#Robin eggs blue Favor

[pomefioredove]

In my bones I know that Rook is the type of guy who loves to go exploring be it forest or man-made structures. With that in mind I have an idea for a fic:

MC!Reader & Rook Hunt making weekend dates out of exploring the unknown places on Sage Island. It's their little ritual that they take great joy in! From the restricted sections of Crowley's office to a small abandoned island off the coast they enjoy taking in sights meant for no-one else.

ROOK REQUEST!!! thank you I love him so muchhh... the fact that archeology becomes an interest of his is so adorable to me <3 rook baby let me take you out and tell you about the incan empire and dead languages and

summary: weekend dates with rook type of post: fic characters: rook additional info: romantic, established relationship, reader is gender neutral, reader is yuu, french warning, fluffy and cute <3

"One thousand words, one thousand, can you believe that?" you ask, twirling a perfectly-sharpened pencil between your fingers. It had yet to even graze the surface of the paper in your lap.

What a waste of wood.

You slump, leaning against the rough bark of an oak tree. A movement in the foliage overhead sends a deluge of leaves onto your lap, coloring the white of the empty paper with vibrant shades of green.

Rook emerges from the verdure above with a graceful plunk at your side.

"Five hundred each, chéri," he says, picking a leaf out of your hair and ignoring the ones on the notebook.

You tilt your head to the side, watching as he scales the tree again. "Yes, but I was under the impression we'd do it together,"

"Ah, a marvelous idea!" his voice calls out from overhead. "But that can wait for later, non? Come up and see this robin's nest I've uncovered!"

You chuckle. Even with the deadline looming nearer, you couldn't help but indulge him.

Crowley's words still rung fresh in your mind: "Five hundred words on the evil of trespassing. Each!"

Admittedly, seeing the man actually get angry was both amusing and unsettling. You supposed digging around the secret chamber behind his office was pushing it, but how could you resist Rook's charming smile when he said he'd found a trap door and wished to explore it together?

How were you supposed to know that passage would end up in Crowley's office, anyway?

"Mm?" Rook's head pokes out from the leaves again. "Are you coming, Trickster?"

You had begun to fill out that nickname quite nicely.

You set aside the pencil and paper (still untouched) in favor of scaling the lowest branches of the tree. You'd become quite the climber since meeting Rook.

"Ah, the way you so carelessly toss aside your obligations, as if freeing yourself from the shackles of the modern world!" Rook sings, offering a hand to help you onto the branch he's sat atop.

You can't help a smile as he guides you onto the thick part of the branch in front of him. "It was rather symbolic, wasn't it?"

"Chéri, if only I had the time, I would write a poem for every little thing you do," he sighs dreamily. "Come, miel, join me in being wild."

He cups your chin and guides your gaze to a curve where two branches meet, only an arm's-length away. Nestled in the heart of it is a small, delicate, cup-shaped nest, filled with baby blue eggs.

"Très magnifique," he comments, his voice breathless and soft. "The miracle of life. A sign that spring has returned once more, putting Monsieur L'Hiver to rest."

"They are beautiful... will they hatch soon?"

"Ah, that depends on how you define "soon". Robins incubate for but two weeks," he says. "Soon for us, but half a lifetime for them..."

His ensuing sigh is soft and contented, almost distracting you from the feeling of his arms finding their way around your waist, and his chin resting on your shoulder.

"Mm... I could stay here all day. Have you slept in a tree before, chéri?"

You've learned by now not to take such comments as jokes, although you're sure he already knows what the answer is.

You smile, your sweet tone tinged with the faintest hint of mischief. "No, not recently,"

"It has been a long time for me. Sometimes I fear I've become too domesticated... c'est bien I have you to bring out the wild animal in me again, hm?"

He chuckles to himself before promptly burying his face in the crook of your neck again, breathing you in.

You lean back into him, earning a little squeeze from his arms. Perhaps you could stay here all day, if not for...

"The essay..." you murmur.

Rook laughs again. "It can wait. I will gladly chance the ire of our headmage and my housewarden..." he clicks his tongue. "Taking risks for you is a delight I cannot help but indulge in."

[wisecloudnightmare]

Ghost circus (Dick/Danny) Soulmate au

In dc universe, the first sentence your soulmate says to you is tattooed on your skin (if you're injured, it appears in the same place on top of your scar don't worry).

In dp universe however, you have a birthmark in a shape or a picture that tell you about your soulmate. Maybe a football for a football player or an instrument (or fifteen if your soulmate is an overachiever, you never can be sure). Maybe a logo of their favorite movie idk. But Danny, practically growing up in a lab that mainly studies ectoplasm in a town that is the richest ectoplasm spot in the world, has a weird mark: a robin egg that changes with time. As he grows up, it changes to a red-yellow-green baby bird and so on.

What I want to say is, Dick meets Danny who is a dimension traveler (probably doing Clockwork's a favor or investigating the Lazarus Pits) and hears him say his soulmate's sentence but when he responds Danny just doesn't react and goes on his way. Dick is like "am I not his soulmate? Can it be one way??" Just angst and existential crisis as you do.

Then, Danny is doing something and the batfam appears. Maybe he's fighting a rogue? And Danny sees Nightwing. And he knows that the vigilante reminds him of something, a blue-black bird of his own. Wait.

"Are you my soulmate?" Danny asks.

"HOW DO YOU KNOW?" Nightwing loses his mind.

Cue teasing siblings ("that has to be the shortest time someone uses to learn your secret identity.") and overprotective Batdad trying to investigate this boy/man who takes down the rogue and the goons like it was nothing even before the bats arrived on the scene.

[chaosgremlinmunson]

April fools?...🫣😳

Minors dni, smutty funny content ahead, 18+ only please!

Eddie had a plan. He was sure it was going to either be hilarious or he was about to die by either Robin Buckley or Steve Harrington’s hand by the end of the day, but he had a plan. First thing was first though, he had to get Chrissy on board, and that, he was sure, was about to be a challenge. However, as luck would have it she also thought it was a great idea. Well, she thought he was hiding the eggs in the appropriate room, but hey, what she didn't know wouldn't hurt right? Right? Ok, so maybe his platonic soulmate might also kill him, but no one could ever say Eddie Munson didn't commit to the bit.

He strolled into melvads on Friday morning grabbing bags of cheap plastic eggs, and snickered when he saw glitter as well, thought why not and tossed it in his cart as well. When he approached the counter the teenage cashier just looked at him for a moment, rolled her eyes and rang him up. He bought a couple disposable cameras as well, and headed back to his van making his way to his and Chrissy's apartment. When he came in she was sitting in the armchair, near her leg was a couple bags from their favorite fetish shop out in Indy and she grinned at him.

“You think Robin will finally get the clue I'm into her after her Easter gift?” She twirled her hair around a finger, and reached into her own bag laying out a baby blue corset and pointed to his bag, “don't worry I got the things you wrote down for yours.”

Eddie laughed, coming to sit beside her kissing her temple, “I think if anything, she's definitely going to have some thoughts after this.”

((smut under the cut))

They made a night of it going full on fashion show, boudoir shoot. Eddie trusted Chrissy for the more exposed photos, he wrapped himself in nothing but a sunshine yellow ribbon, accentuating every curve, and giving a full view to the thick swollen present he wanted Steve to have most of all.

