#accepting of all that there is and can be

[endofthelinegang]

i've got sunshine

𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠ˏˋ°•*⁀➷  thunderbolts x fem!reader

𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲ˏˋ°•*⁀➷  a sunshiney reader brings warmth and healing to the hearts of the Thunderbolts—John Walker, Yelena Belova, Bob Reynolds, Ava Starr, and Bucky Barnes—each responding to their light in different, deeply personal ways. through detailed bullet points and intimate mini fics, the post explores how these broken, complex characters slowly learn to love and be loved.

𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬ˏˋ°•*⁀➷ none besides bad words

John Walker has no damn idea what to do with you because you are going to kill him one day…

You call him “sweetheart” first—and he almost short circuits. He mutters “don’t call me that” the first few times, but never really means it. Eventually, he gets real quiet every time you do, like it hurts and heals at the same time. He literally would worry if you stopped saying it. In fact one day you don’t say it and he is like “what happened to sweetheart.” And you are all in. 

He gets protective to a fault. You smile at a barista and he’s already squinting like, who the hell is this guy and why is he breathing near you? It’s not jealousy—it’s fear. Fear that someone like you will get hurt because of someone like him. He literally has to go everywhere with you even if it interferes with his life because if anyone hurts you he needs to be right there. 

He doesn't know how to accept gentleness. The first time you brush your fingers through his hair after a nightmare, he flinches. The second time, he leans into your palm like it’s the only time he has ever felt someone love on him. He loves the way you take your time touching him in any circumstance so slowly and with ease. 

You talk during breakfast; he listens. He never interrupts, just sips his coffee with his elbows on the counter, looking at you like your voice is sunlight filtered through dust motes. He never thought mornings could feel safe again. You love to tell him about your weird dreams and at first he is like “what the fuck.” But eventually he just laughs along and asks little questions. 

He gets weird about his scars. You kiss the one just under his ribs and he jerks away like he’s been burned. Later that night, he kisses your shoulder and whispers, “You make me feel so damn weird.” 

He doesn’t do pet names until he does. It slips out one day—“baby”—when he’s scared you’re going to leave. It’s hoarse, desperate, like the word’s been sitting on his tongue for months. He barely breathes after saying it. And immediately the world melts around you and even though you maybe don’t forgive him you can’t help but just hug him. 

He tries to “warn” you off. Tells you he’s too far gone, too angry, too violent. You just look at him with that soft, infuriating smile and say, “Then it’s a good thing I’m not scared of the dark.”

He loves your laugh like it’s sacred. Every time he hears it, something inside him unclenches. It’s like proof that the world can still be good, that he didn’t ruin everything. He will go out of his way to make you laugh when he really can’t listen to the world anymore. 

He doesn’t believe he deserves you. Not deep down. Every time you tell him you love him, he swallows it like a blade. But he clings to it like armor—your love becomes the thing that keeps him from spiraling.

He’d burn the world down to keep you safe. And the terrifying part is—he could. But he doesn’t. Because you remind him that staying is the bravest thing he’s ever done.

🥀 good morning soldier 

Your bare feet pad across the cold kitchen floor, humming some half-remembered melody from a playlist he’d never admit he listens to. The sun hasn’t fully risen yet—just enough light to spill gold across the countertop. John’s already there, mug in hand, back leaning against the sink like he’s been up for hours.

You grin, rubbing your eyes. “Hey, sweetheart.”

He looks at you like the word physically hits him. His jaw tics and his eyes target you, “You shouldn’t call me that.” He sets his drink down and just like every other morning he spins around to face the sink and turn on the water. 

Walking all the way over to him you stand as close as you can to him and pour yourself some coffee. “Then stop blushing when I do.” 

“I don’t blush.” He jumps back a bit from the water steaming the sink that he just had his hands under not paying attention to what he had done. 

You laugh, and it’s unfair how easily it cuts through his defenses. He looks away. The silence sits thick for a beat. But then you notice the half lidded eyes, the still in pajamas outfit, and the fact that your coffee was cold, “You have another nightmare?” you ask softly.

He doesn’t answer. Just keeps his eyes on the window, watching the empty sky. You slide into his space, standing between him and the sink putting your hands on his chest, “You know you don’t have to stand alone every time something hurts, right?”

He swallows hard.

“You shouldn’t say that either,” he says, voice barely above a whisper. “You’re starting to make me dumb. I forget who I was when you act like this.” He doesn’t move he just stares at you with what little opening his eyes are giving him. 

You move your hands up his chest a little more—right over that old, angry heartbeat that still hasn’t learned how to trust. “You’re not who you were.”

His breath stutters, and you can feel his heart kick up a bit. “You don’t know that.”

You step up onto your tipt toes, brushing your lips just barely across his. “I do.”

He kisses you just as gently as you chose to approach him. And when he pulls back, he rests his forehead against yours, “I don’t deserve you.”

You smile, soft and maddening. “Good thing I’m not asking you to.”

Yelena Belove thinks you might be an Alien or worse real…

She pretends not to like you at first. All sarcastic quips and fake eye-rolls like, “Why are you smiling? Did I miss something?” But she notices everything—your laugh, your warmth, the way you care. The way you hear she likes music and makes her playlists, the way you give her different eyeliner colors to try, and the way you make sure she eats, drinks, and sleeps. 

You bring her little things. A weird trinket from a thrift store. A hot sauce bottle shaped like a cat. A donut with a smiley face. A pot that you sat and decorated because you had nothing else to do. She acts unimpressed—until you catch her hoarding them in a drawer like treasure, you kindly offer to take your trash and throw it away, and she simply says “Are you crazy? No.” 

She calls you annoying instead of saying “I love you.” “Ugh, you are so annoying,” she mutters when you kiss her forehead or help her fix her hair. But her hand doesn’t leave yours and she is always smiling at you when you aren’t looking at her. 

She becomes very defensive of you. The moment anyone makes a snide comment or flirts with you too aggressively, Yelena’s voice gets dangerously calm. “Say that again. Slowly. So I can break the right fingers.” And she makes you stand behind her and hold her hand, not because you can’t fight for yourself but you shouldn’t have to. You also do not match so she needs to make sure everyone knows who you are with. 

You sneak softness into her life. She goes from “I do not need flowers” to “I kill anyone who touches this pressed daisy in my journal” real fast. Especially if you gave it to her. She also loves when you make her things special, like inside she gets all giddy.

She gets flustered when you compliment her. “You’re so pretty it makes my chest hurt,” you sigh. She immediately chokes on her drink and shoves a pillow in your face like “NO.” 

You make her laugh when she doesn't want to. After missions. After nightmares. After she punches a wall. You’re just there with a dumb joke or an armful of snacks and a movie queued up. And she hates how much it helps.

She learns what safety feels like—with you. She never used to sleep through the night. Now, with your hand resting on her stomach and your breath in her hair, she sometimes forgets the world exists.

She lets you fix her up. Cuts, bruises, bullet wounds—she lets you clean them, grumbling like a wounded animal but never pulling away. Sometimes she kisses you when you're concentrated, just to feel your love in real time.

She falls in love before she realizes it. One day, she looks over at you singing to your plants in a hoodie that’s way too big, and it just hits her. “Oh no,” she whispers. “I would actually kill for her.”

🥀 you talk too much and i like it 

“You talk too much,” Yelena mutters, leaning back on your couch while you animatedly explain the plot of Criminal Minds. Though she is finding it amusingly disturbing she can’t help but comment. 

You pause mid-rant. “Excuse me?” You plop down on the couch practically sitting on her lap as you do so. 

She raises an eyebrow. “You do. You talk too much. About everything. Movies. Animals. Crime. It is like listening to a podcast that smiles at you. Yelena puts her hand on your leg absentmindedly as she scrolls on her phone. 

You cross your arms, pretending to pout. “Fine. I’ll shut up.” You are now staring right at the TV not saying a word anymore. You completely ignore her hand and you don’t say anything about her makeup. 

Silence falls for a beat. Then her voice softens. “Don’t.” You look over. She’s not watching the TV or her phone  anymore—she’s watching you. Like the world’s already on fire and you’re the only thing not burning.

“I like your voice,” she says. Barely above a whisper. She clicked the TV down a few volume ticks and throws her phone onto the floor. 

You blink.

“I like the way you talk when you think no one’s really listening. I like the way you ramble. I like…” She swallows, jaw tight. “I like you.” You throw your arms down and then move her hand throwing it back at her as you climb onto her lap. 

You put your thighs outside of hers and put your hands around the back of her neck. “Even when I sing to myself?”

She groans, tossing her head backwards. “Ugh, especially then. You are so weird.” Her hands find their way around your waist pulling you close.  But she looks up and you look down slowly you bring your face closer to hers until you are barely kissing. Because sunshine like you? It’s the first real warmth she’s ever known.

Bob Reynolds feels like it is rain hitting gold…

He doesn’t understand you at first. You bring him coffee with a little heart drawn in the foam. You bring a second mug just in case he doesn’t like the first one. You say things like “Have you eaten today?” with that sunny curiosity that makes it feel like a love letter, not a chore. He stares at you for a solid thirty seconds before answering—because no one’s asked that in years. Everything you ask him about himself is so strange to him because you really care about his day, how he feels, if he feels like he can take care of himself, if he has taken care of himself, and what he wants to do. All of that matters to you. 

He thinks you’re too good for him. He watches you dance in the kitchen to the radio as you help him clean up, barefoot and glowing in the golden light of afternoon, and all he can think is don’t touch it, you’ll ruin it. He stands in doorways and doesn’t step forward. He watches more than he speaks. Not because he doesn’t want to—but because he doesn’t believe the light will let him stay. 

 You catch him crying over small things. You offer him your scarf when he forgets his coat. You make a point to fold his sweaters so they don’t lose their shape. You hum when you brush your teeth. It’s these things. The tiny soft normalities that gut him open. That whisper, you’re allowed to do those things with her. 

He touches you like you’re a miracle. At first it’s hesitant—just a hand grazing yours, his shoulder leaning into your side on the couch. But when you kiss him, really kiss him, his hands shake. He cups the back of your head like he’s afraid you’ll vanish. He pulls you into his lap like he needs the weight of you to stay grounded. You get so excited and you are so happy to touch him and feel how warm he is. 

 He watches you sleep to remind himself this is real. Sometimes he doesn’t sleep at all. He just lies beside you with his hand gently curled over your hip, counting your breaths like prayers. You drool a little. Snore softly. And he still thinks it’s the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen. 

You make him laugh like a boy again - You tell the worst jokes imaginable and wait for his reaction with this eager little smile that kills him. The first time he laughs, you don’t even register how monumental it is. But he does. He excuses himself to the bathroom and stares at himself in the mirror for ten minutes, hand over his mouth like holy shit.

He tells you about the Void in fragments. It starts with a bad night. He says, “There’s something inside me.” Then: “It’s not always under control.” Then: “It wants to hurt everything I love.” When you hold his hand through it, he cries like a man unworthy of forgiveness. But you don’t let go.

You learn how to pull him out of the dark. It’s not with screaming or logic. It’s with little things. You name five things in the room. You tell him where you are. You sit with your knees touching and say, “You’re here, Bob. Right now. With me. Not there.” And it works, sometimes. Not always—but enough. When it doesn’t work that way you go on runs with him, you take him on drives, and you stay up all night with him. 

He tries to leave you. He writes a letter. He packs a bag. He almost disappears. But you find him—always. Sitting in a motel off some highway, pacing in a parking lot, crouched in an alley like he’s back in a war he can’t name. You find him, and you don’t say why did you run. You say, “Are you ready to come home now?”

He’s terrified of being loved fully. Because love means vulnerability. Means closeness. Means you see him. And if you see him, then you’ll see the rot. But when he panics, when he spirals, when he screams that he’s not safe to be around—you cup his face, brush back his hair, and whisper, “I don’t need perfect. I just need you.”

 You teach him softness. You show him that being held isn’t the same as being restrained. That being needed isn’t a burden. That crying in front of someone doesn’t mean weakness—it means trust. And one day, without even realizing it, he smiles first.

