#can I still say I googled something if I use duck go go as my search engine?

[pizzazz-party]

Day twenty six! This is the last request in this challenge. I was asked to do a take on a sketch by Stan Sakai. The requester didn’t ask for the cowboy hat to be added, but I really wanted it.

[writingouthere]

neighbor!Sukuna x singlemom!reader. In the aftermath of your apartment flooding, Sukuna makes you a deal that is too good to pass up. You don't fully know what you're agreeing to, but if you did would it have really changed anything? Reader POV

cw: Sukuna may seem like just a nice guy stepping up but really he's a red flag you're just too tired to see. It's hinted reader has not been treated well in the past but no specifics.

You hadn't known what to do when you woke up to the sound of rushing water. You had acted on instinct and grabbed your daughter from the room next to yours and stood in the kitchen, calling your landlord from the number on your lease to no avail. Your daughter was starting to get fussy and after the fourth attempt with no answer, you felt lost.

Your ex hadn't exactly been the reliable type and he probably would have just contributed by cursing and complaining about shitty landlords and even shittier affordable housing but that wouldn't have helped then and thinking about it wasn't helping you now. Single, alone with your daughter who was growing more disgruntled by the minute.

You hated to even consider but, there was someone who you kept coming back to that you thought could help.

Sukuna.

The tattooed man across the hallway hadn't struck you as the friendly type, but he had proved you wrong in the few months since you moved in. He looked like the type of guy you would cross the street to avoid, but he always had time to stop and talk to you when he saw you. He also always made it a point to say hello to your daughter and listen to her rambles, even when they didn't make sense to you.

Your other neighbors had warned you about him. Stories that included threats and assaults you just couldn't connect to the man who had taken you and your daughter to the aquarium when your piece of shit ex bailed on you both, again.

You had googled him afterwards and what you saw was pages and pages that included things like attempted, suspected and scarier words like murder, hospitalized and other things that just didn't fit with the man you were still getting to know.

The water was still falling and once your daughter started waking up, you called it and went over to the maybe scary man across the hall, who never scared you.

Within ten minutes, you found yourself in Sukuna's guest room while he stayed behind at your apartment to figure everything out. When was the last time someone told you, "I got it." You were always the responsible one. You were the mom friend, the girlfriend people liked to introduce to their parents. You had basically parented yourself!

But now, there was someone who told you that, "I got it."

So who could blame you for going along with what came next. When the next morning came and Sukuna told you that your super had come too late and the apartment was damage and you couldn't stop yourself from putting your head in your hands as your daughter happily munched on the pancakes he had made you both.

"What am I going to do," you groaned and you couldn't help but lean in when Sukuna placed his hand on your cheek.

"He said he would put you up in a hotel until it can be fixed," he said gently and you sighed. You envisioned the next several months in some shitty motel with no kitchen, sharing a lumpy bed with your two year-old, disrupting the routines you had been trying so hard to build as a single mom. No more afternoon trips to the park that was less than a block away. No more feeding the ducks with your leftover veggies or sharing pick up duties with the other moms at the daycare by your work.

"This sucks, I don't want to have to build my life all over again." And you really didn't. This was so frustrating and over what, a little water damage?

"Well," Sukuna started and he tilted your head so you were looking at him. "I do have the guest room. You could move some of your stuff over here and camp out until it's fixed. Pocket the hotel money, use it for something for the kid."

"Oh, I couldn't impose on you like that-"

"I wouldn't offer if it was an imposition," he said, his eyes glinting and for just a second you could see a little of the danger your neighbors had told you about, but then it was gone and he was leaning over you to take another pancake from the serving tray and putting it on your daughter's empty plate.

"It's not just for you, I would-I would feel a lot better knowing the both of you were taken care of. I doubt the hotel that-" he cut off looking over at your daughter, "you know is putting you up in is going to be the safest place for the two of you."

You couldn't believe you were considering it but you were so tired. You felt like life had just become a series of less than ideal circumstances you were forced to deal with just because you didn't want to settle for the wrong guy or give your daughter less than she deserved.

"I would pay rent," you said and he looked ready to argue but you held up your hand. He smiled, amused and gestured go on. "Just until they can fix the apartment and if we get to be too much tell me. We can tough it out in a hotel. We've dealt with worse," you added and he frowned before nodding.

