and I’m so grateful for this wonderfully lovely little space on the internet <3

“I don’t know how you talked me into this,” you whisper in the quiet of your kitchen, the sun just beginning to rise over the New York skyline. You’re still in your pajamas because of the ungodly hour, but Peter doesn’t even try to quiet his scoff from where he’s making your coffee. You smile as he hands you the mug, the picture of innocence, even though you know he’s tried over and over to tell you this was not a smart idea.

It doesn’t matter how many Thanksgivings find you seated at May’s kitchen table or how many times she tells you there’s no need for you to bring anything other than yourself, you always feel a gnawing sense of guilt showing up empty handed. This year you were determined to change that, telling her months ago that you would bring dessert, neglecting to account for how difficult it was to make a homemade treat with a toddler running around, who refuses to allow you to spend any significant amount of time in the kitchen making something she wouldn’t be able to eat right away. So, after days and days of trying and failing to get the baking done, you decided it would be easiest to wake up early on Thanksgiving morning and get everything done then, before the sun came up and Charlie woke up, your sweet daughter nothing short of an absolute monster in the mornings.

It’s peaceful, just you and Peter in the semi-darkness, held safely in the warm glow of your kitchen while the rest of the world seems to sleep. Even so, you’re half asleep, having debated over and over with yourself when the alarm went off if you really wanted to get out of your nice, warm, cozy bed, before your determination won over and you managed to rally yourself, slipping out of bed and bracing for the shocking chill that awaited you when you threw off the blankets. You tried to be as silent as possible, and you managed to make it all the way to the kitchen and flick on the flights before Peter joined you, hair and pajamas adorably rumpled.

“What’re you doing?” You ask, as quietly as possible, making your way to the fridge to start gathering your ingredients while Peter heads straight for the coffee maker.

“What’re you doing?” He throws right back, opening the cabinet where you keep your mugs as silently as possible, both of you knowing even in your sleep-addled state that waking Charlie had to be avoided at all costs.

“Making a pie,” you respond, much too tired for any of your usual snark or sarcasm, and trying desperately hard to focus on gathering all the correct ingredients.

“Yeah, that makes sense, I forget everyone wakes up at four in the morning to bake pies,” his voice is dripping with equal parts sarcasm and affection, and if your brain wasn’t still starting up, you’d find something to throw at the back of his head as he turns towards the coffee pot.

You finish setting out all your ingredients, thanking the universe for whoever invented premade pie dough before turning your focus to the recipe you’d chosen, staring with such intensity it’s like you’re preparing for a test. It promises to be exceptionally easy and perfect for beginners, and you’re equal parts curious and anxious to see just how true that is.

Peter finishes his first cup of coffee and pours himself another before joining you by the countertop, ready to help without you even needing to ask. It’s not often that the two of you have so much uninterrupted time together, especially for cooking or baking together, and there’s something so lovely about it, even as you constantly feel like one long blink is going to send you back to bed. The two of you work well together, you always have, and you fit together seamlessly in the space, mostly silent as you both bask in the early morning glow of the sun, just starting to peek its way around New York City’s skyscrapers. Even with the added light, the city looks drowsy and cold, the perfect weather for staying inside and eating all day long, the gold of the sun matching perfectly with the jewel-toned leaves as they fall from the trees in shades of red and orange and yellow, making way for the snow you know is sure to come.

The baking goes quickly with the two of you working in tandem, and soon the pie is being slid into the oven and you’re hoping and praying that it turns out okay, that it’s edible at the very least, but you have high hopes.

“How long do you think we have until Charlie gets up?” You ask as you pick up your mug, the kitchen awash in the golden light. There’s a creaking of a door and a patter of footsteps and within seconds your daughter appears in the kitchen, looking so rumpled from sleep she might as well have just survived a fight with a bear.

Despite her consistently sour moods in the mornings, you always find her especially precious, with her wild hair sticking up every which way and her little body still warm from sleep. She reminds you so much of Peter, with her messy hair and her tiny little frown as she waits for her breakfast, and especially in the way she shovels cereal into her mouth like she’s been deprived of food for the last thirty years, her spoon in a vice grip. The kitchen’s a mess, ingredients and bowls and spoons all over the counter, and you know you should clean it, but instead you take a seat at the kitchen table across from your daughter, trying to hide your laughter at the enthusiastic way she eats.

Even though you should clean the kitchen, and then wrangle Charlie into getting dressed and brushing her hair, and then get ready yourself, none of that seems very important with the three of you quiet in the kitchen, the whole apartment filled with calm and the scent of pumpkin pie. It’s beyond peaceful, and you’re so full of love and adoration for your little family, for your cozy apartment, for your wonderfully quiet life you’re almost certain you’re going to explode because it doesn’t seem possible for one body to be able to contain so much affection. You’re just absolutely bursting with all of the warm, fuzzy feelings that always seem impossible to name, so instead you rise for your chair and lean across the kitchen table to plant a kiss on Charlie’s forehead before taking her bowl for her, even though she’s normally supposed to clear her own plate.

“What was that for?” Your daughter asks, confused but delighted at the series of events that just took place, grateful for the temporary relief from her typical chores and always appreciative of any sort of affection.

“Just because I love you,” you shrug as you start on the dishes, and as you turn towards the skin, you feel a little body collide with your legs.

“Well, I love you too,” she says, wrapping her little arms around your knees and giving you a squeeze before she runs off again, never one to dwell on a moment for too long.

“Do you think she’ll let me put a bow in her hair?” You ask Peter, who’s finally consumed enough coffee to be a mostly functioning person and has taken over drying the dishes as you wash. You spare a quick glance towards you daughter, lounging on the couch and engrossed in cartoons with the worst case of bed-head you’ve ever seen. Charlie’s always been headstrong, and she doesn’t typically enjoy having you do elaborate hairstyles on her, not because she doesn’t like the way they look but because the process is excruciating for her, sitting still with no wiggle room. You’ve tried everything to make the process more enjoyable for her, like having her sit in front of the TV while you brush out her hair or some slight bribery, but so far, nothing has been successful. But, you have a gut feeling that she’ll allow it today, especially if you move as quickly as possible.

“If she does, I’ll let you sleep in tomorrow when she wants to drag you out of bed to decorate for Christmas,” he responds, and you know by that answer that he has little faith in you. Charlie has been desperate to decorate for Christmas since the moment she returned from trick or treating, but in keeping with the themed activities she does in her kindergarten class, you’d decided to hold off on getting festive until after Thanksgiving. In Charlie’s mind, that meant the second Thanksgiving was over, and all she'd been talking about for weeks was how excited she was for Thanksgiving, when really what she meant was she was excited for Thanksgiving to be over so it could be Christmastime, and really, you couldn’t blame her.

“You’ve got yourself a deal,” you tell Peter, finishing the dishes before leaving him to deal with taking the pie out of the oven while you try and coax your daughter off the couch and into her room to get ready for the day.