The photos were developed that weekend, a friend owing him a favor, asking no questions, and Eddie got set to stuff the eggs. Half with photos, the other half glitter bombs. He waited for Tuesday when they'd have their weekly movie night, the one night they all collectively had a scheduled day off and came to Steve's and while Steve showered he got busy hiding the eggs around the house. He had practiced acting innocent when he was anything but, so no one was any the wiser when they all gathered. Robin found the first egg as she and Chrissy went to sit on the loveseat.

Robin looked at the egg confused for a moment before opening it, falling sideways while screeching and throwing the egg at Eddie's head. Steve came rushing over, leaned down to pick up the egg and his face went crimson seeing Eddie in a leather harness and assless chaps. He gulped and looked up at Eddie, and walked back to the kitchen to grab their drinks and then screeched himself, finding another egg Eddie had hidden.

“I'm sorry, I'm sorry!” He said running out and handing the egg straight to Chrissy, refusing eye contact. She looked down to see the photo she's taken riding her toy in the corset, her face going red in embarrassment before standing up and tackling Eddie straight to the floor.

“Edward Nathaniel Kristof Munson! You said they would be hidden in their rooms and only Robin would see me, and that I would win my Birdy! You lied, you, dramatic, overgrown, wet cat! I'm burning your leather chaps, and your new yellow sparkle plug!” Chrissy had him pinned her hands gripping his hair not realizing the absolute bombshell she just dropped as Eddie yelped.

“Chris! Chrissy-bee, love of my life, queen of the world, most beautiful and wonderful best friend of mine, I did it for April fools! She still got to see! And at least this way you know she's going to see it!” He was wiggling under her trying to get away.

“I'm going to put bleach in your shampoo, I'm going to replace all your records with pop music! I'm going to tell Steve about the scrapbook!” She was screeching at him, her tiny frame hid how strong she really was and Eddie was starting to regret this idea. Then he realized, shit, they're still in the living room. All of this was said in front of both of their crushes. Dear God in heaven he did not think this through, at all. Chrissy seemed to come to a conclusion at the same time as Eddie did because they just made eye contact and both stared eyes wide before standing up slowly looking at the floorboards. Disaster gays, that's what they were. Jesus H Christ, Eddie just wanted to disappear and pretend this hadn't happened at all, but clearly now it was way too late. Steve grabbed his hand and his eyes went wide again as he led him into his room away from Robin and Chrissy, he pushed Eddie onto the bed and climbed into his lap pulling Eddie's chin up to look him in the eye.

“You couldn't just tell me the normal way huh? Had to be as dramatic as possible, had to be a little riot and get the blood pumping?” Steve emphasized the last bit by rolling hips down into Eddie's lap as he gasped, “I should make you wait for it. I should punish you for being such a bad boy and showing off. No one but me should have seen you that way.” He nipped Eddie's neck whispering into his skin, “As a matter of fact, I am. Robin is going to yours with Chris, and you Eddie, are going to go around this apartment and get every. Single. Egg. And you're going to open each one so that your photos end up only for my eyes, and Chrissy's will be set in Robin's room. Then you're going to clean my mess you make. And if you do a good enough job I might just let you have a treat.” He licked up the side of Eddie's face who shuddered and nodded, his hands gripping Steve's hips.

Steve slid off his lap and watched Eddie, an eyebrow raised in expectation before Eddie moved to start gathering everything. He opened every one over the trash, that way glitter didn't get anywhere and separated the photos like Steve asked. He rushed around cleaning the house, leaving everything as immaculate and clean as Steve typically had it and stood in the living room his hands clasped behind his back as Steve made his way through the house checking everything was done to his standard. When he came back to where Eddie stood he looked him over for a moment.

“On your knees.” He commanded and Eddie fell straight to his knees, thankful for the plush carpeting under his legs. His mouth was already watering as he looked up at Steve waiting for his next command, “open your mouth and stick out your tongue.”

Eddie rushed to comply and Steve placed his fingers into Eddie's mouth who immediately sucked them in as Steve inhaled shakily still keeping control, he reached other hand up to Eddie's mouth and brushed his fingers over his cheek.

“Was this what you needed? Something to shut you up, make you sink? Fall apart slowly?” He growled, he moved his hands up to Eddie's hair tugging at the strands before pulling him up to his feet and crashing their lips together. “Strip.”

Eddie hurriedly pulled his shirt off, he tripped over his pants but still rushed to get undressed and stood before Steve again who came up in front of him before making his way slowly around Eddie appraising him.

“You're doing so good for me. Such a good boy when you want to be, hmm?” He ran a hand up Eddie's thigh cupping his ass before smacking it once, “This what I need to do for you? Tell you what to do?” Eddie's eyes were fluttering and he was leaking down onto the carpet.

“I can be good for you, only for you. Please, Steve, please.” Eddie panted his hips quivering trying not to rut against the air.

“Do you think you've earned it?” He leaned into Eddie's space whispering in his ear tugging his hair again, “Do you think you deserve me to touch your pretty little cock yet?” Eddie whimpered, he knew he wasn't small but Steve being mean was making his skin light up in the most delicious ways.

“Please, I can earn it. I can be so good for you Stevie. Please, please, just tell me what to do.” Eddie whined.

“Bend over.” Eddie bent over the back of the couch where Steve had led him. “Use this, and open yourself up for me. Don't come until I say you've earned it. Be my good girl.”

Eddie keened high in his throat and got to work opening himself up in front of him, he arched his back and after a few moments was shaking, Steve pulled his hand away to look at his progress and put two of his own thicker longer fingers inside of him. Eddie screamed his name, his head whipping back and arching into the touch.

“So you can be good.” He said moving his fingers in and out quickly, just as he felt him clamping down close to release he stopped, all Eddie heard was the zipper of his light blue jeans and the schlick, schlick, noises of his pumping himself before he buried himself to the hilt bringing Eddie up against his chest, he placed a hand over his throat not squeezing, just resting and bite the junction just under his ear, “Ride me like a good girl Eds. Show me how badly you want it.”

Eddie groaned rolling his hips back against Steve as he felt him all around him, “fuck Stevie, I love you, fuck I love you.”

“I know Eds, I love you too. Now ride my cock like the whore you tried to be in your little photo shoot.” He squeezed his neck softly sucking his earlobe into his mouth rolling to meet his thrusts.

“Steve please, I'm so close, can I come please. Please, sir, please, please, please.” He begged, Steve growled and bit his neck, before slamming into him harder.

“Come on my cock, don't touch yourself.” He panted his rhythm getting sloppy but harder.

Eddie cried out clamping down hard on him, come painting across the back of the couch over the quilt Eddie had bought him for his birthday recently and Steve wasn't far behind.

As they came down Steve still holding Eddie in his arms as he softened he kissed over Eddie's neck, “You're still a little shit. But God, do I love you.” Steve breathed in between kisses, “I want you to be mine. Officially.” He said turning Eddie to face him.

“Stevie, I've been yours for longer than you've known.” He leaned and kissed his lips, “Happy Easter baby.”

[tropes-and-tales]

No Idea What I’m Doing

December 1:  Ice Skating/Wintry - First Date (Marcus Pike x F!reader)

(From the winter prompts by the lovely @youvebeenlivingfictional​, found here)

CW:  Grumpy holiday Marcus; slight angst; tooth-rotting fluff; cursing.