"Deal." He turned to look at your daughter and smiled. "You hear that bug, you and mommy are moving in." Your daughter giggled and clapped her syrup covered hands.

"Temporarily," you reminded him and he smiled at you.

"Right, let's go grab the stuff you'll need while you're here temporarily." He went grabbed a towel and wiped your daughters hands while she kept laughing and chanting "move in, move in!"

Is it your fault that you didn't know that your circumstances were anything but temporary?

[kechiwrites]

gentle touch

könig x massage therapist!reader kinktober countdown day 5 (body worship)

synopsis: oh, the military boys were your favourite.

wc: 2.8k

cw: massage therapist reader doing bad medical-ish practice, body worship, light sub!konig, mentions of edging, hand jobs, a little oral as a treat, biting, konig being petnamed as he should (honey), size kink, hints at touch starvation, groping, begging, uncut konig, afab!reader, no gendered pronouns or language.

author's note: i know his dick hex code and it's glorious. mdni.

He’s your last appointment of the day. And what a fucking day it had been, ten hours that should’ve been eight, cinnamon scented candles instead of eucalyptus, a rushed lunch because a client had shown up early, not taking “I’m on break” for an answer.

You knock on the faux bamboo door, waiting for your appointment to allow you entry. When he does, so quietly you almost miss it, you open the door, only for your eyes to land on a broad, strong back, still wrapped in a dark grey long sleeve. He turns slightly, just enough for you to see the thin stubble on his chin, cheek and jaw.

"Hello! I didn't catch you undressing did I?" This time he turns all the way around and you are sure your swallow is audible. Hell, you hope it's audible, you want this dude to know just how impressed you are with what you're seeing.

"No." He shakes his head, rubbing his aquiline nose against the inside of his wrist. It must’ve been broken once before, if the uneven bump on his bridge is anything to go by. Why is that hot? That shouldn’t be hot. You eat up the motion, eyes tracking every twitch or movement of his massive arms.

“Oh…" you're ogling him. You need to stop ogling him. "I actually need you to strip down.” The words burn on your tongue. You must say that a thousand times a work week, but this time, when you say it to him, it sounds…dirty. Like a shitty porn set up. Makes your clean white polo feel vacuum sealed to your skin. He takes a step towards you and you shudder a breath, tensing until you realize he’s getting closer to the lockers to your left.

He’s huge, you think, and when he still doesn’t look up at you, content to let the strands of dark brown hair, nearly black hair, hang in his face, you figure he’s shy too.

Cute.

“And you can use the towel to maintain modesty, Mr. König.” You get the inflection of his name wrong, you know because you’d googled it prior, held your phone to your ear in the staff washroom and listened to a soft spoken German man lilt it to you. There’s a hard ‘g’ on the end where it shouldn’t be, and you apologize, trying again to master it. “König.”

“Right.” He murmurs, “Just around my waist, yes?”

Or it could go on the floor and I could rub my clit on your abs.

“Yes, sir. Around your waist.”

You exit the room, closing it softly behind you. You figure you’ll use the few minutes you have to get a bottle of water, or a sedative. Something strong enough to bring you back down to your customary professional detachment.

When you return, he’s where you expect him to be. Face down on his stomach, his head in the cushioned hole. “S-sorry.” He speaks, voice muffled by his position. The apology comes immediately upon the sound of the door closing and you worry his large frame has cracked the massage table or something. You peer around him, looking for any chunks of polished wood or loose screws.

When you don’t find anything you realize he’s apologizing for his scars, the pit marks of bullets dug out in haste and healed with spite, lacerations haphazardly stitched, then redone a second time with the careful, practiced hands of a doctor in no rush.

“Oh, please don’t be. We get military boys all the time. Nothing I haven’t seen before.” You murmur, and it’s a lie of course. Not that you’ve seen scars, of course, you’ve seen some really storied skin in your time here, being near a base and all. No, it was the man who was an oddity. Mandy at the front desk told you that he’d had to duck through the front door.

His skin is also ultra pale in a way military men usually aren't. Near transparent, the sprawling blue lines of his veins thread underneath his skin, and you can see yourself getting distracted tracing some of the pathways with your fingers.