You’ve never wished for a camera more in your life than the moment you and Charlie emerge from her bedroom, her with a high ponytail and a bow stuck firmly to the center of her head to capture Peter’s expression of pure disbelief that you’d somehow convinced your finicky daughter to wear a hair accessory. Sure, you’d had to bribe her with leftover pie for breakfast tomorrow, but he never has to know that. All that matters is that Charlie looks as cute as always and has no complaints about her hairstyle, and that you’ve managed to secure yourself a morning to sleep in, at least until the sun rises.

Tags: @funktchonalhuman3

[firstelevens]

Top 5 Self-Rec Game

@sambambucky and @sunsetmaidenwrites were kind enough to tag me to share my favorite 5 Sam/Bucky fics that I've written. I'm not sure who's left who'd like to share their work, but if you see this and you were looking for an excuse, consider yourself tagged!

sugar pie, honey bunch | 55k | au (no powers)

Three years ago, Sam and Bucky competed together on The Great American Bake Off. They baked cakes, made pies, and bantered enough to fill multiple fifteen minute YouTube compilations. Now they're back for an all-star season, with new competitors, tentative alliances, and some very opinionated viewers. OR The Falcon and the Winter Soldier, but make it The Great British Bake Off.

counted days, counted miles | 2.5k

Separated for months by Captain America duties and missions with the Thunderbolts, Sam and Bucky somehow still manage to keep up their domestic squabbles, browbeat each other into taking care of themselves, and deal with their not-strictly-platonic feelings. A story told in correspondence.

if you got the notion (i second that emotion) | 5.4k

If there is a field that Sam’s kind of an expert in at this point, it’s admiring a good view: earth from the deck of the Guardians’ new spaceship, the skyline of Birnin Zana against the mountains in the distance, lightning bugs flitting around the backyard as the sun dips behind the trees. Now, on a breezy May afternoon, Sam stands a little ways away and considers the deadliest assassin of the twentieth century as he watches a middle school choir performance, and not a great one at that. Sam and Bucky go to a carnival and feel some feelings.

outlaw life looks pretty wholesome | 14.8k | au (canon divergence)

Rescued from a HYDRA base by the Avengers, a rehabilitated Bucky runs covert missions for Nick Fury by night and is one half of a cheerful, cat-owning couple in an exclusive DC apartment building by day. When he gets called out on a mission to protect an important asset, the second-to-last thing he expects to see is a baby. The actual last thing he expects to see is his ostensibly-civilian husband Sam, wielding his own secret agent badge and ready to run point with Bucky on this new mission. Now they just have to hole up in a house in the suburbs, take care of an adorable baby, and try not to collapse under the weight of everything they haven't said over the course of their marriage. Easy.

pretty poses, rows of roses | 11.2k words

"The only thing Sam’s worrying about right now is how he’s gonna hold onto his cool uncle status while telling people to—what did your mom say? Leave room for Jesus?” In the mirror, Cass’s eyes go wide in horror. “If either one of you says that to anybody I know, I’m gonna have to run away and change my name and join the circus. Is that what you want?” Bucky pretends to think about it. “Would you at least be able to get us free tickets?” On leave from Team Cap and the Thunderbolts respectively, Sam and Bucky face their most fraught mission yet: chaperoning prom.

Honorable mentions to midnight driving with the windows down, which is the first fic in my Sam/Bucky Formula 1 AU, and the bells stand still and hollow, which is my Dungeons and Dragons AU and is still a work in progress!

[itsmiguel2099]

🕷️ Thanksgiving PSA for Spider-People: 🦃 Feast Responsibly (With a Spider Metabolism!) 🕷️

Hey, Spider-people! Thanksgiving is here, and that means food, family, and maybe a surprise villain or two. Before you swing into action—or onto the dessert table—here’s a quick guide to enjoying the holiday without forgetting your friendly neighborhood responsibilities:

1. Help Out in the Kitchen 🍗: Use those spider reflexes to rescue dropped rolls, pass dishes, or carry the turkey safely. Bonus points for using proper kitchen etiquette. (Never startle a chef with a knife in their hands!)

2. Take Off the Mask at Dinner 🍽️: Even superheroes deserve to sit down, relax, and enjoy a meal with loved ones. Just... maybe don’t mention you fought Doc Ock on the way to the table.

3. Have A Healthy Balance 🥧: Enjoy that extra slice of pie, but don’t forget to fuel up on the good stuff too. A strong Spider-person is a well-fed Spider-person, and that means eating your proteins and your greens! (And saving room for desert!)

4. Pace Yourself 🍰: It’s easy to get caught up in the feast, but remember to take your time. Even a Spider-person can’t take down three pies in one sitting! Your spider metabolism is fast, but it can’t save you from post-feast sluggishness, so be mindful of your hunger and give yourself time to enjoy the meal—and avoid the dreaded food coma when you need to be at your best.

5. Be Mindful of Responsibilities 🕸️: You’ve had your feast, but now you’ve got to patrol! After that big meal, avoid swinging too quickly or for too long. Villains don’t take holidays off, but you’re only one person—er, spider. Try to team up with another Spider-person or your other street level heroes if you need to split patrols!

6. Take a Moment to Be Thankful 🧡:

In between bites and battles, take a moment to reflect on what you're grateful for: family, friends, the city you protect, or even just a quiet evening after a long day. Reflect on the people and moments that make life worth saving, and spend time with loved ones. They care about you, even if they don’t know the Spider-side of your life. Connection is what keeps us grounded, and gratitude can fuel your heart just as much as swinging across the skyline.

Happy Thanksgiving from your friendly neighborhood PSA! Stay safe, stay thankful, and keep weaving those webs of hope. 🕸️

(This has been a test of the multiverse broadcast system.)

-chirp- “keeping this in mind.. BUT WE CANT FUCKING COOK 😭”

[voluptuarian]

Oh hey @forthegothicheroine, I was able to pull up the track listing for my Fallout playlists on Wayback Machine, including the one that's specifically themed for Fallout 4