🥀 sanctuary

The walls are shaking. Not physically—but inside his skull, he can feel the vibrations and it hurts. Inside the Void, where the air is thick and wrong, where the voices hiss about destruction and obliteration and how dare you let this happen—

He is sitting in the freezing cold outside on the concrete stairs on the library, he is not tired, he is not even feeling human at this point. He can no longer hear the buzzing of the streetlights or the sound of the cars fighting for one side of the road where the road work is not. But then there’s a light. Your voice. Soft and steady.

“Bob.”

He can’t answer. His throat is locked. His hands twitch. You kneel in front of him, legs folded beneath you, your hands reaching for his like it’s the most natural thing in the world. He is freezing, his hands do not even feel like they have skin they are so solid. “Come back. Come here. Come home.”

“I can’t,” he chokes on his own spit, he forgot to swallow, he can barely hear you.  “I—I’m not—I’m not safe. I could hurt you. I could—”

“You won’t,” you say. No fear. No flinching. Just absolute conviction. You feel so bad, he usually does not suffer like this, in fact he had been good for months. But like he was addicted to drugs his brain is addicted to this and he has no control. “Not with me.”

He lets out a sob and tries to pull away—but you follow. You always follow. Your forehead touches his, and your thumbs swipe the tears from his cheeks letting his shaky hands sit wherever he lets them lay as you whisper:

“You’re not the monster in the dark, baby. You’re the boy who came back to the light.”

And that breaks him. He curls into your shoulder hugging you, even his clothes feel like ice. He clings like a man drowning. Bob starts to realize that he can barely feel his own body, but he can think and he is truly so happy you are there with him. He keeps his face in your  should as you rub his back and push your head against his, whispering, “You’re safe. You’re safe. You’re mine.”

And for the first time in years, the Void goes quiet.

Ava Starr believes you have changed her whole orbit…

At first, she doesn't trust the sunshine. You smile too easily. You're gentle in a way that makes her skin itch with confusion. People like you—happy people, softpeople—usually get swallowed by the world she lives in. So she assumes it's fake. It has to be. But it’s not. You just... are.

She keeps waiting for the mask to drop. Ava tracks you, like a threat. Watches your body language for signs of manipulation. Keeps mental notes on every kindness you show her. But weeks pass, and it’s always the same: soft eyes, warm hands, a voice like safety. She realizes one day that you never were wearing a mask. You’re just light. Real light. And that’s somehow scarier.

She tries to push you away with sharp edges. “Don’t get close to me,” she says. “I’m not safe.” You grin. “Neither is the sun, but here we are.” It’s the first time she blushes in years.

She doesn’t know what to do when you fuss over her. You put lotion in her bag because you noticed her hands crack in the cold. You bring her tea and sit with her in silence after missions. You brush her hair away from her eyes during bad days. She stares at you like you’re speaking a foreign language. Like no one has ever cared for her without needing something in return. And you don’t. You just do it. Because you love her.

 You’re the only one who can touch her without flinching. Ava’s afraid of what her phasing will do—afraid of hurting you. But you cup her face gently, pressing your forehead to hers, whispering: "I trust you. I trust your control." And she doesn’t cry—but she does shake. A quiet surrender.

You give her a place to land. When the pain gets too loud, when the ghost-scream of her molecules starts shredding her calm, she finds you. She doesn’t even need to speak—you just open your arms, and she’s home. She can phase through walls but never through you. You ground her like gravity.

She protects you with a terrifying ferocity. Someone raises their voice at you once—and Ava is instantly on them. No words. No warning. Just a look that promises blood and consequences. It’s not a bluff, either. You're the one who has to tug her back and say softly, “It’s okay, baby. I’m okay.” (But you secretly like it.)

 She learns how to soften for you. She’s not good with affection at first—her hands hesitate, her voice comes out clipped. But she learns. Learns to hold your waist when you’re cooking, to rub your back when you’re anxious, to whisper “I missed you” into your collarbone like it costs her something to admit it. But she does. She admits it. Because you’re worth the burn.

You’re the first person she lets see her scars. She shows you the damage. The places her body never fully healed. The marks from machines, from labs, from the life she never asked for. You press kisses to each one. “This one means you survived,” you say. “This one too. All of them.” And for the first time, they feel beautiful.

She plans a future with you—but can’t say it out loud. She thinks about what it would mean to build a life, not just survive one. She pictures a little apartment with books you leave open on the couch, toothbrushes side-by-side, you dancing in her hoodie to awful music while coffee brews. She can’t say it yet—but she wants it. God, she wants it.

You tell her she's not broken—and she almost believes you. You say it like a promise: “You are not your pain, Ava. You are not a weapon. You are a woman who lived through hell and still chose to love.” She closes her eyes and leans into your shoulder. “I don’t know if I believe that yet.” “That’s okay,” you whisper. “I believe it enough for both of us.”

🥀 phase 

You wake to the hum of the quantum static. Ava’s back is arched, breath ragged, hands clenching the edge of the mattress like she’s barely holding herself together. Light pulses under her skin—white-hot and wrong—as she phases in and out of reality.

You don’t scream. Don’t flinch. You sit up slowly, crawl to her side, and whisper: “You’re okay. I’m here.”

She tries to pull away. “No—get out—get away from me—I can’t control—” You wrap your arms around her waist and press your face to her spine.

“I trust you,” you say. She lets out a sob like a wounded animal. Her body shakes. Her phasing slows. The light dims. Your warmth seeps into her chest, and she slumps back against you like it’s all she’s been waiting for.

“I didn’t mean to wake you,” she mumbles brokenly.

“I don’t care,” you whisper. “You’re not alone.”

She clutches your hand, fingers trembling, and for the first time in weeks, her body stays whole.

Bucky Barnes thinks you have the smile he will always chase…

He does not understand why you care about him. Not really. Not yet. Bucky Barnes is used to people fearing him or needing him. Used to being either a weapon or a tragedy. When you show up with that light in your eyes and a handmade lunch in your bag for him, smiling like he’s something good, he can’t compute it. “You always bring me stuff,” he mutters, picking at the corner of your container. “Even when I’m an asshole.” “And you always eat it,” you tease. “Even when you’re trying not to smile.” The corner of his mouth twitches. He doesn’t smile, not really. Not yet. But his hands stop shaking.

He never grew up learning how to deal with gentleness. Bucky knows how to take a punch. Knows how to survive brainwashing, torture, decades of guilt. But he doesn’t know what to do when you crawl into his lap, pepper kisses along his stubbled jaw, and whisper, “Hi, handsome.” He freezes. Every time. You can feel the tension running through him like a high-tension wire. Not fear. Just disbelief. Like he thinks he’ll wake up and you’ll be gone. “Relax, Buck,” you say, pressing your hand to his chest. “I’m here.” He’ll press his forehead against yours like it’s a prayer. And breathe, slow and shaky.

He’s gentle in ways he doesn’t even realize. He stands on the street side when you walk. Sleeps closest to the door in hotels. Keeps his vibranium hand curled behind your back in public, silently shielding you. It’s in the way he opens your car door and then pretends he didn’t. In how he silently memorizes your coffee order after you say it once. In private? He touches you like you're porcelain and he’s still learning how to use his hands again. You make him slow down. Let him feel. Let him choose.

 He’s scared to sleep next to you at first. Not because he doesn’t want to. But because he’s had too many nights waking up in cold sweats, fists clenched, not knowing where—or who—he is. The idea of hurting you, even by accident, keeps him curled on the couch for weeks. But one night, you find him mid-nightmare. He’s on his knees, breathing ragged, eyes wild with Winter Soldier panic. You kneel in front of him, press your hand to his cheek. “You’re here. You’re safe. You’re Bucky. And I love you.” He crumbles. Arms around your waist, face buried in your chest like he’s five seconds from shattering. After that, he sleeps in your bed every night.

 He’s constantly looking at you like you’re not real. In the morning light, when you’re brushing your teeth in his t-shirt. When you fall asleep in his lap while watching reruns. When you kiss his shoulder absentmindedly while reading a book. There’s a look he gets—faraway, reverent. Like he’s staring at something too good for him. Like he’s waiting for the day you realize you deserve better. You catch him one day. “You okay?” He shakes his head slowly, voice a rasp: “I’ve never been this okay.”

 He’s terrified of how much he needs you. You’re light. Ease. A sunrise he never thought he’d live to see again. And that terrifies him. Because he’s lived in shadow so long, it feels like the sun might burn him. When he pulls away sometimes, disappears into his own head, you don’t chase. You wait. You sit close. You remind him: “You’re allowed to need things.” Eventually, he whispers back, “I need you.”

He starts learning softness from you. Slowly. Clumsily. You teach him that he’s allowed to laugh. That he can tease, flirt, tickle. You start to see a version of Bucky who’s silly.Who hides your snacks just to watch you pout. Who writes terrible sticky notes and leaves them on your mirror. Who starts humming in the kitchen when he thinks you’re asleep. He’s awkward with it. But so proud when he makes you laugh. “That wasn’t even that funny,” you giggle one day. Bucky shrugs, smug. “Made you snort, sunshine.”

He lets you touch his vibranium arm—and it undoes him. No one ever touches it. Not like that. Not with tenderness. But you’ll grab his hand with zero hesitation, press your cheek to the cool metal, trace the Wakandan etchings like they’re something beautiful. “Even this part of you deserves love,” you whisper once. He doesn’t respond. Just pulls you into his arms and holds you like you’re the only thing tethering him to the ground.

 He learns to want a future with you. It’s small things at first. Sharing a toothbrush holder. Bringing home flowers. Letting you paint that little spare room whatever ridiculous color you picked. Then it’s bigger. A key to his place. Matching mugs. You in his dog tags. He doesn’t say it out loud. But the way he looks at you when you fall asleep beside him? That is his vow.

You’re the reason he stays. There are still hard nights. Still days when he wonders if he’s worth saving. But you don’t flinch. You never leave. You just pull him close, press your lips to his temple, and remind him again: “You’re not broken. You’re becoming.” And he holds on to you like a lifeline.Because you are.

🥀 the quiet place 

Bucky wakes before the sun finishes rising. The room is bathed in the soft gray haze of morning, curtains drawn halfway, just enough to let the light pool across the floor in long, golden ribbons. The world outside hasn’t woken yet—no cars, no birds, no sound. Just the gentle, rhythmic hum of your breathing beside him.

His body’s still tense when he stirs, like it always is when sleep lets go of him. For one awful second, his brain jolts into the habit of survival. He doesn’t know where he is. Doesn’t know who’s next to him. The phantom buzz of a trigger word rattles behind his eyes. Then you murmur something, half-asleep. A soft, incoherent noise. And you burrow closer.

Your arm, draped over his stomach, flexes just slightly as you pull yourself tighter to him. Your leg’s hooked over his hip like you’ve claimed him. There’s a faint line of drool at the corner of your mouth, and your cheek is pressed to his bare chest. Your hair is a mess. He can feel the heat of your breath fan over the curve of his ribs. It anchors him.

He exhales slowly through his nose, the panic ebbing. His heartbeat evens out. He lets his eyes flick open, just enough to look at you. Really look at you. You’re here. You’re still here. He doesn’t understand it. He doesn’t try to. Not right now.

Instead, Bucky stays still. Motionless. Reverent.

The weight of you on him is everything. A reminder. A heartbeat. Proof. He watches you sleep for minutes that feel like hours. His eyes trace your features—your lashes fluttering, the softness of your mouth, the curve of your jaw. Your hand twitches against his stomach like you’re dreaming something good.

You never look at him like you’re afraid. Even when he flinches in the dark. Even when his nightmares crack him open at 3am and he curls into himself like a wounded dog, shaking from the echo of memories he never asked for. Even when he forgets how to speak without guilt heavy in his throat.

You look at him like he’s home. He swallows around the ache building in his chest. Carefully—so carefully—he raises his vibranium hand, fingers shaking just a little, and brushes a strand of hair out of your face. The tips of his fingers linger at your temple. You don’t wake. But you sigh. Soft, pleased, safe. Bucky’s eyes sting suddenly. He blinks up at the ceiling.

“I don’t know what I did to deserve this,” he whispers.

It’s a prayer. It’s a confession. It’s all he can say. But you stir then, just barely, and mumble sleepily without opening your eyes: “You lived.”