Word Count:  1391

AN:  Requested by @bport76​

The holidays are supposed to be a time of family and togetherness, of cozy evenings with loved ones…and yet Marcus Pike feels so low, so depressed that he’s turned into something of a Scrooge around the office.  He scowls at the décor, scowls at the festive luncheons and happy hours and gifts passed between friendly coworkers.

He feels bad about it.  He hates that he can’t even fake it this year, but his ex-wife just gave birth to her second child, and Teresa just married Jane a month earlier, and Marcus is left to wonder when he’ll get his happily ever after.

And then he catches himself wallowing and feels even worse.

-----

It’s a coworker that sets up the date, and Marcus resists as much as he dares without being insulting.  It’s his coworker’s sister-in-law, and Marcus winces to imagine a future where he has to share holiday dinners with this guy…but his excuses are flimsy, and the coworker finally sells it as doing him a favor.

“Look, she’s a nice girl, but she’s shy and she’s coming off a long-term thing.  At the very least,  you’d be helping her get less shy, you know?  Get her sea-legs back under her so she can start dating again?” the man says.

Marcus sighs and agrees to it.  He’s only there to be a practice run, so there’s no pressure.  He can fake it for an hour or two, then get back to the serious business of wallowing in his own self-pity.

“Fine,” he tells his coworker.  “Give me her number and I’ll set something up.”

-----

It’s the Scrooge-Marcus that sets up the date at the National Gallery skating rink.  Romantic-Marcus would have found a perfect, intimate place to dine, then taken you to some perfect, intimate second spot—an art gallery or a pottery class or something unique and memory-making.

Scrooge-Marcus wants to put in the minimum effort (it’s only practice for you, and a favor to his coworker for him) and then go home alone to sulk.  Ice skating seems almost passive-aggressive as a first date:  he can’t skate at all, he doubts you can either, and it’s hardly sexy to dress for.  Plus it’ll be cold, noses will be red and runny…it’s almost cruel, in fact.  It’s something a middle schooler would plan, would get his mom to drive him to and from in a minivan.

Yet when he calls you to set it up, you seem excited at the prospect.  Marcus feels the tiniest bit of shame to be treating you so dismissively when you seem nice enough.

-----

The night arrives.

At the skating rink, the National Gallery is lit up, and there’s fairy lights strung around the rink.  Piped in holiday music makes the moment seem far more magical than he thought it might be.

You’re already there.  He can see you standing nervously by the skate rental, a pair of white skates already in hand.  You’re wearing a blue scarf the color of a robin’s egg, as you told him you would.

Dammit, he mutters to himself.  You’re cute.  Even shifting back and forth on your feet, even nervously pressing your lips together, he can see that you’re cute—

Then you turn in his direction, catch sight of him—and at that moment, it starts to snow.  As if it was on cue, for god’s sake.  The gentle fall of snow glittering in the lights of the ice skating rink, and you gifting him a shy, tentative smile—

Goddammit, he mutters again, knowing full well he isn’t getting out of this unscathed.

*****

David had warned you that Marcus Pike was not really looking for a girlfriend.  He gave you a rundown of the office gossip about the man, and you had groaned to hear how the entire date was sold to Marcus:  sad-sack sister-in-law, recently dumped, too inept to date without a few practice runs.

Unfortunately, there is some truth to it.

You aren’t that sad, you don’t think, but you were recently dumped.  And you are so out of practice that when you try the dating apps, you almost immediately delete them.  When did available men start the courtship dance by sending dick pics?  

And anyway, none of said dick pics were at all tempting, so why bother?

So you agreed to a date with Marcus Pike.  You needed the practice, and if nothing else, you’d get a night out from it.

Goddamned David never once said Marcus Pike was handsome.  When you pressed, your idiot brother-in-law shrugged and said, “eh, he has brown hair.  Brown eyes.  He’s okay.”

Not that looks matter that much, but when you turn and see your date for the evening, that slightly-mussed hair that curls against his collar, that slight stubble and those goddamned kissable lips…you honest-to-god go a little weak in the knees.

Fuck my life, you grumble as you turn away, as you take a steadying breath and wonder how in the hell you’re going to get through the next hour.

*****

Plan a date at the ice skating rink, Marcus had told himself.  It won’t be fun for her at all.

Bullshit.  

You bring your own skates.  You help him rent his own, and when he struggles to lace them, you kneel at his feet and do it for him, your face bent away from him so that he can only see the edge of your shy smile.

“You’ve done this before?” he asks, and he wants to kick himself for asking a stupid, obvious question, but you laugh and say you have.

“I took lessons growing up,” you reply.  You offer him a gloved hand, help him hobble out onto the slick surface.  He clings to your hand too tight, and he flails out his other hand until he’s grasping the waist-high wall.

There’s nothing sexy about skating-appropriate clothes, he had told himself too.

Double bullshit.

Once he’s sort of stable on his skates, he urges you to go on without him for a few laps, so you do.  You’re in black leggings, form-fitting to your curves, your thighs as you glide away from him.  You’re wearing a short jacket, also cut to your form, and the blue scarf and a matching blue headband, and you look lovely and cutely sexy as you warm up.

The shy tension on your face melts away as you skate.  Whatever muscle memory you have keeps you well served on the ice:  you glide like a natural, you do neat little swivels and turns, and once—when you’re warmed up—you even perform a jump, a tightly efficient single rotation in the air before you land on a blade.  You give yourself a pleased smile, then look over at him.  You startle to find him watching you—the only time you wobble on your skates and have to balance yourself.

When you return to him, there’s a sparkle to your eyes, and Marcus can’t help but smile at you.

“I have no idea what I’m doing,” he confesses as he stumbles forward another step.  “I’m from Texas.”

You swivel on your skates and face him:  you drifting backwards, him stumbling after you.  You hold out both of your hands:  an invitation.

“Want me to teach you a few things?” you ask, and it turns out that Scrooge-Marcus has disappeared and Romantic-Marcus has returned.  He doesn’t want it, but he can feel the nervous hammering of his heart in his ribcage, the fluttery feeling in his stomach.  The first step of a crush, of new love, maybe.  

You smile at him, peer into his eyes like you might be able to really see him.  Dave said you were in a long-term thing, recently dumped.  Maybe you can see his pain because you’ve felt it too, yet here you are—game for this date with him, smiling at him even if he wasn’t especially warm to you over the phone.  You’re smiling at him, so he thinks he can salvage it, and already he knows of a place to take you afterwards:  the perfect little coffee shop where you can wrap your hands around a mug of hot chocolate, where you can tell him whatever you’re willing to share about yourself.  

“Please,” he says, and he takes your hands and allows himself to be led forward.  “Please do.”

[aerodaltonimperial]

For the morning after prompts, I couldn't decide between two so I'll send 'em both and you can pick whichever you'd prefer! - ''I think we cuddled'' for JungleHook, or ''There's a bra on the ceiling fan'' for SpookyPeach.

(🔮🍑)

Anna wakes to kisses pressed lightly against her shoulder.

This is, in itself, not necessarily a new sensation. But the kisses peppering against her skin come with the soft scraping of nails against the inner curve of Anna's arm and the scent of sandalwood and rosewater, a combination that so quickly floods her senses.

"Hi," Julia whispers, her mouth pausing on the stretch of Anna's skin leading up to her ear. "Good morning."

"Hi," Anna mimics. "Good morning to you, too."