Don't They Know It's the End of the World: A Fallout Radio Fanmix

One More Kiss, Dear by Vangelis

Chatanooga Choo Choo by Glenn Miller

Swing Doors by Allan Gray

Robot Man by Jamie Horton

My Blue Heaven by Gene Austin

Ain't Nobody Here But Us Chickens by Louis Jordan

Obey Your Air Raid Warden by Tony Pastor

You're A Sweet Little Headache by Helen Forrest

Red Silk Stockings And Green Perfume by Sammy Kaye

You're Just In Love by Perry Como

I Surrender Dear by Red Norvo

I'll Never Smile Again by Frank Sinatra with Tommy Dorsey & His Orchestra

Love Is The Sweetest Thing by Al Bowlly & Ray Noble and His Orchestra

Personality by Johnny Mercer & Pied Pipers

Tic, Tic, Tic by Doris Day

Worry, Worry, Worry by The Three Suns

(Get Your Kicks On) Route 66 by Nat King Cole

No More by Billie Holiday

The End Of The World by Patti Page

At The Flying 'W' by Elliot Lawrence and Rosalind Patton

It Might As Well Be Spring by Margaret Whiting & Paul Weston Orchestra

One For My Baby (And One More For The Road) by Frank Sinatra

Pack Up Your Troubles In Your Old Kit Bag by Bob Crosby With Martha Tilton

Jazzy Interlude by Billy Munn

In The Mood by Glenn Miller

I Have Eyes by Artie Shaw & His Orchestra

Big Spender by Peggy Lee

Stars Of The Midnight Range by Johnny Bond

You'd Better Go Now by Billie Holiday

Oh Boy, I'm In the Groove by Louis Jordan

Blues In The Night by Alvino Rey & His Orchestra

Praise The Lord And Pass The Ammunition by The Merry Macs

Trouble Is A Man by Peggy Lee

Flying Saucer Boogie by Eddie Cletro

Along The Navajo Trail by Bing Crosby & Andrews Sisters

Memories Of You by The Ink Spots

Tuxedo Junction by Glenn Miller

There's Frost On The Moon by Artie Shaw and His Orchestra with Peg La Centra

Fools Rush In by Jo Stafford

One More Tomorrow by Frankie Carle And His Orchestra with Marjorie Hughes

They Call Me The Wanderer: A Fallout Radio Fanmix

Daybreak by Harry James & His Orchestra With Johnny McAfee

Stormy Weather by Frank Sinatra

Orange-Colored Sky by Nat King Cole

The Wanderer by Dion And The Belmonts

(Time To Get A Drink) Just A Little Drink by Eddie Stone

Highways Are Happy Ways by Bill Boyd

Atomic Love by Little Caesar & The Red Callender Sextette

We Three (My Echo, My Shadow And Me) by The Ink Spots

Flamingo by Duke Ellington

There's a Land of Begin Again by Vera Lynn & Mantovani and His Orchestra

Lovin' Machine by Elliot Lawrence

Stardust by Kay Starr & Barney Bigard

Skyliner by Charlie Barnet

Sh Boom by Leon McAuliffe & His Western Swing Band

Hard-Hearted Hannah by Ray McKinley

The Java Jive by The Ink Spots

Jet Propelled Papa by Helen Humes

Let's Go Sunning by Jack Shaindlin

I'm So Afraid Of You by Sam Lanin & the Ipana Troubadours

Put Your Shoes On, Lucy by Anne Shelton

Frenesi by Artie Shaw

Ivory Tower by Cathy Carr

Pistol Packin' Mama by Bing Crosby and the Andrews Sisters

Rockin' With The Rockets by Harlan Leonard

Fallout Shelter by Billy Chambers

Cool Water by The Sons Of The Pioneers

Nobody Knows You When You're Down And Out by Bessie Smith

Put Another Chair At The Table by The Mills Brothers

Me And The Man In The Moon by The Ambassadors

Deep In A Dream by The Artie Shaw Orchestra With Helen Forrest

Rocket 69 by Todd Rhodes With Connie Allen

I Let A Song Go Out My Heart by Duke Ellington

To Each His Own by Eddy Howard

Twentieth Century Blues by Noel Coward

Button up Your Overcoat by Waring's Pennsylvanians

Radar Blues by Big Joe Turner

Milkman Keep Those Bottles Quiet by Kay Kyser and Sully Mason

Sentimental Journey by Les Brown & His Orchestra

Dear Hearts And Gentle People by Bob Crosby And The Bobcats

Wheel Of Fortune by Kay Starr

Atom Bomb Baby by The Five Stars

Don't Fence Me In by Bing Crosby and the Andrews Sisters

On The Sunny Side Of The Street by By Layton And Johnstone

When The Lights Go On All Over The World by Vaughn Monroe

Breezing Along with the Breeze by Josephine Baker

[honor-above-all]

TMNT & Art

Everyone knows the Mikester is the resident artist.

Spray paint, acrylics and oils, any form of colorful substance is his medium of choice.

There isn't a surface in the lair or the sewer system that is safe from his splashes of color. You have even become his canvas on a few occasions.

Your skin and nipples pebbled under the cool liquid paint on his brushes. Tingles and shivers ran over your body when he blew air through straws to direct the splotches of color across your shoulders and breasts.

Sadly, his art on you never lasts very long. Heck, most of the pieces never reach completion before your lips find his and he forgets the task at hand to chase your taste.

There is more to this big guy than meets the eye.

He expresses his soft side knitting in various styles and patterns. He keeps everyone warm during the cold New York winters by providing blankets, scarves, and mittens.

However, when he's agitated, his yarns aren't always his go-to artistic outlet. He'll carve out his aggressions into blocks of wood or lumps of stone. He can shape the rigid wood to an elegant dancing ballerina or he can turn solid stone into pieces that look like flowing water.

You often wake, nude under his knitted blankets, to find him whittling away at a new art piece. You can spend hours watching his large hands mold and shape the harden materials to his will.

Snuggled beneath the soft interwoven yarns of his blankets, watching those huge hands work their magic, you find yourself growing hot and longing for him to run his calloused palms over your surfaces.

This genius has a passion for more than numbers, chemicals, and electronics.

He finds the world of highlights and contrasts intriguing. From the slides of fungus on under his microscope to the silhouette of the New York skyline, he finds the shapes, colors, and patterns visually stunning and he is masterful at capturing them with his cameras.

He has an eye for seeing beauty in everything and when he saw you it was no different.

Others walk past you all day and never take notice the angle of degree of the slope of your cute nose, the balanced ratio between your eyes and your mouth, of how your face is so close to pi that you are the perfect ideal.

He often requests your attendance for artistic and sensual boudoir photo sessions that he keeps in his private collection.

You feel his expert eyes roaming over your exposed skin from behind the camera lens, it is thrilling and sexy. You hear the husk in his voice as he asks you to lift you bottom a little higher and arch your back just a millimeter more.

His photo shoots always end the same way, with him sauntering out from behind the camera to finish undressing you and spending the rest of the evening studying your angles up-close and personal.

Fearless found his artistic side almost by accident, or rather due to an accident.

It was an unfortunate mishap as a child that had him sitting on the sidelines in the dojo with a broken leg wrapped up in a makeshift cast, having to watch as his brothers got to do their daily routines with their father.

Not wanting to fall behind, he started focusing on the forms and lines created by their bodies as they moved through their poses. It wasn't long before he started bringing his pencils and a notebook into the practices to capture the forms and lines for review and reference.

His pencils etched masterful body studies into the pages of his book. He skill with perspective and shadows grew and eventually, he started to rival his namesake in drawing.

He kept his art quiet and private from you for a long time. However, one morning, waking up in your bed, you were surprised to find the terrapin sketching you by the breaking morning light.

He confessed, you are his muse. His bedroom walls are adorned with graphite recreations of the shape of your eyes, of images of your hair flowing over your shoulder, even intimate studies of your cute feet and tiny toes.

His most treasured pieces are the ones he has you sit for, nude, lounging in his bed as he breathes life into his pages.

His intense stare has a whole new meaning when it comes from behind a sketch book. He is all business trying to capture your beauty as accurately as possible. You know that he will not stop until he's completed the drawing, but you know once he done hours of passion await.