He doesn’t cry. Not really. But something inside him cracks, slow and aching and full of light. He closes his eyes again. Not because he’s tired. Not because he’s slipping into a nightmare. But because, for the first time in a long, long time, Bucky Barnes is allowed to rest. And this time, he does. Wrapped in you. Wrapped in peace.

[superhoeva]

jack abbot knocking cigarettes from your hand because there’s no way he’s watching you kill your lungs like that. jack abbot making you talk to him, kid when you slip out of the room after a hard loss because there were too many times that he didn’t, and it’s still fucking with him. jack abbot bringing you tea instead of coffee because otherwise your hands will start shaking around 2 AM. jack abbot having to be held back by shen when a patient in chairs keeps talking to you like they have no sense. jack abbot dragging you up to the roof and not leaving until you eat the half of the burrito he paid $10 dollars extra to have brought to him directly because all he’s seen you nibble on was some hershey kisses ellis left for you two nights ago. watching the sun come up before walking you to your car, and not breathing deep enough until you text him home. jack abbot seeing himself in your willingness to bend if it could save the patient and hesitance to accept deserved praise, and doing everything he can to hone that shit. build you up and keep you there, regardless if it looks like he’s picking favorites. you’re good. great, and the gust of fresh air that keeps blowing him back from the edge…

[filletedfennysnake]

TOTALLY dinadan

Shary Boyle The Lute Player (2010) gilt and glazed ceramic

[iydiamartinx]

AFTER THE NIGHT

Pairing: Bruce Wayne x Reader

divider by: @cafekitsune word count: 1.1k synopsis: After a long night on patrol, Bruce returns home to find his wife in the shower. a/n: This is pure fluff, no smut.

The water was already warm, steam curling lazily against the marble walls as you stood under the shower, letting the heat soak into your muscles. A long sigh left your lips. Finally, quiet. Finally, peace.

Then the bathroom door creaked open.

You didn’t flinch—just smirked. “You better be naked if you’re coming in here.”

There was a soft grunt and the familiar shuffle of armour being stripped away. A utility belt thunked against the counter, followed by the muted rustle of fabric hitting tile.

You heard the shower door open a moment later. Then—

“Oh my god.” You twisted slightly to glance over your shoulder. “You smell like alleyway and sweat.”

Bruce stepped under the spray with a low groan. Water hit his chest, sluicing down over dirt-smudged skin and faint bruises blooming just beneath the surface.

“Active night,” he said gruffly. “You smell like flowers. I hate you a little.”

You laughed, turning fully to face him now, palms braced against his chest. “You’re filthy. I’m filing for divorce.”

He snorted, “Joke’s on you—I already put the mansion in your name. If anyone’s getting left out in the cold, it’s me.”

You grinned, fingers absently tracing the edge of a bruise blooming just under his collarbone. “Good. I’ll sell it and use the money to fund my villain era.”

His brows lifted, amused despite the exhaustion hanging under his eyes. “You? A villain?”

“I’d be great at it,” you said breezily. “Menacing, seductive, morally ambiguous. I’ve got the layers.”

“Please, if anything you’re more like a little thief. You steal my T-shirts,” he deadpanned.

You leaned in, lips brushing the edge of his jaw. “And don’t forget I also stole your heart. Look how far gone you are, Wayne.”

Bruce leaned in, crowding your space with the lazy weight of his body, head dipping low until his nose brushed yours. “Completely gone,” he murmured, voice roughened by the night, but eyes soft and unguarded in a way he reserved only for you. “Hopeless, really.”

Your smirk faltered into something gentler, fingers trailing up to tangle in the damp ends of his hair. “That makes the two of us,” you murmured. “Because it seems I’m hopelessly gone for you too.” You gave him a teasing look. “What other wife accepts that their husband dresses up like a bat and jumps across rooftops all night fighting killer clowns? They’d have to be insane.”

Bruce’s lips curved into a rare, amused smile. “Completely insane,” he agreed, eyes flicking over your face with fond exasperation. “We can share a cell in Arkham together.”

You huff out a soft laugh, resting your forehead against his. “You joke, but at this point I’m convinced we’ve already earned our own padded room.”

Bruce’s fingers traced idle circles at the small of your back. “I call top bunk.”

You snorted. “You would. But I’m warning you now, I’m stealing all the blankets.”

“You already do,” he murmured dryly. “Little thief.”

“So if we’re going by that technicality, that means you fell for a criminal.”

“Explains why I keep coming back,” he said, his voice dropping to a soft murmur as his fingers slipped beneath the curve of your waist. “You’re my favourite kind of danger.”

Your smile faded into something softer, more vulnerable, eyes meeting his in the hazy glow of steam and silence. “And you’re my safest place.”

Bruce didn’t say anything—not with words. He just kissed you. Slow. Deep. Steady. 

The spray of the shower beat gently against your back, the scent of soap and heat curling between your bodies as his arms wound around you tighter.

Finally, you pull away, flicking you gaze back up to see his were still closed. “Turn around,” you whispered, nudging him gently.

He blinked open an eye, suspicious. “Why?”

“So I can scrub the grime off you, obviously.”

Bruce arched a brow, but the corners of his mouth twitched like he was fighting a smile. “You just want to feel up my muscles.”

You rolled your eyes. “I’m your wife, that’s my right.” You didn’t even try to deny it. “However, you’re still covered in dirt and god knows what else—and you stink.”

He let out a short snort but obeyed, turning so his back was to you, water trailing down the powerful lines of muscle and scars. You reached for the body wash and squeezed a generous amount into your palm.

Then you began—working in slow, gentle circles, your fingers gliding across his back with practiced care. You didn’t rush. You traced each scar like it was a story only you knew, every old wound and fading bruise a chapter you’d read too many times to count.

Because you had. You knew them all.

Every place Gotham had marked him. Every place he’d broken and healed. Every inch of pain he bore like armor beneath the cowl.

“You’re tense,” you murmured, thumbs pressing lightly into the tight line of his shoulders.

He hummed low in his throat. “You try fighting six guys in a rain-soaked alley.”

“Maybe next time,” you laughed quietly, fingers still digging expertly into the knots along his spine. Each pass of your hands drew out another groan, low and guttural, like the tension was finally bleeding out of him. You felt the weight leave his shoulders piece by piece.

“That’s it,” he murmured, voice rough around the edges. “I’m firing Alfred. You’re in charge of post-patrol recovery now.”

“You couldn’t afford me,” you teased.

“Try me.”

When you finished with his back, your hands slid downward, soft now, reverent, tracing the path you’d just soothed. For a beat, you just stood there—your palms resting flat against his skin, the thrum of his pulse steady beneath your fingertips.

Then, you reached for the shampoo.

You stretched up onto your tiptoes, trying to reach the top of his head, grumbling to yourself as your fingers barely skimmed his damp hair. “Why are you built like a damn skyscraper?”

Bruce let out an amused breath. “You need a stool?”

“Shut up,” you muttered, finally managing to get your hands into his inky locks.

Any teasing vanished the moment your fingers began working gently across his scalp. His eyes fluttered shut, lashes damp, unable to help the low, content exhale that slipped from his throat. He melted under your touch—shoulders loose, body quiet, breath slow.

You finished rinsing the suds from his hair with quiet care, the water rushing gently between you as your fingers combed through the last of the soap. When you were done, you let your arms wrap loosely around his waist, cheek pressing between his shoulder blades.

Then he turned, his hands finding your hips as he gently caged you between his body and the slick tile wall. He leaned down to kiss you again, lips finding yours with the kind of aching familiarity that had your heart skipping a beat.

“I missed this,” he murmured against your mouth.

“I missed you,” you whispered back.

[damselneedssaving]

Love your writing! It's a bit heavy so no worries if you don't want to but I was wondering how the batboys™️ would react to the reader refusing to accept money from them even in a financial emergency because they're afraid of taking advantage of the fact their partner is rich asf (I'm a sucker for ✨polite✨ angst)

BATBOYS BUT THEY'RE DATING A POOR!F!READER WHO REFUSES TO TELL THEM AND ACCEPT THEIR HELP.

★ TAGS: older!damian wayne, older!duke thomas, angst, not poly, hurt/comfort, jason before he reformed, mentions of violence (not towards reader), small panic attack (not described in detail), anxiety, lots of comforting and love, it hurts them to see you struggle :(((

★ A/N: first ask, omg!! thank you for coming to save me 💞💞💞 i love angst, you are doing me a favour by requesting it, not to worry!! hope this is good enough <333 oh, and quick notice, but this is not at all meant to romanticise the situation depicted, please remember that not having much money is a real struggle that people go through and this work does not aim to diminish it

★ W/C: 3.5k (why is this so long—)

The paper on your door stares back at you blankly—no sympathy in its gaze, and certainly no mercy in its letters, all uppercase and practically shouting at you: EVICTION NOTICE.

You're sure the thud of your bag hitting the ground can be heard from multiple stories both above and below, but in that moment, staring at those two words with static ringing in your ears and the world closing in around you, it's hard to really care.

You think you spend a while standing there, just glaring at the door with no real thought behind your eyes, no real drive to your actions, just this void swallowing you whole.

It's almost hard to believe that just this morning, you were laughing and shoving the shoulder of your boyfriend as he teased you about something you can't even bother to remember. That just this morning, you were beaming and bright and shining all over as you joked without a care in the world.

And now...

Now this.

A light gasp coming from beside you snaps you out of your daze, tired eyes landing on a pair swimming in so much sympathy and pity that it makes you sick to your stomach, and before you even know it, the echo of your door slamming shut rings clear through the hall, paper all but gone from its wooden surface.

The next few days are a blur, spent either packing, or curled up in your bed with dry, crusty streaks coating your cheeks and a phone laying forgotten by your bedside table, arms too weak to pick it up and brain too tired to bother even trying.

This whole thing just came so fast, too fast, that you couldn't even bring yourself to keep the one thing you spent years trying to hide from your lover a secret anymore, not responding to his texts or calls to the point he shows up knocking at your door, and when you open it, his eyes aren't on you, but glued down.

Glued onto the piece of paper in his hands.

You take a second to quickly glance at your door, spotting another tape situated on it.

That motherfucker put up another notice.

Jaw clenched, you turn back to your boyfriend.

-> DICK GRAYSON <-

"Y'know..." he starts, tone soft with a hint of his usual playfulness, but, you notice, significantly watered down this time, "when I said you can come to me for anything, I meant it."

You part your lips to respond, but can't quite bring yourself to let any words actually escape, just like Dick can't seem to bring himself to lift his head up and meet your gaze.

(He doesn't because he feels like he failed you, staring at those two words without registering anything else as he wonders just how long this has been going on for, just how long has his girlfriend been suffering, while he sat there basking in riches and wealth?)

"I can help," he spits out almost too soon, almost too desperate, "I can wire you the money, pay off the—"

"No."

His head shoots up.

"No..?" he echoes, shoulders dropping and form all but kicked puppy. "What do you mean 'no'?"

"I mean: no, Dick."

Your hand goes up, fingers pinching your nose and head shaking from side-to-side as you curse yourself for not even bothering to answer at least one text.

For even showing him where you live in the first place, really.

"Why not?"

"Because," you force out, the word tasting bitter on your tongue, "I refuse to do that to you."

"Do what to me?"

"That," you hiss, gesturing in front of you as though what you're talking about is actually, physically there. "The asking for money, the begging for funds—God, Dick, I can't. I can't take advantage of you like that. That's not why I dated you."

"Dated?" Dick stares at you, brows knitted and eyes pouring out all the hurt siphoned by his voice.

"That's..." you trail off, shaking your head. "That came out wrong."

Your lips pull down, eyes glazing over before he catches your hands and refocuses your hazy pools towards him.

"Hey," he calls, soft and sweet. "You know you wouldn't be taking advantage of me, right?"

You scoff, and immediately, he lifts a hand up to cup your chin, coaxing your averted eyes back to him.

"I mean it," he says, firmer, "I'm your boyfriend. Your partner. I'm here to help. Money or otherwise."

"I can't, Dick. I can't."

With a tug, you crash into him, hands planted firmly on his chest as his arms curl around you, the warmth like a hammer to your shell, a crack in your dam, and before you even know it, the tears that were glistening in your eyes just moments ago start to spill over.