He hums, and you hope you’ve put him at ease a little bit. You haven’t even touched him yet and the tension in his back is glaring. Anxious people tended to hold a lot of stress, anxious soldiers? You’re just glad he’d booked a two hour instead of the customary hour and twenty.

The oil is cold straight from the bottle and you warm it between your palms before you make contact. He’s warm to the touch, bridging on hot, and he flinches when your hands meet his skin. “Was that too cold?” He groans, but doesn’t affirm or deny it, so you figure it must just be the contact. Slowly, you begin with his calves, tending to and pushing on knotted muscle and tense areas, working out kink after kink, soothing his compounded aches. The oil smoothes down his leg hair and you must be going insane because even that is hot to you. His thighs are even worse, strong and muscled and dimpled in the sweetest places. He shivers when your palms glide over his inner thighs, and he clenches them together when your fingers brush the hem of the towel shielding his ass from your greedy view. As quickly as it happens, he relaxes, murmuring another apology. You hum your own response, and push your thumb into an adorable cluster of moles you see just under the towel.

By the time you get to his lower back, König is almost purring, his gentle breathing often interrupted by drawn out, guttural moans. Whines and whimpers that make your blood hot. He’s holding the worst of his tension there, and you have to lean almost all your body weight into the motions of the massage. His hips jerk up and then down just as sharply when you crest your palm over her shoulder blades, and you don’t imagine the keening noise he makes as he grips the massage table. You’re used to military clients being a lot more stoic but it seems Mr. König is most assuredly not the sort. You reach his neck, framing his throat with your palms and using your thumbs to rub firm circles into his nape. His breath hitches and you find yourself cooing. “Breathe for me, I got you.” The soldier’s hips snap downward again, this time hard enough to shift the table beneath him. Which is more than enough to make you pause. 

No.

It couldn’t be.

The soft music and sound of the water feature on the wall nearly drown out the curse König whispers, but you catch it, and can’t stop your lips from curling into a pleased little smile. This was just too good. You start to finish up his neck, brushing some of his hair out of the way so you can rub your fingertips into the skin just below his earlobes. You guide him to turn over and when he doesn’t respond, you wonder if he’d fallen asleep.

“Mr. König?”

He makes a wordless groaning noise low in his throat, laying motionless.

“I need you to turn over, honey.” You don’t even realize you’ve pet-named a grown man you don’t know. Which is just as well, because it seems to be what the soldier needs, and he rises from the table, clutching the towel in a tight fist to maintain his scant modesty.

You turn towards the side table, pouring more oil into your palm. When you return to face him, you witness why exactly he was so reluctant to face the ceiling.

He’s at least half-hard, a very noticeable ridge lifting his towel. You can’t stop staring at it, even though you know König is trying his best to ignore it. You circle around him, and begin at the foot of the table, going through the massage cycle again; feet, calves, thighs, arms. You zone out, following through your motions, listening to the man beneath groan and sigh his contentment. You reach his chest, spreading your hands over his pecs. They’re big, just like the rest of him, you think and it’s hard not to fucking drool on him. He’s firm but soft, still pleasantly warm, despite being exposed to slightly below room temperature air. He shifts again when you hit a stubborn knot right below his collarbone, and you pause to check in.

“Still good?”

His breathing is uneven, shuddering and laboured. His hands clench and relax from white knuckled fists.

“Yes.” he hisses through gritted teeth, and you’re worried he’s undoing every bit of relaxation you’ve tried to bring him. It’s painfully clear where the stress is coming from, hidden underneath a paltry white towel, the enticing elephant in the room. You put your hands back on him.

Still got 45 minutes left, after all.

You try your best not to look smug, and you fail miserably.

Every stroke and rub you perform across his chest makes his cock jerk and twitch under the towel. You can practically see the cloudy drops of precum that’d be beading as his tip. Your thumb nail skates across his pectoral and catches his nipple and the whine he makes is so sweet you just have to do it again. Soon, you’re barely massaging him, groping the poor man under the guise of your job. A weak grunt snaps you out of your reverie, and when you glance down his abdomen at that godforsaken towel, you can’t stop the quiet gasp of shock you release at his erection. “Ah, I’m so sorry. Very sorry” His flush spreads from his cheeks all the way down to his chest, a gorgeous stewed cherry colour that overwhelms the pale skin you’d worked into submission. His eyes are screwed shut when you can bear to drag your eyes from his cock to his face. His soft, pink mouth is pulled down at the corners, and the heavy, dark slashes of his eyebrows are furrowed together, creating a wrinkle between them you want to smooth out with a kiss.