[aselectsociety]

Irrational Decision

I have been writing about the poems by Emily Dickinson which editor William Hayes Ward accepted – or rejected – for publication in the New York Independent in 1891. However, since today is “Pi Day” (3.14), I thought I’d look into how often Dickinson used the word “Pi” (and “Pie”) in her poetry.

The first Pi Day celebration was organized by physicist Larry Shaw at the San Francisco Exploratorium in 1988 (and just FYI:  the 2015 Pi Day was called the "Pi Day of the Century" because its date in the day-month-year format was 3-14-15, which gives the first four digits of pi).  However, the concept of pi, the ratio of a circle's circumference to its diameter, has ancient roots that date  back to the Babylonians and Egyptians, around 2000 BCE and 1650 BCE, respectively.  The first rigorous calculation of pi, using a geometrical approach with polygons, was devised by the Greek mathematician Archimedes around 250 BCE. 

Above: A Pi Skyline; for info, click HERE.

So did Dickinson ever use the word “pi” in any of her poems? 

Nope. 

However, Dickinson did use the word “circumference" in seventeen poems – or sixteen poems depending upon which version of “Two butterflies went out at Noon” you read.  The 1863 version does NOT include the word “circumference”; her version from 1878 does.

So back to pi:  Although Dickinson never used the word “pi,” she did use the word “pie.”  Well, not “pie” in the sense of a baked dish of fruit with a top and base of pastry.  Instead, she used “cap-a-pie,” derived from the Middle French phrase "de cap a pe", which means "from head to foot.”

“Cap-a-pie” appears in the opening lines to “Sic transit gloria mundi” (“thus passes the glory of the world”).  The complete poem (Dickinson’s longest) is HERE.

[spiderpunkofficial]

🕷️ Thanksgiving PSA for Spider-People: 🦃 Feast Responsibly (With a Spider Metabolism!) 🕷️

Hey, Spider-people! Thanksgiving is here, and that means food, family, and maybe a surprise villain or two. Before you swing into action—or onto the dessert table—here’s a quick guide to enjoying the holiday without forgetting your friendly neighborhood responsibilities:

1. Help Out in the Kitchen 🍗: Use those spider reflexes to rescue dropped rolls, pass dishes, or carry the turkey safely. Bonus points for using proper kitchen etiquette. (Never startle a chef with a knife in their hands!)

2. Take Off the Mask at Dinner 🍽️: Even superheroes deserve to sit down, relax, and enjoy a meal with loved ones. Just... maybe don’t mention you fought Doc Ock on the way to the table.

3. Have A Healthy Balance 🥧: Enjoy that extra slice of pie, but don’t forget to fuel up on the good stuff too. A strong Spider-person is a well-fed Spider-person, and that means eating your proteins and your greens! (And saving room for desert!)

4. Pace Yourself 🍰: It’s easy to get caught up in the feast, but remember to take your time. Even a Spider-person can’t take down three pies in one sitting! Your spider metabolism is fast, but it can’t save you from post-feast sluggishness, so be mindful of your hunger and give yourself time to enjoy the meal—and avoid the dreaded food coma when you need to be at your best.

5. Be Mindful of Responsibilities 🕸️: You’ve had your feast, but now you’ve got to patrol! After that big meal, avoid swinging too quickly or for too long. Villains don’t take holidays off, but you’re only one person—er, spider. Try to team up with another Spider-person or your other street level heroes if you need to split patrols!

6. Take a Moment to Be Thankful 🧡:

In between bites and battles, take a moment to reflect on what you're grateful for: family, friends, the city you protect, or even just a quiet evening after a long day. Reflect on the people and moments that make life worth saving, and spend time with loved ones. They care about you, even if they don’t know the Spider-side of your life. Connection is what keeps us grounded, and gratitude can fuel your heart just as much as swinging across the skyline.

Happy Thanksgiving from your friendly neighborhood PSA! Stay safe, stay thankful, and keep weaving those webs of hope. 🕸️

(This has been a test of the multiversal broadcast system.)

Thanks mate!!

[spiderman2-99]

🕷️ Thanksgiving PSA for Spider-People: 🦃 Feast Responsibly (With a Spider Metabolism!) 🕷️

Hey, Spider-people! Thanksgiving is here, and that means food, family, and maybe a surprise villain or two. Before you swing into action—or onto the dessert table—here’s a quick guide to enjoying the holiday without forgetting your friendly neighborhood responsibilities:

1. Help Out in the Kitchen 🍗: Use those spider reflexes to rescue dropped rolls, pass dishes, or carry the turkey safely. Bonus points for using proper kitchen etiquette. (Never startle a chef with a knife in their hands!)

2. Take Off the Mask at Dinner 🍽️: Even superheroes deserve to sit down, relax, and enjoy a meal with loved ones. Just... maybe don’t mention you fought Doc Ock on the way to the table.

3. Have A Healthy Balance 🥧: Enjoy that extra slice of pie, but don’t forget to fuel up on the good stuff too. A strong Spider-person is a well-fed Spider-person, and that means eating your proteins and your greens! (And saving room for desert!)

4. Pace Yourself 🍰: It’s easy to get caught up in the feast, but remember to take your time. Even a Spider-person can’t take down three pies in one sitting! Your spider metabolism is fast, but it can’t save you from post-feast sluggishness, so be mindful of your hunger and give yourself time to enjoy the meal—and avoid the dreaded food coma when you need to be at your best.

5. Be Mindful of Responsibilities 🕸️: You’ve had your feast, but now you’ve got to patrol! After that big meal, avoid swinging too quickly or for too long. Villains don’t take holidays off, but you’re only one person—er, spider. Try to team up with another Spider-person or your other street level heroes if you need to split patrols!

6. Take a Moment to Be Thankful 🧡:

In between bites and battles, take a moment to reflect on what you're grateful for: family, friends, the city you protect, or even just a quiet evening after a long day. Reflect on the people and moments that make life worth saving, and spend time with loved ones. They care about you, even if they don’t know the Spider-side of your life. Connection is what keeps us grounded, and gratitude can fuel your heart just as much as swinging across the skyline.

Happy Thanksgiving from your friendly neighborhood PSA! Stay safe, stay thankful, and keep weaving those webs of hope. 🕸️

(This has been a test of the multiverse broadcast system.)

‎

[omkdear]

Be sure to wear some flowers for the WIP game 🥰

Eee thank you! OKAY SO.

be sure to wear some flowers

TL;DR: this WIP is scaffolding for a larger post-war trauma arc. Told from Nick’s POV (my human Nick), it’s a shared delusion—something warm and safe George builds in her head after the bombs, where they live in SF and run a PI agency together. It's an AU inside her head, and later a shared delusion with Synth Nick for...reasons I cannot reveal lol.

By the time he reaches the topmost step, Nick Valentine is seriously reconsidering every life choice that’s led to him still craving cigarettes while his very pregnant partner—who could go into labor at any moment—is lapping him like it’s nothing.