Dick's arms secure you, grip not faltering even while you soak his shirt in your ugly tears and snot, even while you squeeze it tight enough to dig into his chest through the fabric, even while you admit to lying to him for years about a situation that pains him so.

"Stay with me for a while."

"Huh?" You sniff.

"You said you won't accept my money," he continues, and you crane your neck to find him already looking down at you, "so accept my hospitality instead."

"Dick..."

"Just until you can get back onto your feet again," he pleads. "Just let me help until you can get back up on your own."

"I..."

"Please, [Name], I can't let you live on the streets. I can't."

And he means it, staring at you with such heartbreak, the sob you've worked so hard to keep down climbs back up your throat, sending you crashing straight back into his chest.

And as you stand there, his arms around you and his nose buried in your hair, you think to yourself that, just this once, you'll allow yourself to reach out.

-> JASON TODD <-

"Always fucking hated that prick," he growls out, voice all sharp edges and nasty scowls. "He looks at you like you're some piece of meat and not an actual fucking human being."

"Yeah... I hate him too."

Jason's eyes flit up, gaze narrow and lips taut. "Then why the fuck did you never tell me about this?"

You purse your own lips, words lost on your tongue—

"I can kill him."

—until he says something like that, of course.

"What?" you can't help but scoff out, incredulous. "Jason, no."

The paper scrunches in his hands, bunching up like some petty inconvenience rather than the words that have quite literally decided your living situation for the next who-knows-how-long.

"Why the hell not?"

"Wha—? Are you hearing yourself right now?"

When he only lifts a brow in response, you try for a different approach.

"I thought you only killed criminals."

"He looks at you like a criminal," he quips back, sharp and quick. "That's enough."

"No. You are not killing someone just because I didn't pay my fucking rent on time."

You cross your arms over your chest, stance firm, rigid, as stubborn as your will as you eye him down with a look that promises consequence should he choose not to listen.

A beat passes without a word.

Then—

"Fine." His shoulders fall with a grunt, but the topic doesn't fall alongside them. "If you won't let me kill him, then I'll just pay for your new apartment instead."

"No. No way."

His eyes narrow. "I wasn't asking."

You return the look. "Neither was I."

The moment stretches, the two of you glaring at each other with steely gazes and tight jaws, each equally as unyielding as the other.

(Jason thinks to himself that your glare isn't as fierce as usual. Like it's lacking something. A will. A drive. A reason to continue pushing forward. When did his girlfriend start to look so tired?)

His gaze softens. "Doll..."

Just like that, like his look is made up of some sort of soothing magic, your shoulders fall, and he catches you before you can go spiralling in a pool of your own thoughts.

"What's wrong?"

"I can't do that to you, Jay." You shake your head into his chest, voice all but muffled. "I can't use you like that. Not you."

"You wouldn't be using me, [Name]."

"Yes, I would," you grit out, squinting your eyes shut to force the sting away. "I would..."

He goes to respond, but you beat him to it.

"You've already had to go from having everything to having nothing before." You heave a breath, chest tightening with the effort of holding that damn salty water back. "And now that you've got it back... I can't take that from you."

"You wouldn't be taking it from me, [Name]."

You go to echo your response before, but it's his turn to beat you to talking.

"No, you wouldn't." You can feel him shake his head above yours. "I choose how I spend that money, doll. It's my decision. And if I choose to spend it on you, then it'll be spent on you. There is no using one another. I love you."

Your breath hitches, head shooting up to find his own already facing you, and his eyes are are so soft, so sincere, that you can't help the sob that lurches from your throat, arms looping around his neck and pulling him down until his lips slot perfectly against yours.

And as he stands there, kissing you even through all the salty water that coats your lips, you yield just a little more to the idea of getting some help from someone you love.

-> TIM DRAKE <-

"So that's why you weren't answering any of my texts." He lets out a chuckle, but it comes out dry and insincere.

(He stares at the page. All of a sudden, it all makes sense. The refusal to eat at places that aren't small cafes or local diners, the avoidance of high-spending activities like shopping at the mall or going to theme parks, the amount of dates spent just streaming movies at yours or walking around the same park a dozen times over. How did he not see before? How can he call himself a detective and not notice his own girlfriend's struggling financial situation?)

"Sorry..." You go to hug one arm, voice small and gaze smaller.

"Y'know you could've told me, right?" He glances up, brows knitted and tone soft, reassuring. "You can tell me anything."

"I know."

"Then why didn't you?"

You look up and wince, Tim's defeated expression stirring something within you, something small but no less significant than all your other emotions.

"You already have so much on your plate," you start, averting your gaze because the look in his eyes is just too much to handle. "I didn't wanna worry you."

"I'm always worried about you," he responds simply, "I'm worried about whether or not you get home safe. I'm worried about whether or not you ate, or got enough sleep. I'm worried that some day, somehow, you'll grow bored and leave me. I worry all the time.

"It's how I show I care."

"I know that..." you trail off.

"Then you also know that giving me one more thing to worry about wouldn't make much of a difference."

You stay quiet, and so Tim sighs, carefully going to reach for your hands and cup them with just gentle enough of a hold to give you room to pull away should you choose to.

You don't, of course.

"You know you don't have to go through this alone." Tim's thumbs rub gentle circles over your knuckles, his voice a grounding source that anchors you, keeps you from straying too far into the ocean. "I'm here for you, always."

He's always been good at that. Being there for you. Comforting you. Of all his brothers, Tim is probably the most emotionally aware. The most painfully empathetic. It's so easy to yield when he's the one talking to you.

It's why you kept it a secret in the first place. You knew you'd fold so easily the second he confronts you.

So you plead, "Please, Tim."

His brows knit.

"Don't do this. I can... I can fix this myself."

His lips pull down. "You know you can't."

You want to defend yourself, to tell him he's wrong, you can, but your lips wobble, and a lump blocks your throat, and your eyes just start to shake like a breaking water tank threatening to spill all its contents.

And Tim sees it all.

"Tell you what," he starts lightly, soothingly, "I'll help pay for a new apartment and keep track of how much. Then, when you earn enough, you can pay it all back. You won't be using me. It'll be like a loan."

He knew your reservations before you even told him them. Of course he did. He's Tim. Your Tim. Your sweet, kind, loving Tim.

"I don't deserve you," you say, and you mean it, so he pulls you into his arms and rests his chin on your head, rubbing up and down your arms in that way that just releases all tension from your shoulders.

And as you both stand there together, the only sound being your silent sobs against his skin, you think you can just about get behind this compromise.

-> DUKE THOMAS <-

He whispers your name, soft, betrayed, with a look about the eye that almost cracks your heart in two.

"Why didn't you say anything..?" he asks, and his gaze is all blue, all rain showers and stormy clouds. "Why didn't you tell me you were still struggling with money?"

When you don't respond, he chooses to continue.

"I thought we told each other everything. Ride or die, remember? We—we've been through it all, haven't we..?"

You wait for a beat to pass before finally saying something.

"You... you just looked so happy lately. For a while now, actually. Ever since the Waynes took you in...

"I—I didn't wanna ruin that."

Duke goes quiet.

(In his mind, he's wondering where he went wrong, where on earth you got the idea that his happiness trumps your own, that you weren't both in this together. Did he... did he somehow do something to make you feel that way..?)

A quiet settles over the two of you, a sombre atmosphere that even the most classical of musicians couldn't put into notes, that even the most tragic of tales couldn't spin into words.

In that moment, for the first time since both you and Duke were little, the silence is static, no understanding or connection cutting through, no seemingly telepathic words jumping from one mind to the other, just a void, empty feeling that holds you hostage and threatens your very relationship.

"Duke—"

"Let me help," he cuts you off. Then he lifts his head, and his eyes are narrowed, determined.

"Huh?"

"Let me help you. I can. I have the money now," he says with a will, like he knows his words will come true, like he's so sure he'll be able to do this for you.

"No," you shoot him down, "I can't do that to you."

"Do what?" he scoffs out, arms folding over his chest. "Accept my help?"

"Accept your money," you correct him, and almost as soon as you do, he loses the hard look, settling for something softer instead—gentle. "I can't use you like that."

"[Name]. Don't you think I know that?"

You raise a brow.

"How you feel right now: don't you think I know it?"

You purse your lips, and he keeps going.

"Did you forget already who I was before this..? Did our time together mean that little to you..?"

The accusation is enough to make your eyes widen, words tumbling out your mouth so fast, you can't even second-guess them.

"No, no of course not!"

"[Name]." He shakes his head, pulling you into his arms. "I know what it's like to feel like you're using someone for money. Fuck, I know better than anyone else." His brows scrunch, expression looking pained for a second before steeling once more. "That's why it took me so long to even accept Bruce's offer."

You rest your hands gently against his chest, and then also let your head rest against his own, those brown swirls drowning you.

"So trust me when I say that this isn't you taking advantage of me, or using me for money," he whispers softly. "It's you accepting my help. It's you letting me in."

You blink, lashes growing wet.

"You could never be a burden to me. Ride or die, remember?"

You do. You do remember.

God, you remember it all.

And as he holds you close, as he rests his head against your own in your once again, shared silence, you're sure you'll remember it for the rest of time.

-> DAMIAN WAYNE <-

"Tt. I'll have Pennyworth hire a moving agency and wire you enough money so that this is never a problem again."

Your eyes blow wide, brows shooting straight up to your head, and mouth opening to protest like your life depends on it.

But Damian is already moving away.

In fact, he's already got his phone out, finger swiping away at it with a speed that could rival the Flash himself as he takes step after step down the hall.

So you bound straight after him.

"No! Wait, Damian, wait!"

He stops, your hands planted firm on his chest as you take a moment to catch your breath, the lack of movement you've been doing the past few days making just that short sprint feel like too much.

Fucking hell.

Your chin is tilted up.

"Have you been crying?"

You flinch. "No..."

His fingers trace your cheeks, right over the crusty streaks you know are there, and you wince as you're reminded of just how filthy you must appear in front of him.

"You have," he observes, moving your head from side-to-side gently, "You haven't been eating either."

You purse your lips, choosing not to respond lest you risk another observation that will shake you to your core.

"Beloved"—there he goes again with that petname. The one your heart lurches in your throat for—"you haven't been caring for yourself."

(When?—he wonders—when did you stop partaking in the act of caring for your own health? And why did you not think to come to him, your boyfriend, for help in doing so?)

"I..."

His fingers leave your chin, and you almost drop it to chase the feeling of them before catching yourself and quickly withdrawing.

God, just how touch-starved are you?

"It seems as though I'll need to ask for a larger amount to be wired through than I initially thought."

Once more, you find your eyes turning into saucers.

"No!"

He raises a brow.

"No," you repeat, quieter, but still just as sure, "Damian don't, please."

"Why not?"

"Because"—you think you're shaking, but there's no breeze in the hall, and it's nowhere near winter—"I... I can't take your money like that."

"It's not my money," he responds simply, logically, "it's my father's."

"I know. And I can't use you to get to his money."

"Technically speaking," Damian starts, his head tilting ever so slightly to the side and his lips still the straight line that they were just moments ago, "it's not even my father's money, it's his parents', and both are deceased, so I see no problem in taking it."

When he goes to add more, he stops abruptly, brows furrowing, and for the first time since appearing at your door, lips pulling down.

"Beloved, you're shaking."

"I can't stop..." you whisper, and perhaps it's quiet enough for him not to hear, but you don't even think you're saying it to him. "I can't stop."

"Habibti." He gently squeezes your arms, and your pupils dart up. "Copy me."

His chest rises and falls. His breathing. Copy his breathing.

He means copy his breathing.

So you do.

When his chest rises, so too does yours. And when it falls, yours falls straight after.

It takes a couple of tries before you're in complete sync. But once you are, once you've finally matched the pace of your boyfriend, the ringing in your ears dies down, and the world around you starts to clear up again. You start to feel real again.

"Better?"

You hum.

He pulls you into his arms.

And your eyes flutter shut.

"Rest assured, if you don't wish me to this much, I will not wire you the money," he finally speaks after a long while of standing there with you in his arms, "but I will find a way to get you out of this situation through other means. Even if those means cost me everything."

And as you stand there, the warmth of his presence blanketing your form, hiding you from the world, you let yourself quietly sink into the comfort of his words.