She rolls, slow enough to allow Julia to shift and move. They'd fallen asleep so quickly last night that Julia's eyeliner is still clinging to her eyelids, smudged down onto her cheek. A remnant of Anna's lipstick sits at the corner of her lips, bright and red, so different from the dark berry hues that Julia favors nowadays. Anna sort of wants to kiss it away.

"Did you sleep well?" Julia asks.

"Like the dead," Anna admits. Julia's bed is absurdly comfortable: too many pillows, jersey sheets. The warm body next to her all night probably didn't hurt, either. This thing between them, blossoming slow and steady, is warm in the morning light. Julia's skin is soft beneath Anna's fingertips, her hair smooth as it falls against Anna's collarbone. Julia drops another kiss into the groove there, the dip that angles down into Anna's chest.

"There's a bra on the ceiling fan," she murmurs.

"Yours or mine?"

Julia's chin tips back, her eyes sliding upwards. In the early part of the day, the lack of color in the left one is even more obvious: opposed to the blue of the other, the color of a robin's egg in the spring, the black is jarring. It had once made Anna uncomfortable to see the aftermath of Julia's transformation, but now, it's just her. "Mine," Julia says after a moment, her mouth curling up.

"Do you need it soon?" Anna asks, sliding her hands up Julia's arms.

When Julia meets Anna's gaze again, her expression has gone silky—full of want. It's been a very long time since anyone looked at Anna like that, as though it was taking every ounce of strength not to devour her completely. "No."

"Good," Anna whispers, because they have nowhere to be, and no one who will be expecting them.

[ladyslookingglass]

Art for my D&D character currently working his way through his first level in my husbands Homebrew campaign.

His name is Caerrak and he’s a Divine Soul Sorcerer who specializes in divination.

His backstory was kind of inspired by the character Oda Mae Brown from the movie “Ghost”. He was born with two different colored eyes, one bright robins egg blue and the other black, which marked him as having divine favor among his people. Despite everyones insistence that he was special and had magical gifts...he never actually had any that he could discern. After awhile he just sort of gave into it and started pretending it was true which led to him basically becoming a con artist, getting paid to use his many “gifts”. Providing “blessings”, curing ailments, and using cards to divine answers or tell someones future.

Then...one day...it all became real. He could actually bless people...he could heal...and the cards actually talked to him in ways he could understand and the things they told him were true.

[thychesters]

#wipwednesday! haven't done one in a minute. the food supplies on the sunny have gone back and sanji et. al are about to have a very bad time.

this is part of a bigger fic i told myself i could try to have a rough draft of done by halloween and lmao. we'll shoot for the end of the year now. maybe. potentially.

text under the cut:

“Something’s off with the water,” he says, “I gotta get Franky up to see if the filtration’s working properly.” He doesn’t admit that Sanji told him to do it—he was going to anyway, of his own volition, because he’s looking after his crew. “The cook doesn’t wanna mess with it if it can contaminate the food.” Nami’s expression clouds, but neither get the chance to touch on the fact it still sounds like Zoro’s doing Sanji a favor—which he will vehemently deny and she will never let go. “Ah, fuck!” Sanji comes tearing out of the pantry, clutching a loaf of bread that’s mostly blue while his face purples, biting an unlit cigarette in half. Zoro eyes the moldy, festering mess that was once a loaf of sourdough, painstakingly crafted and left to rise before filling the gallery with the scent of fresh baked bread. He remembers Sanji slicing it up for breakfast, looking rather pleased with the results but not saying anything about it himself, not outright. (His pride was in the way he carried himself, the way he set out plates and passed dishes, the bend to his spine as he refilled Robin’s mug and only cuffed Luffy upside the head twice.) “Sanji, it’s not so bad,” Nami offers, but even her sweet tone doesn’t do much to smooth the harsh line of his shoulders. She’s sat up more, but even as he leaves the loaf on the counter Zoro can see the tremble in his frame, the way he glares down at the bread and Nami continues to try to soothe him, platitudes falling on deaf ears. In the entire time he’s known him, Zoro has never seen Sanji waste any food—even the egg shells and rinds get repurposed into compost for the grove, and onion and celery scraps get tossed into a pot with chicken and ham bones for stock.

[glaciiermonarch]

❀ *◦ sen mitsuji. genderfluid. he/she/they. demiromantic homosexual. ⇝ hey, isn’t that takaharu mochizuki? i think that the thirty-five-year-old from adelaide, south australia, works as dj at the boom boom room, music producer & engineer, and drummer of vain rogues & the ghost orchestra; but outside of that people describe them as perpetual busyness to prevent the chance of an emotion occurring; a pristine but empty-feeling mansion with too many rooms; perfectly pouty lips pulling up in a smirk over a private joke; and a robin's egg blue drum kit with every possible bell and whistle on the market. i hear they are moody & distant, but they are also known to be cerebral & generous. consider giving them a visit at their home in winterwood estates and get to know why they’re called the ice queen.

➙ this character uses he/him, they/them, AND she/her pronouns freely! the writer will be using ALL of them, sometimes within the same paragraph, so please extend the same courtesy! ➙ taka is attracted to men and masc-presenting enbies and just calls themself gay!

full name: takaharu mochizuki ➙ this is in "western" order since taka grew up in english-speaking countries ➙ kanji: 望月 貴陽 (Mochizuki Takaharu)  望 (mochi) meaning "wish, desire" and 月 (tsuki) meaning "moon;” together meaning “full moon” 貴 (taka) meaning “precious” and 陽 (haru) meaning “sun”

nicknames: taka, taki, tako, haru, mochi-san, tsuki-san

dob: 17 august 1989

place of birth: adelaide, south australia, australia

languages: japanese (native); australian english (native); korean (advanced); german (advanced); arabic (advanced); hindi (strong); mandarin (strong); okinawan (some)

education: bachelor’s degree in philosophy and asian & middle eastern studies, duke university

strengths: educated; cerebral; generous; loyal; resolute; shrewd; creative; captivating; wise; patient

weaknesses: cold; moody; gloomy; judgmental; harsh; disconnected; distant; crass

hobbies: playing drums, guitar, piano, and clarinet; surfing; skateboarding; playing video games; smoking weed; napping; reading

likes: warm weather & beaches; fashion;

dislikes: messy people; uncreative people; children (friends' kids are an exception)

disabilities & health: major depression; chronic back and knee pain

even the silverest of spoons being in your mouth when you're born doesn't shield you from the unhappiness of life, but it does slap a bandage over a festering wound so you can ignore it a while longer. kenta mochizuki, a dermatologist originally from japan. beth mcnulty, general legal counsel for one of the biggest energy companies in all of australia. married a little later than either of their families would have liked, but in their defense, they were both busy being successful. and they barely slowed down long enough to have their only child, takaharu.

though of an ornery countenance since birth, taka was always still popular and favored because he was pretty and rich. clarinet lessons, piano lessons, drum lessons, surfing lessons, she was set up for success from the very beginning. her childhood memories are mostly accompanied by nannies and tutors, though her father, an earnest and excitable man, always made an effort to be present in his child's life, eager to see her succeed.

there was always a distance between taka and their mother, though; taka knows now that beth never wanted to be a parent. this attitude became clearly evident when she didn't show up to taka's tenth birthday dinner. it was soon revealed that she'd forgotten, and more of the truth came tumbling out: she shirked her parental duties for an affair. and this apparently had been going on for quite some time, seeing other men that weren't her heartbreakingly devoted husband.