Ten properties. Ten. They’ve circled the city more than once these past weeks—her leading, him trailing, revisiting old haunts from med school. She’s been narrating the rhythm of San Francisco like a private tour guide with a vendetta against nostalgia.

It’s no Chicago.

And definitely not Boston.

The building’s over two hundred years old, and it’s a miracle it’s still standing with the San Andreas fault humming beneath it. Still, there’s a charm to the place. Nick has to admit: it’s got her energy. Stubborn. Enduring. Full of stories. Still standing.

"You coming, Valentine?" she calls from the landing, one hand pressed to the small of her back, the other holding the realtor's business card. She’s haloed by afternoon sun through dusty windows, and for a moment, he forgets the ache in his knees.

"Just catching my breath, muñeca," he calls back, hauling himself the last few steps. "Not all of us are powered by hormones and spite."

George laughs, the sound echoing off empty walls. "The agent said there’s roof access. Can you imagine? A garden up top..."

He tries not to wheeze. He’s a few weeks into trying to kick the habit, and her grandparents—well into their eighties—find his withdrawal deeply entertaining. Her abuela even patted his hand over Sunday dinner and whispered, "The devil you know is better than the one you don’t," before slipping him a Cuban cigar behind George’s back.

"A garden," Nick echoes, fishing the keys from his pocket. "We live on a farm right now, sweetheart."

She clicks her tongue and snorts—not annoyed, just pretending. "A farm isn’t the same as a rooftop garden, Valentine. Picture it—morning coffee, herbs growing outside the kitchen, the Golden Gate cutting through the fog..."

The lock sticks. He jiggles the key with the patience of a man who’s learned the hard way that force only makes it worse. Two centuries of humidity and neglect have warped the frame, but eventually the door groans open like something ancient and half-asleep.

"Christ," he mutters, stepping into what the listing had generously called a penthouse. High ceilings. Brick walls. Dust motes tumbling through shafts of slanted light. "This is..."

"Perfect," George finishes, waddling in with that late-pregnancy shuffle that somehow still looks graceful. She moves like she already lives here, fingertips trailing along the brick. "Look at these bones. These beams. That light."

Nick glances up. The beams overhead are massive—weathered survivors of earthquakes and fires and God knows what else. The tall, industrial windows need reglazing. The floor is battered hardwood, scarred but solid.

"Needs work," he says, but there’s no real protest in it. He sees it now—what she sees. The possibility.

"Everything worthwhile needs work," she replies, smiling at him the way she did the day he finally told her he loved her. “My brownstone on Pearl Street was older, and I refurbed it before I passed the bar.”

“You were ten years younger,” he counters, “and not about to pop out our kid any minute.”

Still, he’s smiling. The light glints off the silver at her temples and brings out the copper in her hair. It hits him all over again—how beautiful she is. How damned lucky he is.

She crosses to the far wall, where the windows frame the city skyline. “I’ve done harder things than renovate a building, Valentine. We both have.”

And that’s the truth. Nick watches her against the light, remembering the first time he saw her like this—in their Cambridge office, those early days on the task force. Before the real fight. Before the world turned inside out. Before they knew what they’d become to each other.

[nuagederose]

Dark Roots of Earth | Chapter Twenty-Three: Dancing Days

ao3 link

Summer school only lasted until about the middle of August, at which point Christine was more than eager to see Alex more and more at regular school again. She thought about the graphic novel which she had started before the first year of school had ended, and she knew that she had to work on it some more before the first day, which was more than a month away at that point. The long summer days proved to be hot ones, and ones where she found herself retreated into the cool comfort of her apartment. She could spend the rest of that month drawing as best as she could to her own avail, especially when her mother eventually knocked on the door one day.

“Merry Christmas in summer, my girl,” Wendy decreed as she showed her the small green ceramic casserole dish filled with apple Brown Betty straight out from the oven. Christine could smell the cinnamon, the cloves, and the nutmeg embedded within, and she greeted her mother with an embrace because of it. It was the tenth year in a row that they had done Christmas in the summertime, although from what Christine could gather they had been doing it for quite a bit longer than that.

She remembered the first time that they had done so, and it was before Ann had left her life as well. It began life with a couple of fruit pies straight out of the oven, and then Ann had put on a Santa hat just for the laughter of it all. It then escalated with some garlands strewn over the kitchen counter.

Christine remembered that it was nearly a hundred degrees that day as well, and yet the three of them were sitting together in the heart of Wendy’s living room with warm pies and garlands around them as if it was the middle of December in the thick of a Nor’easter.

She then vowed to give the dish back to her mother once she had finished the Brown Betty, and all the while, she had it with a dollop of ice cream over the top of it.

When the sun went down, she thought of calling up Alex and telling him about it, but at the same time, she wondered if her mother would object to her having a man over, especially when she still hadn’t told her about him at all. She served herself a small plateful, complete with the vanilla ice cream on the side. It tasted just like the tail end of September, right at Alex’s birthday. It was right then she thought about treating him to something special for his day. Something more than just a little trip down to Coney Island, as well.

As she took slow, deliberate bites of the apple Brown Betty, she thought about trying her hand at baking something. It would be one of the many things that she would try out as she gazed on ahead at her thirties as well as the fact that she could lose Alex so easily in the coming months. If nothing else, she could take him under that way.

She wondered if that would be the perfect means of seducing him, through her art as well as through some finagling and baking that she was somewhat familiar with.

Wendy had given her a small casserole dish full of it, and thus, the first thought through her mind was that she could share it with someone else. Once the music of David Crosby floated on over from across the hallway right then, she figures that that was the best time.

Christine made sure that the plate was as clean as a whistle as she carved out another square piece of the cobbler and served it. She covered it up with a small sheet of tin foil, and she made sure that it was all in snug and taut. She slung her purse over her shoulder, and she swiped her keys from the bowl next to the front door.

The sun was beginning to set over the New York City skyline at that point, but the heat remained over the entire landscape like a hard and fast dome to lock them all inside: indeed, she could feel the heat emanating off the blacktop before her with such intensity that it nearly made her eyes water. When she stood at the bus stop with the plate in hand, she held still lest a few beads of sweat run about on her head and shoulders. She once again wore those little Bermuda shorts, but that time she had on a stretchy black camisole under a red silk shirt, much like how Alex himself dressed at that time of year.

The next bus ride took her down to his neighborhood in Brooklyn, and all the while, she kept the little plate perched upon her lap. She could hope that he had ice cream or at least some good crème fraîche on hand, especially with something so warm and sweet. She also hoped that he would understand this something of a tradition that followed her family for an entire decade as well. Christine closed her eyes when the late afternoon sun cast down over her head and shoulders: even with the air conditioning on her head and shoulders, she could still feel the heat of the late summer on her disposition, the immenseness of the humidity and the fact that the concrete jungle which surrounded her gave her no relief. There was a big part of her that wanted to escape from the city, to find her way out and into the countryside where the trees could give her all the more protection from the sun. If she left town, then she would have to think of a way to bring Alex along with her as well.