[martian-astro10]

Solar return observations - part 6

Sun in 10th house indicates that you'll be very focused on your career this year. You could also start looking for a job, do your first internship, choose your major, apply for a master's or a PhD, basically anything that acts as a stepping stone in your career progression. Look at the aspects to see whether that process will be easy or difficult.

Jupiter in 1st, especially conjunct ascendant is the REAL glow up placement. This is the year in which your talents will be more visible to others. Check where Jupiter is in the natal chart to know where you'll feel lucky. For ex- if Jupiter is in the 5th house in the birth chart, then you may find yourself going on dates, partying more than before and taking more risks.

Gemini ascendant... this shit is so good, better than leo fr. You will express more of your extroverted side this year, this will happen even if you're the shyest person EVER. Talking to people, networking, posting more on social media, and just putting yourself out there will be the highlight of the year. You will also have an easier time making friends and people may think you're funny and charming.

Moon in 4th, in my opinion, is a stronger indication of getting married than any other placement, a lot of people around me are planning to get married this year and almost all of them have their moon in 4th. This shows a focus on family, you will want to spend more time with them and rebuild your connection. Any major fights that may have happened previously will be resolved.

Neptune in 10th can be a difficult year when it comes to choosing a path, you may have many options or none at all. This can indicate either over or underestimating your abilities. You should be really careful when choosing a job as career exploitation is something that I've often seen with this (Happened to me as well). If you're confused between options then try a little bit of everything before making the final decision.

Jupiter in retrograde motion brings good results with the speed of a fucking sloth, I kinda hate it. If it's in the 11th, you will get everything that you wish for, but just 10 days before your next birthday. If it's in the 9th, you may get that acceptance letter 5 days before the session starts, very "things happen at the end moment" placement.

Do not make travel plans when chiron is in the 9th house, they will almost always end up getting cancelled. I missed so many flights the year I had this. One of my friends who travels a lot for her job could not do so in the year she had this, like, a fucking war, a pandemic, tsunami, you name it, she faced it. Even if you do somehow manage to overcome all the obstacles and reach the destination....bad experience, you'll start hating the place.

Saturn in 6th can be such a sexy placement when accompanied by positive aspects. Slay in your career ✅, slay health ✅, finally putting that gym membership to use ✅, getting your life together ✅. I have literally seen people do a complete 180 the year they had this. Routine isn't boring, it's peaceful.

Mars in cancer and constantly sustaining physical injuries 😭😭, bro, LISTEN, I fell from my cycle and then this fucking car HIT me, and then I had to get fucking hospitalised AND GO TO OFFICE THE NEXT DAY, istg, I'm about to kill myself. I'm covered in bruises. If you have this, wear a space suit at all times, I.AM.NOT.JOKING.

Mercury in 11th is such an underrated placement, it brings good results in so many areas; education, friendships, networking. The connections that you make throughout the year will help you achieve your goals the next year, from what I have seen. If it's making mostly positive aspects then you will be in the spotlight this year.

Divider by @strangergraphics

© martian-astro10 All rights reserved, 2025

[disease-danger-darkness-silence]

Guacamole is the devil's snot. (I don't like the texture of avocado's don't really pick up much taste from them.)

All olives are delicious. I have recently converted to green olive acceptance, when prior I was purely a black olives person.

Mango is. Meh. It's whatever.

Hummus is the devil's chunky phlegm. I don't like chickpeas (and to the person who asked: yes, I've had them fresh, frozen, dried, and canned, and they all taste like warm ass to me).

I like more things made out of tomatoes than I like tomatoes themselves, but they're aight. I especially like beefsteak tomatoes.

Cannolis are proof that God exists and is Italian.

FOOD DISCOURSE: reblog with ur opinions on guacamole, olives, mango, hummus, tomatoes, and cannolis

[inlovewithquestionablecharacters]

John Walker X Reader: Code Yellow

a/n: hated this little fucker in fatws but thunderbolts made me feral for him (i probably have issues i know)

Warnings: smut, sex pollen (because i love this shit), penetration (p in v), oral (f receiving), begging, kissing, cursing, sexual activity, friends to lovers (maybe?), mutual pining, hidden feelings, no use of y/n, f!reader.

Word count: 3.1K (well that happened)

Oh, this was bad. This was very, very bad. The dust was fucking everywhere. If you hadn’t inhaled it—which you 100% had—you’d still be fucked, because it had come in contact with your skin. It was in you now, and you were very screwed.

This was a simple mission. All you had to do was sneak into the lab, see if any of the scientists were still around, and take them out. If they weren’t, you just needed to mess around with some reports and go back to the Watchtower. It was initially supposed to be Yelena’s mission, but once you found out it was connected to the Red Room, you’d told her absolutely not.

It was a touchy subject, and Yelena was more than willing to go through her trauma to get the job done—but it felt unnecessary to send her if you could go in her place. Yelena had accepted your suggestion, but not before giving you explicit instructions.

“Don’t touch the yellow vials.” “Why? What are they?” “Just trust me. You don’t want that stuff in your system.”

You looked down at your hands, eyes tracing over where the yellow powder clung to your skin. You hadn’t done it on purpose. The shelf had been in the way, and when you attempted to move it, everything came spilling out onto the floor. You were surrounded by pieces of broken glass and yellow dust.

John had heard the crashing sound, causing him to run out from the room he’d been exploring. His eyes searched for you, expecting you to be in some sort of trouble. But when he finally found your frame, you were just standing still and staring at the floor.

“Hey, you okay?”

Your head snapped up at the sound of his voice, eyes wide as he started to move toward you.

“No! Don’t come closer!”

John stared at you, his body stilling. The desperation in your voice surprised him. You were normally the cool and collected one on missions. Nothing seemed to faze you. But now you looked scared, and that made anxiety spike in John’s system. He watched you look from him to the floor and then back to him. He could tell you were trying to think, so he stayed quiet.

“You need to get out of here.”

“What? No, we—”

“John, shut up!”

Okay, so something was definitely wrong. Walker was an annoying person to work with. He was sarcastic and condescending, but you two always managed to get along. Out of the team, you were the one that least hated working with him. You knew how to handle his mean comments, and he knew how to understand your silent requests.

The way you were behaving wasn’t how you normally acted during missions, so that meant something bad had happened. Walker moved to get closer to you, but you gave him a wide stare, telling him to stop without ever opening your mouth.

“Tell me what’s going on.”

You sighed.

“I spilled some fucking powder.”

John’s face broke into a grin, lips parting to make a joke.

“It’s not funny, John.”

That stopped him in his tracks. Your voice was raw against your throat. Your body shook, and he could tell you were frightened.

“Sorry. Force of habit. Just let me come over there and we can figure it out.”

“No. You have to—” Heat blossomed in your chest, making you close your eyes. Fuck. It was starting. You didn’t know if it would affect John too—him being a super soldier and all—but knowing the Red Room, you didn’t rule out the possibility. You had to get him out of the room before the effects took over your brain and you did something you’d regret later. You let out a shaky sigh, forcing yourself to look at John.

“It’s a sex pollen, John. Lena told me to avoid the yellow stuff, so I got curious and did some research. They made it to help people get horny so they’d be able to sleep with a target if needed.”

John’s eyes raked over your body, observing how much powder clung to your suit and skin. Every time he looked at you, your body longed to close the distance. You pinched your hand, forcing yourself to stay put. The smell of him was overwhelming.

“I need you to get out of here. I don’t know what it’s going to make me do if you’re in the room with me. It’s already starting to become unbearable.”

“You won’t die from it, right?”

The question surprised you. You hadn’t expected Walker to care about your well-being. The thoughtfulness made your core clench.

“No. I’ll just be uncomfortable for a while.”

“How long is a while?”

You bit into your cheek.

“Eight hours.”

“Jesus.”

John looked up at you. There was already sweat forming on your face, and your skin itched beneath your suit. You wanted to rip it off your body. But not while he was still here.

“Please, John, just wait outside. Or go back to the Tower and send backup in a few hours—I don’t know. I just need you to get out.”

“I’m not leaving you. I’ll wait outside the door.”

“Okay.”

John made his way toward the door, pausing as you called out his name.

“Yeah?”

“Whatever I say—don’t come in here.”

John nodded and left the room, closing the door behind him.

You didn’t know how much time had passed. The rational part of your brain told you it couldn’t have been more than forty minutes but you felt like you’d been in here for hours. You're stripped down to your underwear, suit discarded somewhere in the room. Your body felt like it was on fire. The worst part wasn’t the heat though. It was the utter need you felt. You were so horny it hurt. 

You were laying on the floor, hands stuffed into your underwear as you tried to make yourself cum. You knew your release wouldn’t help dull the effect of the powder but you had to do something or else you’d go insane. 

You hadn't told John, because it would put you both in a compromising position, but you knew how to make the effects go away faster. It would take eight hours for it to leave naturally. But if someone where to fuck you…the relief would be instantaneous. You couldn’t do that to him.

You’d started to develop a crush on the super soldier a couple of months ago. Sure he was a piece of work, but your heart didn’t seem to care about that. You let out a frustrated groan, hand retracting from your body as you failed to bring yourself some relief. Your eyes snapped over to the door. You could smell him trough the fucking door and that just about made you go feral.

Walker sat outside the door, head resting on his knee as he waited. He should have called the team to update them on what was going on but he didn’t. A part of him felt like telling them what was going on would make it more real somehow. Another part of him, a very selfish part, wanted to make sure he was the only one you could depend on if needed. John had always found you attractive but things were complicated. His family had left him not long ago and he wasn’t sure he deserved to have a romantic life any time soon. But then you’d look at him a certain way, or you’d lean over his body as you went over plans and his heart would jump into his throat. He never planned on telling you before.

He was starting to rethink that now.

“John.”

His head snapped up at the sound of your voice. He shifted around, lifting himself up.

“John.”

Your voice was breathy, only barely dulled by the metal door that separated the two of you.

“You okay?”

“No. It hurts , I need….”

Your voice trailed off. John pressed his ear to the door trying to listen for you. He could hear you panting, small whimpering leaving your mouth. John's dick jumped in his pants. Quit it. 

“Please open the door. Please, I need you so bad. I can smell you out there. Fuck you smell so good.”

John's hands clenched into fists at his side, head leaning against the cool metal. He wanted to open the door. He wanted it so bad but you’d told him not to. So he didn’t.

“John please. Just open the door. I need you.”

“Fuck.”

The word slipped from his mouth before he could stop it.

“You told me to stay out here, remember? I promised you.”

“I was wrong John. Please I’ll be such a good girl I promise.”

That was his breaking point. The way your voice sounded so fucking wrecked, the way you were begging him for help. Who was he to deny you? So he opened the door and the sight before him almost made his brain short circuit.

You were on your knees before him, wearing only your bra and underwear. The moment he opened the door your head shot up to look at his face. Your pupils were blown wide, lips parted as you let out small pants. Before he could even think about moving you were latching onto him. Your arms wrapped around his legs, hand resting against his thigh. You nuzzle your face into his groin and his knees almost buckle. He tugged you off of him, much to your disappointment. You opened your mouth to complain but before you could John had crouched down, making his face level with yours. 

“Are you sure you want this?”

He knew you would probably say yes to whatever he asked you but he needed to hear you say it, even in your altered state. He needed to hear you say you needed him. Not because it would flare his ego but because he knew that as soon as he kissed you he would be a gone man. His thoughts would be consumed by you and everything would change between the two of you forever. 

“I want you John. I want you so bad.”

That was all he needed. His lips crashed into yours. You met him with desperation, tongue moving against his teeth as he opened his mouth to you. His hands dig into your skin, trying to tether himself to reality. This could be the first, and only, time he had an opportunity like this. He didn’t want to waste it. You grumbled something against his lips, causing him to pull away.

“What did you say?”

“You’re wearing too much shit. Take it off.”

You tugged at his suit in desperation.

“I want to feel your skin against me.”

John nodded, raising for a moment to strip out of his suit. It wasn't an easy task but he managed. Once he was only in his boxers he moved back to the floor, giving you a bruising kiss. He guided your body to lay down, his own caging you against the floor. Your legs wrapped around his waist on instinct, grinding yourself against his growing bulge. Your nails raked against his back as he bit into your lip. He began moving down your body, lips pressing kisses to every inch he could until he was face to face with your pussy. He could see the wet spot on your underwear. The sight made his dick twitch. John glanced up at you, his fingers gripping onto your waistband.