a divorce ensued, and taka sided with his kind, loving father, who had also always made an effort to keep japanese culture alive in the home. when taka was barely into her teens, her father sat her down to tell her about a woman he'd met online, one he'd fallen in love with. the catch was that she lived in malibu. taka was given the choice to live with her mother or move to the united states with her father. she easily chose the latter.

lashonda rhimes, successful anesthesiologist to the stars, and kenta's second wife. she was a few years younger, though not egregiously so, but still childless. and she treated taka like her own child, which might have been externally brushed off by the surly teenager, but taka came to appreciate it. he was popular in his new home, with his accent and his money and his looks. being so intelligent, the transition to a new continent wasn't difficult at all, and he finished high school near the top of his class.

he didn't really have a plan for his life, and all his parents really wanted out of him was just for him to go to college. an acceptance to duke university was sweetened by some scholarships, and whatever those didn't cover was easily made up for by the wads of cash his family had. taka had started smoking weed not long after landing in the US, but she branched out into new drugs while in durham, north carolina, for college.

acid trips were unpleasant every time she tried dropping; and she didn't like injecting anything to leave marks behind on her pretty body. but she soon found a bad habit in cocaine. she would sniff a few lines, party for several hours, go home and do homework, go to class, and go to modeling shoots, and do it all over again. somehow, using sheer ambition probably, she finished college within 4 years, even with a double major and a couple semesters spent studying abroad.

bouncing around the US for a year or so; living with his aunt in japan for a couple years; and then landing in anchorage for the next adventure around 2016

these days, taka keep busy in any way she knows how: too long with her own thoughts can be dangerous and make her itch to return to her cocaine habit. but they've done a good job of staying clean. taka doesn't need to work for money—his mother sends him gobs of money to curry his favor, and his father and stepmother have nobody else to spoil—but he does work to stay busy, spinning tunes at the boom boom room; modeling for small indie publications and brands; and gaining some traction as a music producer.

with more money than one person should ever need, taka gives a lot of it away. there are a few charities she routinely makes generous donations to; but she also likes to take care of her friends. she'll buy her closest friends whatever they want, buy their groceries, offer to pay rent or even let them stay in her house, offer to pay their medical bills... seriously, what is one lonely person gonna do with all those digits in their bank account? besides, spending money is the only way she knows how to show love.

[theladyregret]

D&D Character: Caerrak

Just felt like putting together a little thing for the characters I’m currently in a homebrew campaign with. This is my primary.

Homebrew element of note here that I can actually mention are his age because elves and half-elves age differently from normal D&D here. Half-elves reach physical and mental maturity in equivalent years to their mother race. So a half-elf with a human mother reaches maturity at human rates but half-elves with an elven mother do so like an elf though their total longevity remains the same regardless. 

Aside Note: The DMs preference in play-style that PCs are “people of extraordinary talent” so players are allowed to either be a jack-of-all-trades type (average or above average in all stats but nothing 18 or higher) or a master-of-one type (allowing one stat to be 18-20 at the sacrifice of another stat).

Appearance: Caerrak is a young male half elf. He stands at 5′ 8″ with a lithe build. He has shiny deep black hair that gains a subtle iridescence very much akin to crow feathers in direct light. It has a very fine silky texture and always has an untamed quality that gives it a permanently messy appearance. His eyes look like they belong on a bird instead of a man in the shape of the iris and pupil. They are also heterochromatic, with one eye being a bright robins egg blue and the other a deep black. His pointed ears are pierced several times each though he doesn’t often have the patience to wear jewelry in all of them. Caerrak wears a lot of clothing dyed in various colors of blue under a long jerkin made of animal hide dyed almost black. Long black feathers have been sewn into the jerkin around the shoulders and across the back.

Backstory: Caerrak was marked at birth as being god blessed because of the appearance of his eyes, a feature that had long been a symbol of favor from his home regions patron deity. Despite being told this his entire life Caerrak lived most of his life showing none of the supposed abilities those around him claimed he should have. As a child he would argue this fact but was so often ignored that he eventually gave up and simply learned to fake it. He began learning various ways to fake the miracles he was meant to perform, learning to throw his voice, mimic sounds, and perform various sleight of hand tricks. In addition he became very proficient at telling fortunes through the use of cards and using basic alchemy to cure various ills. Both real and perceived (or suggested).

Then...one day...it all changed. Magic he had formerly faked became real spells and he could lay out his cards and actually understand them, and what they told him was the truth...and it wasn’t good.

Personality: Caerrak is very kind at heart, and while he can lie, con, and steal without batting an eyelash...he does his best not to harm those who seem undeserving. On the flip side...he absolutely can’t stand those who choose to be hateful or cruel without reason as well as general rudeness. He particularly loves cheating those who meet these criteria...even if the end result doesn’t lead to much gain. He can be a bit greedy and has a hard time turning down opportunities that could lead to making himself money...though he will just as eagerly spend or give that money away. His joy seems to be in the making or taking of it...and not so much the need for it in general. He is prone to making decisions on a whim and rarely takes into account possible consequences, even in dangerous circumstances.

A fun extra: These are Caerrak’s dice sets and some cards from his tarot deck which doubles as his divine focus. The clear dice have UV activated glowing sparkles and the darker set are blue galaxy dice.

Portrait Art Credit: Myself <3

Custom Character Sheet Credit: Liath

[tinydooms]

Unrelared asks 7, 9, 27?

7. what animal do you look forward to seeing when you visit an aquarium?

I live within driving distance of the Monterey Bay Aquariam, and I am sorry to say that I haven't been there since the late '90s. I need to and I want to, so clearly I should just buy a ticket and go. I want to see the penguins and the sea otters (though luckily around here one does not need to visit the aquarium to see sea otters).

9. do you have a skincare routine (and how many steps is it)?

Yes, I do, and I'm a stickler for it! In the morning when I get up, I splash my face with water, pat it dry, and rub in an emollient night cream (yes, night cream: it's what my skin loves so I use it in the morning, too). Then while that's seeping in, I go make my coffee, then strip down and slather SPF 50 all over any skin that will be exposed--face, ears, neck, throat, decolltage, arms, legs. I'm so pale I almost glow in the dark, so this is a non-negotiable step. Then I put on my makeup, roll my hair, and go about my day.

In the evening, I wash my face with warm water, a face soap for sensitive skin (Clinique, to be exact), and a wash cloth. I also scrub down my neck and decolltage with the same. Then I slather on that thick, thick emollient night cream all over top to tits and let that seep in a bit before I don my pajamas. I don't generally do masks or facials; I have extremely sensitive skin that is prone to rashes, so I tend to stick with this little formula. It works very well. :-)

27. what’s your favorite or go-to outfit?

Generally, wide-legged or sailor trousers cut in a 1930s/1940s style and a vintage-style blouse or sweater. I model my personal style on '30/'40s menswear-for-women. Lately I've been favoring bold color combinations, such as berry purple trousers with a robin's egg blue longsleeved button-down. But my all-time favorite outfit right now is what I call my Goth Ginger Rogers look: black wide-legged trousers and a very fitted '30s style blouse with bishop sleeves, made of a lightweight, dark brown and cream plaid fabric, with a true-vintage bow at the throat, and cognac leather heeled oxfords or black sandals. I'll see if I can find a pic of me in it to post; it's such a fun look to wear.

Random ask game questions are here!