If anything, he seemed more than open to find a way out as well. That was a man in pain, and she couldn’t afford to leave him behind. There was also the crazy idea which crossed her mind once more right as the bus rounded the next corner, and she would soon be met with the rows of trees in the center of the street, that was his street. She could ask Alex to come along with her and Eric back out to California in the next spring lest they plan on doing it again.

Out to California, and perhaps go even further than that, out to the remoteness of Hawai’i.

She reached up and rang the bell, and the driver pulled over to the side of the street for her. Christine thanked the driver, and she stepped off into the hot afternoon sun. No sweat appeared on the side of her face as she crossed the street and reached the other side of the street, but the heat was unmistakable. She reached his front step, whereby she could feel something cold looming over her; she took a glimpse over her shoulder to find the rather scraggly tree right behind her still shuddering in the breeze as if fall had arrived early that day.

With her free hand, Christine knocked on his door, and she waited for a second. Alex opened the door and showed her a little smile filled his buck teeth. He had tucked his glasses into the V-neck collar of his white shirt, which hugged the shape of his body perhaps much better than any of his black shirts, and he wore some dark short pants which showed off his legs to her.

“Hey, you,” he greeted her with something of a nervous tone to his voice. “I wasn’t expecting to see you here, what’s going on?”

“My mom made some apple Brown Betty, and I thought of bringing you some.” She showed him the plate shrouded in tin foil, and his face lit up at the sight of it.

“Oh, wow! That sounds marvelous.” He took the plate and lifted up a corner of the foil for a whiff of the inside. “Mmm. Smells amazing, too. Um… you wanna come in? Have some coffee?”

“I would love a cup of coffee,” she promised him, and she stepped inside of his apartment, which was even cooler than her own place. She closed the door behind her and adjusted her ponytail at the back of her head.

“I didn’t even know you could enjoy something so warm and sweet this time of year,” he confessed to her as he made his way into his small kitchen.

“We’ve been doing this thing for the last ten years now—it’s like Christmas in July but it’s just ‘middle of summer,’” she explained in a single breath.

“I like that,” he said, and she heard him peeling the foil off the plate. “I like that a lot, actually.” She padded into the kitchen doorway, where he brought the tip of his nose down to the cobbler itself for a whiff. Something about the look on his face seemed a little bit off, however, as if he was distracted by something.

“Is this a bad time?” she asked him, and he shook his head.

“Not at all, actually,” he assured her with a shake of his head; he turned around and opened the refrigerator door, and he fetched a can of crème fraîche out from the crisper drawer. “I just… didn’t expect to find you here at this hour.”

Christine nibbled on her bottom lip. “She came here, didn’t she,” she guessed in a low voice.

Alex sighed through his nose and bowed his head a bit. Indeed, the wide-brimmed fear escaped his eyes and face, but nothing could deny the sinking feeling that she had in the pit of her stomach.

“We have a date tonight,” he informed her in a low voice. “It was sort of last minute, too, like she got it out of me. But I’m going to tell you this, though. I won’t be eating much at dinner.” He flashed her a wink, and then he scooped out a dollop of the crème fraîche and lay it over the apple Brown Betty. Indeed, there was a small part of her that wanted to make him some more food, some more baked goods to fill his belly and spoil his dinner some more. She could not let Captain Howdy win this battle. She wanted it to be the mother of all Pyrrhic victories if nothing else.

Alex picked out a clean fork and shoveled in a bite of Brown Betty with a bit of the crème fraîche into his mouth right there at the counter. He lifted his head and closed his eyes.

“Delicious?” she asked him, and she couldn’t resist the smile on her face right then.

“Oh, man, that’s wonderful,” he said with his mouth full. He relished in the flavors for a moment before he swallowed it down. “It tastes like Rosh Hashanah.”

“She also thinks of doing a blackberry Brown Betty at some point, too,” she pointed out, and she strode up behind him. The shape of his body was still full and shapely, much to her liking.

“Sign me up for a whole baker’s dozen of it,” he joked as he took another bite. Christine put her arms around his waist from behind, and she rested her hands on his soft, still slightly rounded belly. He was still like a little pillow there, and she never wanted to let him go. He rested his free hand on her hands where they met up in the middle of his body. Christine flexed her fingers over the soft white fabric of his shirt: to never let him go and hold him in her arms forever.

He swallowed again, and that time, he hesitated to take another bite. Christine lay her head against his back. The cool air in his apartment kept them glued together as it would in the rainy winds of the fall and the snowy darkness of the winter. Alex breathed in deep and bowed his head a bit: she could feel the pad of his thumb on the back of her hand. She closed her eyes once she heard the metal tines of the fork hit the plate again.

“I owe you another date, too,” he confessed to her, once more with his mouth full. “At least before school starts again.”

“Upstate or to Coney Island,” she suggested in a muffled voice.

“I’d be happy with either one,” he said. “I also think of taking you all the way up to Lake Placid. Just you and me, too, no Eric or Valentina or Sabrina or Nelly. A little five-hour road trip starting at the early hours and we get there at lunchtime.”

She opened her eyes and gazed on at the wall off to her right. There was only one other time she had been to that lake, and it took place before Chris was killed as well. A big part of her worried that she wouldn’t be able to handle being there for long, but at the same time, she wondered if going there would uncover some unresolved pain that she had long forgotten.

“I haven’t been there since I was little,” she told him with a lift of her head. She raised herself up on her toes a bit so her face could be right behind his ear, even with a face full of his hair.

“So, it would be all the more special, then!” he declared. He turned his head and showed her a little smile accentuated by the full tip of his nose. “I say, let’s go the weekend before Labor Day weekend. You know, before the place gets slammed with those end-of-summer crowds.”

Christine cracked a wistful smile at that.

“I’ll start packing, baby,” she promised him, and he had to lean back a bit so she could nudge his long black hair back and kiss him on the side of the neck. He showed her a tender smile, and with her arms still wrapped around his body, she watched him finish that piece of apple Brown Betty. He licked the fork clean of the crème fraîche, and then he turned around to face her. He put on his glasses so she could have a smooth space between her face and his body. Christine gazed up at him, and she rested a hand on his chest. She ran her hand down onto his belly, which was so snug and warm, even in the fading summer light.

“I could eat about… three more plates of that,” he confessed, and he let out a hearty little chuckle.

“I want you to eat some apple pie with vanilla ice cream,” she told him. “And then I want you to follow it up with a big fat Reuben sandwich.”

“With pastrami or corned beef?”

“Whichever you want, baby,” she said, and she brought her hand up to his chest again. “With the rye bread and the French fries on the side, too. I want you so full, so warm and sweet… such that I can’t help but cozy up next to you.” Christine gaze up into his handsome face, right as he showed her a little smirk. “I want to cozy up to you and make love to you like you’ve never been made love to in your life.” She was about to stand up on her toes to kiss him on the full lips, when his phone made a noise. He had placed it on the counter behind him, but she never noticed it until that point. Christine stopped, and Alex turned around to pick it up for a look. He then sighed through his nose, and she knew what that meant, such that it made her bottom lip tremble.

“Fucking shit, right as I got into the mood,” he groaned.