“Can I take this off?”

You nodded enthusiastically. John couldn’t help but smile at your reaction. With one tug he managed to get your underwear off your body. His eyes widened at the sight before him. 

“Jesus. You're soaked.”

You let out a small whine as his fingers moved over your folds. 

“Shh, pretty girl. I’m gonna help you out.”

John's head moved between your legs and you swore you had just died and gone to heaven. His beard scraped against your thighs as he ate you out. With every skill full lick John got you closer and closer to your desired release. Your hands weaved into his hair, forcing his head to stay where it was. 

“So good John it feels so fucking good.”

The praise went straight to his dick, causing him to rut against the floor. He would fuck you but he needed you to cum on his tongue first. One of his hands moved to your pussy, thumb moving over your clit as he shoved his tongue inside you. Your body locked, hips rising as your orgasm washed over you. 

“John!”

John continued to lap at your cunt, fingers digging into the flesh of your hips as you tried to squirm away from him. After a moment your body relaxed beneath him and he took it as a sign to stop. He raised his head to look at you expecting to see a blissed out expression but that's not what he saw. You looked fucking hungry. Your hands moved to tug John up, lips crashing into his as you tasted yourself on him. You moved one hand down his stomach, fingers tracing over his muscles before finding his boxers. You palm him through the fabric and he groans.

“Put it in me John. Want to feel you inside.”

“Fuck darling. You sure?”

“Please. Need you.”

Yeah there was no way in hell he’d say no to you. He lifted himself up, tugging his dick out from its confines. Your mouth salivated at the sight, core clenching in anticipation. John wrapped his hand around his dick, lining it up with your entrance. He moved in slowly, trying to savour the feeling despite the desparte need to fuck into you. You were a mumbling mess beneath him.

“So big.”

“Yeah? Like it?”

“Love it.”

He snapped his hips, causing you to cry out. Your legs wrapped against his waist, trying to keep him as deep as possible. John began moving in against you. With the way you were clenching around him he wasn't going to be able to keep this up for long.

“Harder.”

“What?”

You grabbed onto his beard, forcing to look at you.

“Fuck me harder.”

Your mouth opened wide as John followed your request. He used his super strength to keep you pinned down as he began to ram into you. Praise slipped from your lips as he fucked you, only spurring him in. Without so much as a warning your orgasm washed over you. Your body locked up again as you gushed onto John's dick. The moan you let out of his name was enough to make his release come. He painted your walls with his seed, body sagging onto yours as he did. 

John forced himself to pull out, much to your dismay. Your body was no longer burning and the ache you’d been feeling was completely gone. You’d fixed one issue while creating a new one entirely.

“I’m sorry.”

John turned to look at you, his chest raising and falling as he tried to compose himself. You lifted your body off the ground, moving to get up. Despite the exhaustion he felt John followed after you, rising from the floor. You had your back turned to him, arms wrapped around your chest.

“Hey.”

John's hand wrapped around your shoulder, lightly tugging you so you’d face him. You glanced up at him, brows furrowed. 

“Don’t apologise, it wasn't your fault.”

“Expect that it was. I knocked the stupid powder off the shelf. I made you fuck me even-”

“Woah, hold on. You didn’t make me do anything. I did it because I thought maybe it would help. But mostly because I was being selfish.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Jesus, you gonna make me spell it out?”

You gave him a shrug. John let out a sigh, hands moving to cross over his chest. He was protecting his heart. Even if he didn’t realise it. He was preparing himself for the possibility that now, without that stuff in your system, you’d be repulsed by him.

“I like you. I’ve liked you for a long time. And yeah i’ve wanted to fuck you for a while. So if anyone should apologise it should be me. Because you-

“Shut up.”

John looked at you, mouth open with unspoken words.

“Just shut up and kiss me Walker.”

And he did. He kissed you like it was the first time. He kissed you like he hadn't been inside you mere moments ago. Kissed you like he’d just taken you out on a date and was saying goodbye at your doorstep. You kissed and kissed and kissed until you couldn’t breathe. Both of you pulled apart for air. You looked up at John with the most love filled eyes he’d ever seen and he couldn’t help but grin down at you. 

“I take it you like me too?”

“Thought it was obvious when I was begging for your dick through the door.”

“Just wanted to make sure it was actually you and not the powder.”

You placed another peak to his lips.

“Oh no. It was definitely me.”

John smiled, tugging you into his arms.

The two of you arrived at the Tower three hours later than planned. The team had been about to step out to rescue you when you’d stepped out of the elevator. Your hand was grasped in Walkers as you two made it to the main room. Everyone's eyes snapped to look at you two.

“Where the fuck where you guys?” Yelena asked.

“On the mission.” John answered calmly.

You stifled a laugh, biting into your lip.

“You were supposed to be here three hours ago!”

John let out a small shrug at Bucky's outburst, turning to look at you with a smile.

“Guess we lost track of time.”

You repressed the urge to slap his arm. John turned back to the rest of the team.

“Well i’m gonna take a shower. Ended up working up a sweat.”

A blush coted your cheeks as John gave you a cheeky smirk before making his way towards his room. You watched him go, eyes catching on his ass. You turned back to Yelena, who was just staring at you.

“What the fuck was that?”

You sighed, knowing she’d find out eventually you opted to tell her.

“I touched the yellow shit.”

Yelena's eyes widened in understanding. 

“Oh uhg blah! That’s disgusting.”

You just shrug, turning on your heels and walking towards John's room. You were suddenly feeling the need to shower as well. 

[livelaughlovesubs]

Kiss kiss shy shy~

Dom!Reader x Sub!Anaxagoras - reader is gn

Kinks warning: teasing, making out, kissing, hair tugging, anaxa chest fingering, licking that thing off, cumming untouched, clothed sex, dacryphilia

Word count: 5.8k

I wanna make out with anaxa, that’s it, that’s what this entire fic’s about Also reader’s role isn’t specified. Can be another professor/student/someone else.

You don’t even remember how you got into this situation, not that it matters anymore. Only fragments of it remained in your memory, it started with him saying something along the lines of ‘I’m too busy to coddle you, if you’ve got no more questions, leave’.

How nice of him.

Ah, that’s right, your tight-scheduled boyfriend had to grade the exams of his students, and after a night full of sudden bursts of inspiration, he was low on time. If only oronyx could stop it for him, he might for once appreciate what the titans do.

That wasn’t all though. For some reason, you decided you couldn’t put off your daily dose of quality time anymore. Nagging him to take a break and spend time with you. It started with little comments, asking him how long he’s been at it, until it somehow spiralled into peeking over his shoulder while lingering around him. Since you didn’t stop bothering him, clinging to him like a leech, you two had to somehow find a middle ground.

Because what you craved the most in that moment was physical touch, you longed to hold him in your arms. In exchange for you to shut your trap, that composed professor would sit on your lap while reading through the essays of his students. Obviously, you were the one to suggest it. While you earned yourself sceptical glances from the scholar, he eventually accepted. He only enjoyed arguments on interesting topics after all, not some lovers bickering. There were but two rules: no talking and no excessive touching.

Therefore, you were quite content with the arrangement. His rather small frame was so huggable, perfect to hold and cherish. Once he settled down completely, you took a mental note of his weight, which was a little worrisome. Maybe you should dine with him more regularly. His posture was tense, probably due to your presence, so you held him closer by the hips to signalise you were comfortable. The warmth of your body quickly seeped through the layers of his robes, and he managed to loosen up a tad.

For the next few moments, time felt like it was passing in tranquility. Only the gentle scratch of quill against parchment could be heard among his steady heart beat and breathing. He could probably feel the pounding in your chest against his back as well, does that mean he noticed the slight disharmony in the rhythm whenever your eyes wandered over his features?

It’d be somewhat incorrect to say you weren’t bored. It goes without saying that each second spend with him was time well spent, yet it’s been hours already (incorrect: it has been half a system hour) and simply glancing at the soft sway of his fluffy hair wasn’t enough anymore. Your fingers twitched around his waist, once, then twice, before digging them deeper into his corset. Each time he’d flinch, trying to hide his instincts. At this point, your legs were kind of giving out as well. It cramped and tingeled, probably because the blood circulation got blocked off.

When your palms squeezed the narrowest part of his torso for a third time, he covered your left hand with his, and pressed down. About 7 seconds passed in dead silence before he placed his hand onto the parchment again, and continued writing. Guess you got busted, it was starting to get fun too…whatever. You sighed in disappointment, mumbling under your breath, “when are you done…?”

“Silence, we made a deal.” Was all he had to say, but he indulged you by molding into your embrace a little more. How adorable that his actions were opposites to his words.

By the time the first hour really passed, your legs cramped, and you whispered with an agonising groan, “Anaxa- my legs… can we change positions real quick..?” You leaned back against the chair, thumbs rubbing circles into his hips. “Don’t call me that.” He said, not even looking up from the exams, how cruel. “Sorry sorry, I meant Anaxagoras. Now, please?” With a satisfied huff, he gazed at you over his shoulder, about to stand up as he commented, “see? It’s not that difficult. Even the-”

To his surprise, your hands pulled him closer, forbidding him from leaving, and your lips collided. His eyes widened, one hand still holding the pen. Before he could retaliate, you broke the kiss already, chuckling, “got you~” anaxa, who was still perched up on your lap, looked a little flustered now, wiped his mouth with the back of his gloved hand, lips pressed into a thin line while he glared at you. “That wasn’t a part of our deal.”

All you did was smirk, face beaming like a child who just received honey cakes. “Come on, A-nak-xa-go-ras, let’s take a break. You are already done with that batch.” His eyes followed yours. You nodded at the stack of papers piling up on his right, the height about the same as the pile on the left. He snarled, hands now gripping the edge of the desk as he retorted, “No, i prefer to finish everything before starting something new.”

Suddenly he jerked his head back to the furniture, noticing that he accidentally crumpled one of the papers. You placed your chin onto his shoulder, and muttered in an apologetic tone, “oh.. I didn’t mean for that to happen.” Anaxa stared at the exam in his hands. Once you took a closer look at its contents, your eyes widened in surprise. Luckily, he didn’t get mad and replied, “it’s alright. He submitted a blank sheet.” You noticed as well, what a brave soul that student was.

He began to laugh softly, a hint of pride hidden beneath his voice, before the tone faded into something akin to amusement. Then he turned around completely to face you, thighs now clenching your lap. “You’ll stop chatting after I take that break, right?” You didn’t know what caused his sudden change in mood, but you got to thank whoever submitted that empty parchment. “Of course.”

One of your hand crept up to tangle itself in his hair at the back, stroking the locks gently, giving his head something to lean against. The other was still holding him rather possessively, not about to let go anytime soon. “Can I kiss you?” You asked, lips a breath away from his. Only now did he notice the proximity between the two of you, and his shoulder jerked backwards, putting in some more distance. “You already did.” He responded, a frown on his face.

Since you weren’t one to back down, which was quite a notable quality of yours, you pestered him, “then can I do it again, Anaxa?” His hands pushed your shoulders half-heartedly, a farce he didn’t know why he bothered playing, “you are using that nickname again. And didn’t you say your legs were tired?” You took the liberty of kissing the left corner of his lips, hovering dangerously close to his eye patch, catching the twitch in his jaw when you did.

With a cheeky smirk, you answered, “somehow it doesnt hurt anymore.” Anaxa pressed a hand to your temple, making you tilt your head back as he scoffed, “hah! Such a coincidence.” You sulked a little, yet it was quickly replaced by a satisfied expression when you saw the meek smile from your precious scholar. “You haven’t answered my question yet, professor Anaxagoras.”

He jerked a little, settling his hands on your shoulder and the back of your neck respectively. A faint blush began to spread to his cheeks, and he groaned, “don’t ask questions you know the answer to, it’s a waste of time I don’t have.” After that, he lowered his head, almost pressing his forehead up to yours.