[sixtymillionoverdueideas]

tell us a bedtime story! one that is short and sweet and also kind of neat!

A throat clears as the candlelight flickers in the bedroom, the rich blue sky visible through the white curtain, patterned like a much thicker lace,,. Stars pepper through like glittering snow or diamonds, but their light is too far and too small to add any illumination to the space,,,. "Once upon a time," as all stories go, "there was a fair and just prince."

"He came across a rushing, roaring river, wild and rampant like a stallion from all the ice-water brought down from the mountains in his path through the Black-thorn Woods to get to the Fields of Plenty."

"'How shall I cross?' The prince asked, for he was an eminently practical and calmly-thinking prince, and he did not want to waste time on finding another route across to his destination."

"'Prince, O You of such Bright and Brilliant Coat, what troubles you so?' Came a voice from down below, slithering amongst the underbrush of the bushes,,,."

"'I need to cross this river and make haste, dear Serpents,' said the Prince, seeing a trio of vipers-- one of a deep, clay-red coat like rubies -- one, fine scales as soft and delicate as snow -- and one, with a skin so deep and violet as mulberry wine emerge from the green."

"'What would you do, to cross this roaring river?' Asked the Serpents Three, bobbing and hissing their heads in the air."

"'I would give you the coat off my back,' said the Prince, speaking honest and true as he placed his hand over his chest."

"'Then bargain, accepted is your generous offer dear Prince', the Serpents crooned. 'But remember that every favor is owed, every tine will turn on the wheel.'"

"The Prince unclasped the fine coat of robin's-egg blue that his childhood friend the baker had gifted him and bequeathed it to the white Serpent with a bow."

"Then the serpents climbed over each other, and one by one formed the steps of a bridge as their scales glittered to stone."

"'Thank you, kind Serpents,' the Prince said as he crossed as with as soft and light step as he could make. 'In too I will remember this favor, if you will ever need to call.'"

"Thus the Prince made his way to the mountains to continue his journey... But that's a story for another time, isn't it? Now hush, it's time for you to rest."

[leatherdykelust]

A hanky code printed by Image Leather, date frustratingly unknown. Also frustratingly, I lost my source for this; I dug it up on Twitter but can't find the tweet, and have no idea if or where an original physical copy survives.

I prefaced the Eagle's hanky code with "Don't use this"; no such disclaimer is necessary here. I can't guess its age, but a fair chunk of these codes made it into the flagging guides of what was then or soon known as the World Wide Web, and thus remain standard if not familiar to this day. (Some of them, in fact, are in standard use ON THIS VERY BLOG!) It also notably doesn't include any hapax legomena, mostly by simply not listing any new or truly hard kinks.

Red (fisting) possibly predates the hanky code itself, if only by a few years, and was universally the first color listed throughout the Seventies and well into the Eighties. This list, however, is the first physical list I've ever seen where it's dethroned in favor of light blue (oral), where it competes with black for the first hanky in the code to this day. Did this list start the trend, or just reflect it? The answer awaits further research.

Light pink (dildos), robin's egg blue (69ing), medium blue (cops), teal (genital torture), dark red (double fisting), magenta (armpit stuff), pale yellow (spit/drool), apricot (chubby chasing), rust (cowboys), and hunter green (daddy/boy) are all listed here with their still-standard meanings. Compared to the Eagle's list a decade earlier, this list features the brighter and pinker color palette we associate with the Eighties, and reflects the fact that by this point Elephant brand bandanas were giving way to East Asian imports.

Dark pink (tit torture), and fuschia (spanking) both overlap with the Leather & Lace hanky code from roughly the same time period. Barring more Eighties hanky codes it's too soon to say whether one list influenced the other, or if they both included hankies from a yet-undiscovered third source.

Brown (scat) is rarely flagged but almost universally listed; this hanky code is the first I've seen that leaves it off entirely. Given that Image Leather had a dungeon, maybe they weren't okay with it on the premises.

Mauve (navel stuff) is as close as this list gets to a hapax legomenon; I don't know if or where it appeared before, but it was notably left out of the super-long online lists and only rarely shows up today. (I can't say it never shows up, because one of the few places I've seen it is in a list on Wikipedia, but it's a rare bird and one I never knew about before I discovered this list.)

On a list clearly made by and for gay men, maroon (likes menstrusting women) is an extreme oddity: a specifically lesbian flag. (Whether it's from the Samois code or Leather & Lace remains to be seen.) In this era of pride flags and label proliferation, it's a helpful reminder that leather and kink historically blurred those lines; leatherdykes mingled, coexisted, and even played with the Old Guard in their early days, creating ties that lasted through the AIDS crisis. With Lawrence v. Texas in the crosshairs, that kind of broad-church may soon be necessary again.

[roguelioness]

How did we get here (my god)

Nothing’s changed from the last time she was here. The curtains with their frayed edges are still the same faded blue, and dust motes ride the beams of light that drift in through the windows. The air is stale, but nothing that opening the windows cannot fix.

Weary, Neria drops off her rucksack on the lone bed. The hut is tiny, inconspicuous, battered by time and weather, barely worth more than a passing glance. Even so, it is her sanctuary, her private sanctum, her escape from a world that grows ever more hostile with each passing day. Here she is alone, but that is what she prefers; her heart and head are too weighed down for company. A few hours of rest, and she can be on her way.

Whatever she does, or does not, it will be too little. Too late.

She is always too late, too far behind, stumbling like a child taking its first steps, and now-

Exhaling, she runs a hand down her face, shaking her head to stop the thought. Kneeling in front of the surprisingly unrusted stove, she places twig after twig in the furnace with careful precision. Neria takes a moment to stare at the stacked pyramid with gritty eyes. A flick of her fingers, and the kindling is aflame, the tongues of red-yellow a suitable enough pyre for her deep-seated hopes. She watches as the tinder begins to blaze, then shuts the grate.

A small groan escapes her as she stands. She rests a hand on the small of her back and stretches, coaxing her stiff muscles to let go of their tension. It does not work.

The kettle is on the stove now, steam slowly rising from the spout. She moves to the bed, sits on the edge, and unpacks her rucksack slowly, unwillingly, but she knows she must be sure.

The letter is dirt-stained and creased, the edges wrinkled. There is no seal, no address, no signature, but the script is a familiar one. She smooths it out carefully, and begins to read.

The kettle starts to whistle quietly; pressure is building up.

You must come to Val Royeaux, immediately. The Nightingale might sing no longer.

Neria crumples up the piece of parchment in her fist. The stub of her arm, slotted into the groove of the prosthetic, throbs. She wills the pain away. It does not work. The silverite fingers close to rest against the rune-inscribed palm. She did not ask it to do so.

The kettle starts to shriek, spitting boiling hot steam into the quiet room.

The Divine is dying, and there is nothing she can do about it.

Her friend is dying, and there is nothing she can do about it.

She covers her face with her hand; the letter falls to the ground.

The kettle’s high-pitched whine grows softer, then comes to a halt altogether.

She looks up. Every nerve is on edge. Mana drifts down her arm, ready to be commanded.

He’s standing there, by the door, arms clasped behind his back. Neria flashes to her feet and stares at him. He shifts under her gaze, and is the first to look away. Solas moves towards the rickety old table, measures out two scoops of the blend of herbs she favors in her tea. His back is to her as he pours the water into the cup.

The air fills with the scent of ginger.

“Ir abelas,” he says. He does not look at her. 