“Right as I got in the mood, too!” She couldn’t resist it: her eyes filled with tears and a hard lump formed in her throat. Alex gaped at her and threw his arms around her.

“Oh, dear Christine! Don’t cry!”

“I just love you to death,” she wept, and she buried her face in his chest. “I don’t ever want to lose you!”

He brought his hand up to the back of her head, and he kissed her on the forehead. He then leaned his head over hers, as if he was protecting her. His chest shuddered and shook underneath her body, and she could tell that he was crying as well.

“You will never lose me,” he promised her, a delicate whisper right into her ear. “Never… never, never, never, never, never…” As a tear fled down from one eye, he nudged her ponytail back away from her neck. He pressed his lips onto her skin, the softest caress that she could ever wish for. More tears fell from her, but he cupped her face in his long, lanky hands. His lips locked onto her own, and he let his fingers creep up into the very back of her ponytail. He let go and she gazed into his eyes, which seemed much glossier and brighter than before.

“You will never lose me,” he repeated in a breathy whisper.

“I have to go,” she breathed out to him as another tear fell.

“Call me tomorrow,” he told her with a sniffle.

“Always,” she vowed, and she wiped away her tears. She ducked out of the kitchen for her purse, and more tears fell right then, such that she had difficulty seeing anything. She nearly tripped over the leg of his coffee table from the clouding of her eyes.

“Christine,” he called after her. She turned to him as her eyes cleared again. He stood in the doorway with his hands on the edges of the frame. “Thank you for that Brown Betty. I am… going to eat more cream once you leave just so I don’t have to eat a lot of dinner with her. God, I am… such a fucking idiot.”

She sniffled, sobbed a bit, and nodded her head. He blew her a kiss, and she bowed out of there and back to the street. The sun was beginning to go down at that point, such that the heat was starting to subside to a degree. Christine wept the whole walk down to the bus stop, and she hoped no one else would see her. Not even that boy Chuck, the boy who aided Alex’s class a couple of months before. 

He had taken his spot on the narrow top of the brick wall behind the actual closure itself. His long molasses-colored hair seemed much more lush in the summer sun, and more so when she noticed the joint in between his fingers on one hand and the can of cola in the other. His old stone face seemed to soften when he saw that she was a sobbing mess even from across the street. She stalked across the pavement to reach him.

“You okay?” he asked her, and she rubbed her eyes.

“Yeah, I just… I worry about the fact that I’m going to lose Alex at some point,” she confessed with a slight break in his voice.

“Ohhh, because of his wedding and everything,” Chuck followed along.

“I just… I don’t know what I’m gonna do,” Christine sputtered. “I keep saying it but I mean it this time…” She buried her face in her hands, but then she felt a hand on her shoulder. She lifted her head and looked on into his bright eyes and his softened face.

“I think I can help you with that,” Chuck told her as he put out his joint on the top of the brick wall right next to his thigh.

“What?” She could hardly keep her composure in front of him.

“I can,” he insisted. “There are ways of at the very least making the experience awful for them, and for her, in particular. I can think of ways right now.”

“Could you really?” Christine was taken aback by the gesture.

“Yeah. I’m going to be the teacher’s aide for the fall, so I have a bit of an inside view to the whole shebang.”

Christine ran her fingers through her ponytail, and she peered behind her to find if anyone was eavesdropping on them, and even with the crowded streets at the helm, she knew that no one would be paying much attention.

“What do we do?” she asked him, and she could feel the tears already beginning to dry away.

“We sabotage the days leading up to the wedding,” Chuck began.

“And how do we do that?” she asked him, slightly baffled by the gesture.

“Ruin the dinners leading up to it,” he explained. “Spread a wild rumor about her that makes it seem like marrying her would be the worst thing in the world.”

“Or, I could admit that I slept with Alex,” she suggested with another sniffle. “You know, just say that there without any context whatsoever.”

“That would make it so spicy, holy god,” Chuck said with a laugh. “We could also find ways to lead her astray, too. You know. Do a little deception and make sure that the wedding gets held off as long as possible.” He then paused and shook his head. “I know, I’m just spitballing here.”

Christine shook her head at that. “No, no, these are fantastic ideas,” she assured him. “It’s just… finding out ways to execute them is all. Getting the timing right and everything. I also have to make sure that I don’t lose Alex, either. That’s my main worry is I inadvertently push him away.”

“That’s true,” he said with a nod of his head. He took a sip of his cola, and he offered her a sip as well, but she refused.

“You should at the very least tell Nelly about it,” he pointed out.

“But, she lied to me, though,” Christine insisted.

“I’m sure she would be more than happy to see you and bury those things between the two of you, though,” he encouraged her. She then clasped a hand to her head. A dead weight had been lifted off her shoulders right then, and more so when the bus lumbered up around the corner before them. He hopped down from the wall and took his wallet out of his snug shorts pocket.

“Can I get your number?” she asked him.

“Of course! We’ll sit together and I’ll treat you to a brief dance on the outskirts of the wide, wide world of Chuck Billy.”

[sh4dowpuff]

Title: "Just Us Two" (Pi x Male Reader, Fluff)

Summary:

On a rare quiet afternoon, you and Pi find a peaceful moment together on an empty rooftop, away from the usual chaos caused by Yuu and Takeshi.

Masterlink

It was a rare afternoon in SWORD District—sunny, quiet, and for once, free from chaos. You had been hoping for a moment like this all week. And today, Pi was finally free too.

You met him at your usual spot: an abandoned rooftop with a perfect view of the city skyline. Pi was already there, sitting on the edge with his legs dangling, sipping on a juice box like it was the most casual thing in the world. He turned to you with a smile that made your heart do a little flip.

“Took you long enough,” he teased, patting the spot next to him.

You sat down, nudging his shoulder. “Sorry, I had to make sure Yuu and Takeshi weren’t following me again.”

Pi laughed, a soft, genuine sound. “Good. I wanted this day to be just us.”

And it really was. For the next hour, it felt like the world paused for the two of you. You talked about silly things—like how Pi thought cats secretly ruled the world—and deeper things too, like dreams and fears you hadn’t shared with anyone else.

At one point, Pi leaned his head against your shoulder. “You know... I like this. Just being here with you. No Yuu being loud, no Takeshi dragging us into a fight. Just... peace.”

You hesitated, then rested your head gently on top of his. “Me too.”

The quiet stretched between you like a warm blanket. Pi looked up at you, eyes soft. “Hey... you’re not gonna run off if I say something cheesy, right?”

“I’ll stay. Say it.”

He chuckled, looking a bit bashful for once. “I think you’re my favorite person, y’know? I feel calm when I’m with you. Safe.”

You swallowed, heart beating too loud in your chest. “Funny... I was about to say the same thing.”

Before anything else could be said, a loud yell echoed from the street below.

“PI! READER! Are you up there?!”

It was Yuu’s voice. Takeshi’s followed. “Don’t think you can hide from us forever!”

Pi groaned dramatically, burying his face in your shoulder. “Nooo. They found us.”

You laughed, pulling him a little closer. “Let’s stay a bit longer. They can wait.”