“Is that so? Then you can’t blame me if I interpret things wrong.” You claimed, lunging forward to catch his lips in a quick peck. An innocent little kiss, without much thought behind it. He wiggled backwards when you did that, almost falling off your lap. It ended with you pulling flush against you, both hands tightening down around his waist. “Careful.” You uttered, accidentally pulling his ponytail loose in the process. None of you cared to look for his hair tie.

Now the proximity between the two of you were nonexistent. Your steady heartbeat drummed against his, loud, undeniably excited, and all because of him. The knowledge of that fact felt like a gentle breeze, maybe that’s why he didn’t shy away the next time you approached. It’s just bodies touching with an unspoken timidness behind it, not a careful experiment with the expectation of results. “Just hold me tighter.” He replied, giving your shoulders a demonstrative squeeze.

His cheeks flushed a deeper crimson the more he indulged in you. Lips quivering slightly after every close-mouthed kiss, paired with the occational tensing of his fingers. You wondered if your shoulders will bruise the next day… probably not, considering his physical abilities.

At some point, the distance you'd put between you two after each smooch shortened. The trembling gasps he'd unwillingly let slip whenever you pinched his waist began mingling with your steady exhales, enough to send shivers down his spine. He could swear your body heat was making him dizzy, like the most natural aphrodisiac there is, as if he was losing control over his muscles.

Up until now, all he did was stay still while receiving your attention. Though after he got comfortable, he began wanting to fulfill his own desires. When you gave him another half-backed kiss, withdrawing before he was satisfied, he chased after the feeling. The hand that was on your neck trapping you as he reciprocated your previous actions. Just more clumsily, more necessity behind it.

After a long while, he finally retreated, mumbling barely above a whisper, “don’t waste my time on patience games.” Being the one to initiate caused him to shudder in embarrassment, at least internally. He tried to conceal everything right under your nose. The only reason why it was such a hard pill to swallow was that he admitted to wanting this too.

“Games, you say?” Your smirk widened, and you questioned his words with a too carefree tone, “what kind of game did i supposedly play with you?” Thats when his signature glare returned, though in such situations, all it did was make him look cuter. “Don’t act like you dont know, you've been... teasing me. Get to the point so we can end this earlier.” Look at that, he’s almost pouting. Heavens, why did this man have to be so adorable? That little scorn and hesitation is simply too tempting to not point out.

A rather cheeky grin replaced the earlier gentle one, and you said, “I dont think I understand, I'm not as smart as the renowed professor, after all.” He twitched at the mocking use of his title, and groaned in annoyance, “drop the act.” Your fingers dug into his skin some more, squeezing his waist playfully. When he jerked upward with a yelp, spine arching at the motion, all you did was tilt your head to the side with a smile.

Anaxa almost hit you in frustration, and chose to close the little distance between you two, snapping at you, “you clearly wanted to—!!” he stopped himself, still too shamed to say it. Since it came down to this, he pushed off of your lap in a feigned rebellion, explaining, “fine, since you aren’t planning to do anything else, I can continue my work?” A part of him hoped you’ll fell for the provocations. Because he didn’t want to be the first to give in, to admit he wanted it.

With a rather heretical approach, you yanked him back for the second time today, booing, “so cold~ come on, anaxa. Forgive me?” He sneered, voice a hitch higher than usual as he spoke, “if you are truly sorry, show me with actions.” But as if his words went in one ear and out the other, you only gave him some small pecks again. He dropped his forehead to your right shoulder, voice muffled as he snapped at you, “you insufferable, stubborn—! I said stop teasing me!”

A lighthearted laugh reached his ears, and he blushed at how unfazed you seemed. It can’t be that he’s the only one losing his mind over this, right? “You are enjoying making a fool out of me, aren’t you?” His hand squeezed enough for your shoulder to actually hurt, and his gaze lowered as he begrudgingly admitted the words you’ve been wanting to hear. “I want you to kiss me properly. There, that’s what you wanted to hear, isn’t it? Indisputable proof that I want this too?”

Though he tried to appear as agitated as possible, the neediness written all over his face was like an open book. He felt something hot burning him from the inside out, the heat was evoking chaos from within, making his heart leap out of his chest. Exposed, vulnerable, and something else he was yet too stubborn to admit.

“So you knew all along what I wanted. Who’s the one playing games now?” You nuzzled your cheek into his hair, it smelled a bit metallic but also like something mysterious. Maybe a touch of mint too? One of your hands climbed up his body, splayed over his back as you slowly peeled his coat off, revealing more skin. He always wore so many layers, how bothersome. Nevertheless, your fingertips danced from the back of his neck down his vertebrae, before resting atop his hips once more, causing him to shudder and arch into the embrace.

Anaxa peeked at you by tilting his head to the left. When your eyes locked, you placed a soft kiss to the side of his temple. He grumbled, tugging his hair behind his ears, revealing the flushed skin there. The soft cling of the chain of his eyepatch breaking the silence.

After he calmed down a little, enough to let you make it up to him, you brushed over his lips with your own. Followed by you grinning against the soft and rosy skin, whispering in a low tone, “I just need to hear you say you want it sometimes too~” The vibrations of your voice tickled his skin, and he clenched his eyes shut as you finally pressed your lips against his.

The pace you set was sensual but demanding, a drastic contrast to the gentle caress you've been prepping him with. It seemed you both weren't too different in the end, nothing but a mess for the touch of the other. At first, it started off with what he was used to, just the simple act of connecting your lips. Yet there was something unusual about the way you did it this time, as if a storm of uncontrolable emotions were behind it. His intuition was right, as it quickly spiraled into something more intimate.

As if experimenting with sensations, you nibbled at his bottom lip carefully, teeth grazing the flesh as softly as you managed. The last thing you’d want is to hurt him, or for him to truly dislike it. Your hands tightened around his slender waist, holding him as if he might disappear any moment. The edge of overprotectiveness made him roll his eye, he wasn’t going anywhere soon, you were worrying too much.

When you kissed him more deeply, hands wandering slightly to trace the outlines of his body. Always so eager to feel him up, weren’t you? To let your hands caress every last inch of him, to get to know him on the physical and emotional level. You wanted to know where his every weak spot was, his favourite places to be touched, or facts not even he knew about himself. And he gladly let you.

But it’d be a lie to say he wasn’t a little overwhelmed. It wasn’t a problem though, he knew how to adapt fast, and simply let you do it. Going with the flow, wanting to see where this would lead him. Curiosity gnawed at the edge of his mind. That’s why when you suddenly reverted back to the previous smooches, he pulled back and groaned, “you are too much, ruining the build up like that. I might really just go back to work, then we’ll see who’s the idiot.”

You glanced at him with a calculated smile, still messing with him, “since when did you care for the mood?” He scoffed in response, acting more composed than he was, considering he was still gasping for air a moment ago, “what do you take me for?” Suddenly he grabbed you by your collar and snarled, “I already did what you wanted, it’s your turn to hold up your end of the bargain.” The motion caused you to cross the space between you two, and you murmured a little caught off guard, heart beating faster at the closeness, “easy now, whatever you want, anaxa.”

He must have been really fed up, because he crashed his lips against yours, eyes squeezed shut in shame. His actions were a bit rough around the edges, a result of his hastiness. While initially taken aback by the turn of events, you weren’t going to say no to a pretty boy, who’s sitting on your lap, trying to make out with you, were you? His right hand curled into the fabric of your clothes, and his other one gripped your shoulder tightly, as if his strength would suffix in stopping you from breaking the kiss.

Not that you wanted to pull away first, definitely won’t when he was acting this adorable. You cupped his cheek with one hand, thumb brushing over his bottom lip. Soft and slightly wet. Only your upper lips were still connected, and while whispering, you yanked his lower lip down with your finger, “aren’t you a needy thing? Didn’t know you could be so aggressive.”

His breath hitched at the bold tease, eyes widening, a stifled gasp as you pressured him into parting his mouth for you again. “Such a flirt..” The scholar remarked, knuckles tuning white as he held onto you, “you better don’t go around seducing everyone like this.” This made you arch a brow, and he dismissed it, “just saying.” You hummed, reassuring him, “there’s no one I would want to seduce but you.”

Soon, the hand on his cheek climbed to the back of his head, intertwining in his mint green hair. It splayed over his body like the finest silk, soft to the touch and combed. You gently massaged his scalp, cooing at him, “open your mouth.” When he didn’t oblige even after the short break, you wondered, “didn’t you want this, my dear anaxa? Don’t be shy now.” He scoffed yet leaned into your touch and replied, “don’t you dare blame me if it doesn’t feel good.”

So that’s what he was concerned about. If that was all, it wasn’t going to be a hindrance. “I’m sure it will, because I’m doing it with you.” You smiled, he could feel it through his nerves. A shaky exhale escaped his throat, and his gaze dropped down to the floor, all responsibilities temporarily forgotten. His eyes were half-lidded when you tugged at his bottom lip anew, but this time, he obeyed, the tip of the muscle leaving his parted mouth. Your voice felt so dazzlingly warm this time when you whispered, “good boy.”

Soon, your lips locked one more time, a gentle kiss as you both closed your eyes. It started off like a bashful greeting. He was quite rigid, and far too stiff. It didn’t matter to you, it’s not like you were going to grade him based on skill. You turned your head to the side, hand still holding the roots of his hair firmly. Then you tried to help him relax, letting your actions speak louder than words as you both explored the preferences of each other.

Nothing mattered at this moment. Not the cramp in your legs you lied to not have anymore, the ticking of the clock he barely registered, or the way he forgot to breath amidst this dizzy cloud of lust. He couldn’t get into a rhythm, and began to gag quietly, twitching at every drag of your tongue. You tilted his head back by tugging at his hair, explaining with a certain tenderness in your voice, “you have to breath through your nose, silly.”

When you kissed him again, you moved slower than before. Easing him into it, gradually speeding up once he got the hang of it. It didn’t matter how it was done, if it was correct or not. The only requirement was that it fulfilled its purpose of bringing a shared pleasure between two people.

He shuddered at the intensity of it all, the feeling of you touching him in such an affectionate way. It didn’t feel like you simply taking from him, no, nothing like a conquest, but more like him willingly bending to your will. Reciprocating everything with an equally potent desperation. Without him noticing, the earlier doubts dissolved, leaving behind a vulnerability that ended in heated acts of passion and quiet whimpers. “ah… ngh- hah-ahhh...” He simply couldn’t help the noises erupted from him.

What to do? His mind was going blank. That’s not good… his heart was busy pounding against its cage and now he couldn’t rely on his brain neither…? Guess the only thing left was to trust you, to go with the flow, and let his carnal desires take over. Who would have thought it could feel this nice? Such tender actions, featherlight touches, resulting in something so intense, he was basically moaning into the kiss…

A whine tore from him, muffled by your soft lips. His senses were focused on you, on the hand that was grabbing his waist, on the hand tugging at his hair, and the barely noticeable pain from the yank. Another shiver raced down his spine, goosebumps broke out across his skin, and his fingers bawled into fists, tears prickling at the corners of his eye. It felt like time stopped just for this moment, for him to enjoy your embrace a little longer, the comfort it all brought. Seriously, you were rendering him to a melting mess.

He got so lost in everything, swallowed whole by the thrilling experience, he didn’t even notice the hand on his hip wandering upward. It slipped over his robes, sliding across his nipples and dipping into the hole located at his chest. Starting off with a careful tap, since you weren’t sure how he would react. Some weird liquid stuck to your fingertips, and you rubbed your fingers together to take mental notes of its consistency. Since it appeared he didn’t even notice your actions, so deeply engulfed he was by your still ongoing kiss, you pushed one finger inside.

As if snapping back to reality, anaxa suddenly tried to push you back and yelped, but to no avail. His hands had no strength behind them, and it felt more like a kittens paws kneading your skin. He whimpered loudly, unaware of his own volume, “ngh- wait… ah!! ♡ w-what are you..?” Yet after getting another taste of your tongue against his, he caved in, he didn’t actively try to pull away anymore. Arms looping around your neck, shoulders raised to his ears as he gasped, “b-be gentle… when you- HnnGh..! Do that…”

Just what was that sensation? He didn’t even know why he suddenly made that sound. And why did he allow you to continue? This didn’t make sense, it was illogical, but maybe he gave his permission because he didn’t want to break the kiss. Because he was drunk on the feeling of you.