She knows he means it. “I know you are,” her voice reflects her exhaustion. Fatigue and panic both gnaw at her bones, but she has no energy left to fight.

Solas turns on his heel. His armor is gilded, the design strange and intimidating. The rich red cape flutters as a breeze drifts through the open door. “I had no choice-” he tries to explain, but she cuts him off.

“So you claim.”

The tips of his ears turn pink.

The silence is heavy. It blocks her sinuses and clogs up her throat, and her vision starts to blur-

She turns away from him.

“I am sorry,” he says, again, this time in a whisper, “I truly am,” pleading with her to understand.

“What do you want from me?” she asks, her back still to him. The sky outside, robin’s-egg blue when she first entered, is now turning grey at the horizon, she idly notices. “Do not ask me for forgiveness, because I don't know if I have any left to give you.”

“I know,” he replies simply.

“Why are you here, then?” she asks warily, turning to face him. “What are you sorry for?”

He takes a step into the hut, instantly filling it with the force of his presence.

“I am sorry,” he says, and suddenly she feels herself being dragged across the anvil of dread, “because I must ask you to finish your tea.”

Ah. She understands.

How will I put honey in Leliana’s wine without being seen? A young lad had asked, worry in his eyes.

The man before her, jaw taut, face blank, eyes like polished steel - he has found the answer.

"And if I refuse?"

"I cannot let you go to Val Royeaux," his face is still calm and unruffled. His gaze, so infuriatingly even, gives nothing away.

She crosses her arms. Raises her chin defiantly. That he knows of this place means she has been thoroughly betrayed. It is all the more vital that she travels to the Grand Cathedral. "You have no say in that."

His lips pull up into a smile. It is vulpine at the corners, it shows hints of too-long canines. It is not only fear that slides down her spine. "Drink your tea, vhenan."

[redjaybathood]

Nightwing (1996) #104 - 105

The sheer IRONY of it.

Jim Gordon: So does this mean he'll be looking for someone new to be his wingman?

Nightwing: I seriously doubt it, sir. He's better off working alone. And he knows it. Robin's a defunct concept.

May I remind you that Annushka has already bought sunflower oil, and not only bought it, but even spilled it:

Okay, let me pause and just breathe out slowly. What we glimpse here in this issue of Jason is very much not in his favor. It's really no wonder that if you're not Jason fan specifically, or at least if you didn't read his stuff, specifically, you would think he's cocky, aggressive, careless, etc, etc.

And it kinda sucks, you know? I get making Bruce a psycho. The conflict, the drama. Fathers and sons. But what does Dixon get by dunking on the second Robin? I guess if you're writing Nightwing and the third Robin for a decade all told, it kinda makes you, whatchacallit, biased.

And not sure I like this "Dick is attempting to two-time Koriand'r with Batgirl" stuff. I mean, I don't know what's going on between those two in NTT at this point, and I shouldn't need to know - if I pick up a solo series for Nightwing, I expect to have all relevant information about Nightwing to be supplied. In this case, what Dixon supplies me, is Barbara has a reason to stop the kiss before it happens because Koriand'r would be jealous and Dick doesn't do anything to disabuse her of this impression. Yet he continues to flirt.

Then we have some more Jason. Huh, I guess that's where Titans TV got it from.

Alfred: Master Jason. I trust you've completed your homework.

Jason: All the school I need's down there, Alfredo. Jus' gonna raid the fridge before recess is over.

Me, remembering Jason being on top of his class: *ugly sobs*.

Then, we get Dick going to Arkham to visit Joker to re-introduce himself. I keep reading this and keep asking myself: Why. There's a wider context, maybe, something I'm missing. Or Dixon is just a fucking hack. I mean, Robin was hella boring, but this? This is awful.

I want to comment on Dick and Barbara going into a strip club just to beat up some wanted felons, then Barbara jokes about trading recipes or forming a book club with women working there (I'm not sure what's funny about that), or, after she confesses to liking the pole, Dick suggests her take a job here.

I mean, if the point of all this was to make me hate everyone involved, Dixon has it in the bag.

Issue 105, where Dick Grayson calls Jason Todd little wing for the first time.

All in all, they finish the gauntlet working as a team, and their interaction have this kinda friendly rivalry vibe. More rivalry than friendly, but still.

Oh, and it was Alfred who added gold accents to the Nightwing suit, according to Dixon, and it was not blue-gray, it was blue - and robin egg blue. Okay then.

[norabrice1701]

The Cloverfield Pyramid - Epilogue

A Schmidt x Fem!Reader Lost Ruins/Archaeology Expedition AU Fic

Link to Ch. 10

Link to Series Master List

Epilogue Summary: It’s just another day.

Epilogue Warnings: Explicit language, references to moderate smut

Epilogue: Day +261

You couldn’t explain it. Not really. Of course, the words made sense but actually understanding what they meant?

“Atomic and subatomic particles rearranging themselves across dimensions,” Ernst explained in the early days. “Scrambling and colliding across space and time, and alternate realities. And, when we entered the portal together…well, that must have scrambled and collided our own particles, as well.”

Collided was the understatement of the century...or millennium, really.

You covertly glared out the small, square kitchen window from under your set curls and cat-eye glasses. That had been the first thing you noticed. The world appeared only as fuzzy, disorienting swirls when you awoke with your hand still in Ernst’s. But when he stared around, stunned to see the world in crystal clear focus with just his naked eyes, the implication staggered you both. Especially when the prescription of your first-ever pair of glasses matched his exactly.

Through your lenses, it was easy to spot your neighbor, Ruth, bent over her rose bushes, pruning the greenery. Well, pretending to prune, at least. Her frequent glances at your house and the front yard were all too obvious. She had been suspicious of you and Ernst ever since you moved in. Of course, that wasn’t his name anymore, but she hadn’t bought the story as easily as the American authorities.

Honestly, you’d been amazed how quickly you both fabricated the explanation when you realized the pyramid had not only thrown you through space but also time.

Your crinoline petticoat and full skirt flared out as you turned, heels echoing off the lime-yellow linoleum as you crossed the robin’s egg blue appliance kitchen. It...well, it was fairly hideous compared to the gorgeous, sleek yachts that Mr. Smyth favored - but you really couldn’t afford to be a chooser right now. Especially as you knew what Ruth was doing. It was time for your husband to come home, and she never missed the opportunity to observe the man that she was convinced was a German spy.

But you knew your Daniel better than that. After all, he had risked his life during the war to feed intelligence to the British SOE agents. When you met him as a Red Cross Clubmobile Girl, serving on the continent after D-Day, he stole your heart with his unflinching bravery and chocolate brown eyes. You’d married him just as soon as you could, but when facts of his aide to the Allies came to light, you both had to flee Europe for safety. With scarce money, you found whatever transportation you could, but your bad luck continued as rough storms and a poor choice in marine vessels stranded you both in South America with no papers or possessions.

All you could say was thank god that the internet and vast computer databases didn’t exist in 1953. That made it much easier to plead both of your cases for witness protection and secure relocation. And, of course, Ernst’s knowledge of physics was uniquely suited for a nation at the beginning of the space race…. Especially when you both already knew the outcome.

Even now, the astronomical and cosmic implications of it all still stunned you. You’d never understand how some ancient pyramid had sent you from 2028 to 1953, but at least kitchen appliances no longer ate men’s arms and marine equipment no longer manifested in men’s stomachs.