“Yeah,” Pi murmured, smiling. “Let’s just be here... a little while more.”

And for a little while, the rooftop belonged only to the two of you. Just you and Pi. Just peace. Just quiet. Just love.

[freaky-dan]

my math teacher was so psychotic today. Since it was Pi day she played this song that was just a drumbeat with some autotune voice reciting all the digits of pi, and we had to draw a skyline based off of pi and decorate it or whatever. My group ended up making our city basically pyongyang but themed around the math teacher. Also we were not allowed to leave the class until the skyline thing was finished, even if we had other classes to get to.

[poisonvdhonvy]

Name: Violeta Santiago

Age: 36

Pronouns: she/her

Face Claim: Ana De Armas

Occupation: Private Investigator and owner of Show Strip

Neighborhood: Skyline Heights

Biography

Violeta Santiago runs her PI business above an old jazz club in the Show Strip, with just a simple sign on her frosted glass door. At 36, she moves with the easy confidence of someone who's walked both sides of the street. Growing up with a cop dad and a casino manager mum taught her exactly how the city's power games work.People know the Santiago name, thanks to her father being one of the only straight-arrow cops Devil's Junction ever saw. When he was gunned down during a traffic stop in '09, the case went cold - but Violeta has her own ideas about what went down. She followed his path into police work, making detective faster than anyone before her. That ended after five years when she started asking too many questions about some casino heists that powerful people wanted left alone.

She's a player in the city's six crime families these days, sorting out problems that require finesse and knowing the unspoken rules of Devil's Junction. She's earned an odd sort of respect - the Rossis trust her with their family drama, while the Chens know she can solve problems without making headlines. Her office tells you everything you need to know about her - old-school furniture, strategic escape routes, ready for anything while staying comfortable. She's got eyes and ears everywhere, from hotel staff to casino workers, all built on years of keeping her word and playing it straight. But now there's the Onyx Circuit muscling in, and their bloody approach hits too close to home, reminding her of how she lost her father. Their disregard for tradition could tear apart what little stability Devil's Junction has left. Violeta stays professional, but wonders if the devil she knows is better than this new, unknown challenge. For now, she watches and waits, keeping her piece close - because in this town, timing is everything when it comes to taking a stand.

[waitingx2xdie]

xnoraxcarpenterx asked: thread where kat & em meet darcy for first time

Darcy hadn’t exactly been PREPARED for Nora to walk through those glass double doors with COMPANY in tow. She’d expected the older woman, and was currently at the register, leaning over PLAYFULLY with a lollypop in her mouth, playing with it, smiling, calling out to Nora. “Well if it isn’t, Mrs Carpenter~ Here for another slice of cherry--” AND THEN SHE CHOKED ON HER LOLLY.  Cough. Cough. Fist thumping her chest. “Oh, shit, this must be the sister and roommate. Sorry about that…” DEEP. BREATHS. DARCY. She assumed the SISTER was the blonde, and so hazel eyes made a POINT of sizing up the brunette jealously, measuring up her competition. Stepping out from behind the counter, she curtsied. “So what can I get you? Ordering to go or I can lead you to a booth, or, counters right there. We have all kinds of coffee, are famous for our cherry pie AAAND our apple pie’s pretty good, too. Could I get you a menu…” Tongue anxiously fiddled with her lollypop in her mouth as she awaited their response with BAITED BREATH. In a way, she WANTED Nora’s friend and sister to like her. TO ACCEPT HER. However, seeing how they were both AT LEAST thirty made her feel a little bit like a FISH OUT OF WATER. Seriously, all this talk of what Darcy saw in Nora and why she didn’t go for people HER AGE, why the Hell was Nora wasting her time on a dumb twenty-year-old when she had friends and company her own age? She might have YOUTHFUL EXUBERANCE on her side when it came to looks, but there was no shot she was gonna be able to keep up intellectually with people ten years her senior…

Kat wasn’t sure what to expect as she entered the SKYLINE CAFE. Though she pretty much DEMANDED to meet Darcy and be part of her life, if Darcy was going to be a part of Nora’s. BETTER THE DEVIL YOU KNOW, AND ALL THAT JAZZ. But to walk through those double doors to find a PRETTY YOUNG THING had her NERVOUS. Blondie was maybe 19? 20? 22 at a stretch? Benefit from the natural tightness and perkiness that Kat had to ACTIVELY WORK to maintain. She didn’t like it. How was she supposed to measure up to the GIFTS OF YOUTH? “Darcy, right?” Tone was a little COLDER than it probably should’ve been, and Nora was probably gonna kick her under the table the first chance she got. “I’ve heard about you. And your CHERRY PIES. Apparently, it’s the BEST IN NEW YORK.” Eyes glanced across to Nora. “I’d appreciate it if you keep the flirtations to a MINIMUM tonight…” The truth was, she didn’t want Nora flirting with Darcy AT ALL. But for the sake of civility, she’d let Nora read between the lines. “Whatever Nora wants. Though I’d at least like a coffee. Americano Grande, six sweeteners, no milk, no creamer.” Turn to Nora and Emily. “Anyone else?” She really was NOT comfortable being here. And she damn sure wasn’t comfortable to have waltzed in on Darcy ALREADY trying to chat up HER woman. Let alone the way she’d eyed Kat herself up like she was COMPETITION. There was no competition. There wasn’t allowed to be competition. Kat would make sure of it. “That won’t be a problem, will it?” Eyes flashed to Nora again.

 Emily just sighed, shoulders dropping, head tilting, glaring across to Darcy with a look, like, ‘Really?’ HOW DESPERATE COULD A GIRL GET? She was practically crawling over the counter to get to her big sister. Okay, so about as desperate as EMILY HERSELF, but Emily was a troubled sibling with a sister complex. Her feelings for Nora had been marinating in a cauldron of fucked up spices for like THIRTEEN YEARS STRAIGHT. What the Hell was Darcy’s excuse? “Yeah.” She spoke in exhale, trying to HIDE her DISAPPOINTMENT. “I’m the sister, Emily.” Hand reached out to shake Darcy’s and Darcy took it. “This is Kat.” Head nodded to Kat and Darcy moved to shake Kat’s hand, too. After a brief moment of hesitation, Kat took it, too. “Don’t mind her, she’s not much of a people’s person.” BUT ALSO DON’T EYE HER UP LIKE SHE’S YOUR ONLY COMPETITION HERE, THE FUCK?! Jaw screwed taut and her gaze snapped away, tongue pressing against teeth. “We’ll take a booth, thank you.” No shot was she letting Nora sit up on the counter next to THIS BITCH. And let Darcy hog ALL HER ATTENTION. However, she could see another girl working in the kitchen. God, she hoped Darcy didn’t call break, so she could sit in the booth with them… “I’ll have a caramel latte, thank you.” With that, she turned to Nora. “So, that’s Darcy, huh? I can see why you took her number… She’s a pretty little thing. Blonde, too…” Whispers in Nora’s ear. Yes, she WAS insinuating EXACTLY what it sounded like she was insinuating.