Isn’t that pathetic? To have his reason be overwhelmed by primal desires.

Ah, really, he couldn’t care less. If that’s how it turned out, then that’s how it is. He wasn’t one to act all self-righteous.

You whispered between the kisses, reassuring him, “I will, don’t worry, naxa.” That was a nickname he hasn’t heard before. Perhaps it wasn’t as annoying as ‘Anaxa’. Another shudder crashed through him when your index finger submerged in the strange pool, and you swore in a breathless voice, “I promise.”

What a strange sensation, feeling this weird pressure against his chest. It was foreign to both of you. For you, it felt like you were touching condensed water. Kind of cold to the touch, and had a sense of divinity to it. Maybe ichor would be a fitting word for this gooey substance.

Though for Anaxagoras, it was even more vague. Like a strange button that causes his brain to pour out dopamine when pressed. How weirdly pleasurable it was, he felt like his nerves were burning, heat traveled straight to his groin, and he moaned into the kiss, “mhmm..! Ah- I-it feels strange- haaah..” He simply couldn’t wrap his head around this… what to call. None erotic zone..?

Intrigued, you prodded at it, sticking a second finger inside, which caused his breathing to become uneven and ragged. When you rubbed both fingers against what seemed like the other end, he arched his back, choking as saliva drooled down his chin. “Mhmff..! S-stop… I- argh, I-i can’t..” Anaxa cried, tears spilling as he pulled at your clothes on your back, fisting them. You broke the kiss at his request, strings of saliva connected your lips, and you panted a little.

Which was nothing compared to his shaky inhales, head dropped to your shoulder yet again. “A-ahh… damn it.” His entire body was quivering, and you tried pulling your fingers out, though he stopped you, “n-no! Don’t… don’t do anything, just, give me a second. Please…” that little plea slipped from him before he noticed, and the blush on his cheeks spread all the way down to his chest. His nipples perked up, and he subconsciously tried to squeeze his thighs together.

“Of course.” You replied a little too fast, taken aback by this unexpected side of him. Seeing your normally composed and stern Anaxa, who didn’t feel shame under most circumstances, now rendered to a needy thing all because of you. How sweet, how lovely. And you adored him for that. “You only show this side to me, right, Naxy?” After a while, you muttered quietly, the hand once pulling at his hair now stroking them, soothing out the pain.

His glistening tears were still falling down, so you kissed them away, tasting the saltiness and the heat in his cheeks. His eyes were frowning at you, yet also sparkling with desire. What a complex man he was, and so, so precious to you.

“As if I’d act this shameful in front of anyone else…” He snarled, averting his gaze before turning back to glance at your lips. “Kiss me, now. You are more tolerable with your mouth shut.” You couldn’t help but giggle, answering his demand enthusiastically, “anything for my Anaxa.” While you busied him with the kiss, your fingers stirred to life again. Since this condition was so uniquely his, you still weren’t sure what to do. Considering what you have done didn’t hurt him, it will probably be alright to just treat it like a… Hole? For a lack of better wording.

With that mindset, you curled your fingers, wondering if you might find his sweet spot. He cried out at the action, nails scratching your back as you began your research. “Tell me if it hurts.” You whispered, putting off your actions for a bit, waiting for his nod before catching his mouth in another fervent kiss.

The fingers stuck in his chest hole moved around, igniting sparks of pleasure all over his body. Like electricity shooting through him, he couldn’t help but whine out. Shaky sobs as his eyes watered, all of this was becoming much too overwhelming to him. The endless ecstasy overworking his senses, the slide of tongue against tongue in multiple breathless kisses… His chest heaved with each sharp intake of oxygen, and he pushed his body even closer to yours, savouring every moment.

Such a debauched sight, and what a beautifully ruined thing he was, letting lust take over his mind. The short, airy gasps and groans he couldn’t suppress were cheering you on to do more, to make him feel better. “Ah- haah… nghh, hurgh-mmh..! R-right there..♡♡” Anaxa barely managed to form a single coherent word, eyes still shut while he eagerly met each of your advances. His body was moving out of its own accord, he never wanted to appear this needy in front of you, but his body wasn’t listening. It seems no matter how much he tries to fight it, he always loses against you.

You added a third finger, the once bluish green colour of that almost magical substance transforming into a bright pink. To think that liquid could change colours like that, how fascinating. Wet squelching sounds filled the room, and if you weren’t making it up, it appeared that his torso was leaking more goo than before. When you pressed and moved your finger against that one spot he mentioned earlier, he almost lost his mind. At this point, his pants were soaked, revealing a dark, wet spot, spilling precum with every second.

“HnNghh…!! ♥︎♡♥︎” Pitiful professor, weeping even harder at the added pleasure, almost suffocating himself on his sobbing as he attacked your back. Leaving behind red lines along your skin, melting with every thrust of your hand. “Ahh-hic,, t-too much… too- mhMm~! P-please…! ♡♡♥︎” Getting to listen to him make all those noises he’d normally bite back was way too fulfilling a feeling.

With that being said, you fingered that hole some more. Each move drawing out another cute reaction from him. Suddenly it felt like you were dealing with water, because the fluid splashed out with every thrust, dirtying his garments. “Please.. I-I.. really, can’t.. please…♥︎” He begged, grovelled, plead, whatever you could think of. Anything from crying for you to stop to urging you to go faster. It was just too good.

He got drunk on you, your touches, kisses, the way you made him writher and melt. It wouldn’t be an understatement to say he couldn’t live without this anymore, like an addiction that took its roots before he knew. “Ahhh—!! Haa-hngg..! Ugh, h-hic.. ♡♥︎♡” With a final wail, his body gave in to the relentless stimulation, and he whispered between the smooches, “no- nonono, s-stop, I… I don’t want you to s-see me like…. AaAhhHh.?!! ♡♡♥︎”

With every move of your lips, you were taking his breath away, and now you were stealing his words too. A broken sentence as he moaned into your mouth, tongue trembling against yours as he came into his pants, making such a big mess. The dark spot from earlier grew in size, nestled nicely between his spread legs, still unable to close them due to your position. You could swear some of his cum seeped through the fabric.

His once orderly clothes, without a single wrinkle, was now disheveled, half stripped off his shoulders. Robes thrown onto the ground, shirt stained with the sticky fluids that dripped down from the edges of his chest window. Such a lewd appearance, you would have never expect it from your proper and honest blasphemer. Then again, for some, what you two just did might be blasphemous as well.

For the longest moment, he just held onto you with shaking hands, little hiccups ripped from his throat. To be honest, not just his palms, his entire frame was shaking with the afterglow of his release. He basked in it for the longest while. Afterwards, he loosened himself from the kiss. Head hanging low as he slumped forwards, panting like he just ran a marathon. Poor thing really wasn’t build for physical activities. While he clenched onto your chest, seemingly trying to hide himself from your preying eyes, you slowly removed your fingers.

While the liquid did feel sticky, and it did cling to your fingers, it also kind of didn’t really stick. It simply came off, as if it wasn’t compatible with the human skin. Anaxa peeked up at you, his eyepatch hanging slightly off. His face was still as red as before, and the residual tears on his face were beginning to dry. For some reason, he had that annoyed expression again as he mumbled accusingly, “what are you doing this time.” You answered a little in awe, “look, it has such an unique consistency. I wonder what—”

With an obviously displeased huff, he grabbed your hand and stuffed your fingers into his mouth. Licking off the goo that apparently caught your attention. You haven’t even processed what just happened when he stuck his tongue out from between your digits, smirking as he declared, “you are making such a foolish expression, haha~” He sucked at you one last time, lips sealing around you, before he let go of your wrist and pulled the fingers out.

Despite him having stopped already, you needed a few seconds to get back on track, and when you saw him crossing his arms in front of his chest, you muttered as if something clicked, “ah right. I just remembered someone gets awfully needy post-orgasm.” Then, a chuckle escaped you before you could hold yourself back, and he immediately retorted with a rosy blush, “w-why are you laughing while looking at me like that?” Your arms snaked around him, just holding him, and he leaned into your embrace almost too eagerly.

“Oh? Am I wrong to assume you did that because you wanted my attention?” You smiled, that irritating thing you always did to mess with his already pouncing heart. Stupid thing, one day he was going to rip it out of his chest. “Irrational conclusion, I was doing it out of impulse, there’s no correlation.” Who was he kidding, it goes without saying that you didn’t believe him.

“Yea right, then how about you get off me and resume grading the papers?” His brows furrowed, and he gritted his teeth, “…no. I want more rest.” And you were back to where you began, teasing each other nonstop. “Rest somewhere else then~” Your almost snag the last part. For a split of a second, he wavered, before giving you a quick peck. Arms located around your neck anew, holding your gaze as he finally confessed, “alright, fine, I was a little… annoyed. So stay, and don’t move. I want…”

He stopped himself, eyes half-lidded while his fingers played with your shirt, trying to divert his focus or something. You waited, but still urged him by saying, “you want…?” Anaxagoras groaned in frustration and embarrassment, whispering something along the lines of ‘this is humiliating’, before admitting begrudgingly, “want you to hold me, okay? Only for a bit, then I have to continue my work… so you better enjoy it to the fullest.”

With a grin that yelled, ‘yes’, you followed his command to the point, basically cuddling him and smothering him with kisses. He permitted the attack, letting out a heartfelt laugh when you rubbed your cheeks together. Enjoying the aftercare as he allowed himself to bath in this warmth he never wanted to let go of, never again.

[apocalypsegay]

i don't think he clicked through

[bixels]

As gen-AI becomes more normalized (Chappell Roan encouraging it, grifters on the rise, young artists using it), I wanna express how I will never turn to it because it fundamentally bores me to my core. There is no reason for me to want to use gen-AI because I will never want to give up my autonomy in creating art. I never want to become reliant on an inhuman object for expression, least of all if that object is created and controlled by tech companies. I draw not because I want a drawing but because I love the process of drawing. So even in a future where everyone’s accepted it, I’m never gonna sway on this.

[chloesimaginationthings]

Today’s my birthday! 🎉

[soapbbox]

You know how in TFP Optimus can’t really remember what happened during his time without the matrix. Yeah. The sad version of this what if Optimus met cogless Megatron.

Cont from this, and this

[krysmcscience]

I have some questions about karaoke night, Alex Hirsch. Very Important Questions. Which I will happily scream at a poor hapless baby triangle who can have no answers for me, and possibly also does not have object permanence yet.

Follow-up that is I guess suggestive, but let's be real here, Bill's a fucking triangle:

Dude slipped right into his birthday suit, lmao

this is so stupid :D

Anyway, I don't care what anyone says, this brilliant individual knows what's up - Bill is absolutely way more of a monsterfucker than Ford could or ever will be, full stop.

[fatliberation]

anti-fatness is not just body shaming.

anti-fatness is discrimination. anti-fatness is having next to no legal protections for being discriminated against. anti-fatness is being denied housing, jobs, receiving less pay and promotions (legally) because of your size. anti-fatness is being denied access to clothing, seating, transportation, and other human rights because infrastructure has been designed to exclude you. anti-fatness is less likelihood of receiving a fair trial. anti-fatness is dehumanization. anti-fatness is being denied necessary surgeries, but not surgery that amputates the digestive tract with the intent to starve and shrink you (it doesn’t work either). anti-fatness is mutilation. anti-fatness is being subject to torture devices that bolt your mouth shut. anti-fatness is being told by close friends, family, and professionals that you are better off living with an eating disorder or other life-threatening illness. anti-fatness sells you starvation as a guaranteed opt-out of oppression, but doesn’t tell you that bodies will always regain weight to survive. anti-fatness blames and punishes you for failing at an achievement that is quite literally impossible. anti-fatness is a $90 billion dollar industry. anti-fatness is being denied gender-affirming care. anti-fatness is being barred from in vitro fertilization and reproductive healthcare. anti-fatness is being barred from adopting children. anti-fatness is being removed from your loving parents because they couldn’t make you thin. anti-fatness is intentionally starving your own baby so they won’t get fat. anti-fatness is disproportionately high suicide rates. anti-fatness is being killed at the hands of medical neglect and mistreatment. anti-fatness is the world preferring a dead body over a fat one.