You ran the painted, manicured fingers of your new dominant hand along the pearls at your throat. That was another shocking discovery. Pens and wrenches were useless in your former-dominant hand until you realized that your dominant hand had switched during your...journey. Fortunately, Ernst had been equally baffled to discover that he was now right-handed. But the eerie, intuitive instinct you each felt with your new dominant hands made it hard to believe that they had ever been reversed.

The rumble of a classic, gas-guzzling engine sounded outside the living room widows, and you smoothed your lace apron, adjusting the neckline of your dress, checking your lipstick one last time in the hall mirror.

You stepped out onto the front porch just as the Chevrolet Bel Air came to a stop in the driveway and he killed the engine. Your husband emerged with a smile on his face, smoothing his black skinny tie against his white short-sleeved dress shirt. Black slacks completed the stereotypical 50s engineer ensemble as he reached into the backseat for a slim briefcase, lunchpail and coffee thermos. After all, what kind of housewife would you be if you didn’t take care to keep your husband well-fed and caffeinated during his long, tedious day?

“Good evening, my darling.” He still struggled to flatten his syllables, but he was improving. His brown eyes drank you in as he approached. “You’re simply a vision, Mrs. Brühl.”

Your lips curled to a practiced, carefree smile. “And you’re simply a charmer, my dear Mr. Brühl.”

His eyes lit with a knowing, tantalizing glint - and, alright, there was something exhilarating about successfully pulling off such a con in front of the whole neighborhood - as he leaned close to press a kiss to your cheek beneath your glasses.

Despite the odor of smoke that clung to his clothes from a day in the engineering bullpen, you kept your smile firmly in place. “Here, let me take those things, dear.” You reached for his lunch pail and thermos. “You work so hard for us and you deserve your time to relax.”

He relented the items, a faint blush dusting his ears under his cleanly styled, side-swept hair. “How did I ever get so lucky?”

You didn’t respond as he reached for the door, guiding you back inside with firm pressure on the small of your back. No sooner did the storm door close and he locked the wood door behind him did you drop your smile. You shook your head as you headed for the kitchen. “Did you see Ruth out there?”

“Yes,” his voice echoed off the paneled walls of the living room. “She’s not exactly trying to be subtle anymore.”

“Well, she did tell Opal who told Janet who told me, that she’s convinced you’re smuggling radio parts in your briefcase to build a spy radio back to Germany. She even said that she saw lights on late in the garage last night, heard ‘mechanical noises’ and - crime of all crimes - heard you speaking German in rushed, low tones.” You couldn’t stop the smile on your face as you removed the empty Tupperware containers from his lunch pail.

His footsteps squeaked off the linoleum and you turned around, amused by the wide-eyed, gobsmacked look on his face. You met his gaze, and you both knew what Ruth had overheard last night.

He shook from his stupor, tugging his tie loose and undoing his shirt top button. “Are we not even able to have sex in the privacy of our own garage anymore?”

You laughed softly. “Well, whether we are or aren’t, how else was I going to thank you for that gorgeous Chris Craft?” Your jaw had nearly hit the floor when Ernst - err, Daniel - pulled in the drive with a small, adorable wooden sport boat hitched behind the car. Of course, shifting your career from private chauffeur and grease-monkey to 1950s housewife rankled you, proving a constant, frustrating challenge. But your husband knew you better than anyone else on the planet in 1953, and now, you had a mechanical slice of modern sanity in your life of Tupperware parties and neighborhood Ladies' League events.

So, of course, you spent the night crawling all over it, drooling at the classic beauty and still amazed that she was actually yours. When you had finally looked up and saw Ernst staring at you with that warm, impossibly loving smile, you didn’t hesitate to pull him in the trailered boat with you. You ripped at his belt and he tore at your pedal pushers, devouring each other. He growled German in your ear - another new skill that you’d inexplicably picked up after emerging from the pyramid - as he thrust deep in you until you both saw stars.

In the kitchen now, his face softened the longer he held your gaze, recalling last night just as fondly. “I say let the neighbor lady be damned,” he said, walking over and settling a firm hand to your waist. “She can gossip all she likes, and if something official should ever come of it, there’s no incriminating evidence. Besides, I like to imagine that we’re doing her a service - providing quality entertainment in her later years as the young, mysterious couple living next door. We’ll always keep her guessing. Will they, won’t they have children? Is he, isn’t he a German spy? Will they, won’t they get frisky in the boat? Will she, won’t she burn cookies for the next ladies’ luncheon?”

You scoffed, but were unable to hold back your smile. “God, you really are enjoying this, aren’t you? And it was only the one time - I only said that I liked chocolate chip cookies, not that I was good at baking them.”

“I remember, Schatz.” His smile reached his eyes, still just as handsome as ever. Ok, so maybe you found the 1950s aesthetic on him quite flattering. The warm appreciation in his gaze told you that he more than recognized all of your extra efforts to blend in with the era’s fashion.

He wet his top lip, a flash of heavy emotion slicing through his gaze before he continued. “But it’s like we’ve discussed before, it’s...we have to make this situation work. There’s no other option available to us. Neither of us could summon the resources to make a return to the Amazon - and even if we did find the pyramid again, break the vacuum seal, and restore it only to dimension hop again...who’s to say that we wouldn’t end up in a worse place and time?”

You sighed. “I know, I know...and this -,” you gestured around at your idyllic house before settling your hand to his chest above his heart, “could have been so much worse...but, it’ll be an exhausting charade that we’ll have to maintain for the rest of our lives.”

He leaned in to nuzzle your cheek, pressing another kiss to your skin. Except this time, his contact lingered, the touch infinitely more comforting and reassuring. “And there’s no one else I would rather spend it with.”

“Me, neither.” And it had never been more true. Your heart was irrevocably committed and docked with this man for the rest of your days, no matter the era. Your lips found his, sharing a deep, solid kiss, the kind that would scandalize any neighbor and surely smear your lipstick beyond repair. But within the walls of this house, Ernst was yours regardless of what the rest of the world called him and nothing would change that.

After all, a cataclysmic collision of dimensions had already tried and failed to pull you both apart. But it was just like he’d said from the beginning, and just like you’d come to learn in time.

You were both in this together, and you always would be.

Fin

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[chrysanthemumgames]

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> Is the daughter of the titans Coeus and Phoebe.

> She has two sisters, Leto and Asteria, the latter of whom is actually Hekate’s mother, making Hera Hekate’s aunt. 

> Hera is the oldest of her sisters, and has a fair number of stereotypical older-sibling traits. 

> Is very fond of birds, and keeps peafowl and cuckoos as pets on Olympus. 

> In addition to being a powerful enchantress, Hera is particularly skilled with nebulous fate-magic, the kind the Moirae use as well. She is one of only two known non-Moirae practitioners of the art, and some people think she occasionally gets some insights into the future because of it.

> Loves and is faithful to Zeus, though she’s not exactly happy that her emotions are like that. She doesn’t see it as something that can be changed though, as she believes their fates are bound together for good or ill.

> Can, in general, be a bit of a fatalist, though she usually doesn’t discourage others from trying to change whatever she believes their fate or destiny might be.

> Her favorite color is robin’s egg blue.

> Weaving is a hobby of hers. 

> Tends to favor answering the prayers of women, and has performed more than a few direct interventions on behalf of women with dysphoria, so they can be more comfortable in their bodies.