“It happens all the time. Are you alright to continue?” Your voice is deceptively calm, serene and soft, when all you really want to do is snatch the towel off the battering ram he’d smuggled in here. Your blood thrums, and you ache at the sight of it, at the mere thought of the ungodly stretch he’d put you through.

You will yourself to keep your hands where they are, force yourself to look literally anywhere else. The faux waterfall ahead of you, the wireless speaker droning pleasant, melodic mood music, fuck, you even try staring at the dimmed light fixtures hanging from the ceiling. But every cry and whine forces your eyes down, tempts you to catalogue every inch of flushed skin and threaded muscle. You gnaw on your own lip, and find your hands drifting down, back around his abdomen. You’ve worked through the area already, there is no excuse to be down there, to slip your finger tips under the towel, to push your digits into the skin around his pelvis. “Is this okay?” You have the gall to ask, when you push your fingers lower still, and basically sign your own severance package. Oh but it’d be worth it, to get what you want, to make this big strong man sob with pleasure, to have his mouth on your throat while you stroked him to completion. The memory of his cock in your hand will keep you warm in the unemployment line.

König nods, turns his head towards you but doesn’t open his eyes. His hips cant upwards again, and his towel shifts, parting to reveal his angry, desperate hard-on. He raises a hand from the massage table, letting his mammoth paw land on your hip. He squeezes you, and exhales sharply through his nose when his thumb touches your bare skin, skating over your flesh underneath your work shirt. “Say it.” You mutter and his eyes crack open, just wide enough for you to spot the crystalline blue of his irises between his inky black lashes.

“Please.”

And that’s all you need.

He’s uncut, and the veins blanketing the length of his cock are visible under his foreskin. Pretty in a way you aren’t used to, a denser blush than the rest of his body, but still quite pale. It feels like your hand is moving in slow motion towards it, your fingers twitching in anticipation. The heat of his dick warms your skin before you even make contact, and when you do, wrapping your fingers around the root of it, your fingertips can’t touch. You press your lips together and try not to squeal happily, glee crinkling your eyes.

God is real and he’s an uncircumcised cock on a shy giant.

König’s erection is searingly hot. Soft skin and hard core, jerking in your palm, leaking steadily, nudging at your hand, insistent. Your brain is working full steam and connections necessary to utilize common sense are still not being made. Slowly, you tighten your hold on him, the weight of it is so imposing, you wouldn’t be surprised if imprints of the veiny surface were branded onto your hand once you withdrew. If you ever withdrew. You should fucking withdraw.

You do not withdraw. Instead, you slide your hand up slowly, choking up on the head of his cock before dragging your grip back down. You chance a glance up at his face, watching his Adam’s apple bob with each laboured swallow. The poor man’s jaw clenches and relaxes while you slide your palm over his flesh again and again. Somehow, he hardens further and your eyes widen impossibly larger, the pit of your stomach doing somersaults at the idea of where you want that thing to go, what you want it to do. You get fevered flashes of König bending you over the massage table in your mind, hands on your hips, rutting without sense or logic into you, so hard the surface scrapes against the floor, all while he sobs, his overwhelmed, overstimulated tears splashing against your back while he rearranged your insides. The head of his cock is exposed every time you slide your hand down towards his pelvis. By the third peek, you’re dragging the pointed end of your tongue over the tip of his dick, licking against his head, and coating your mouth with the taste of him. He grips at your side harder, his fingers digging into your hip as he chases the warmth of your mouth. He keens loud, almost mewling when you pull off him, using your spit to ease your hand’s path. By this point, your handiwork is audible, noisy and wet, König’s voice filling the small room. You use your free hand to guide his head to your chest, letting him bend toward you, press his nose into your tits while he begs for you to finish him.

“Are you gonna come, Mr. König?” You thread your fingers in his hair, letting your nails scratch against his scalp, drift down to his nape and up to his crown again.

“Yes, please, please. Fuck.” His voice is reedy and thin, and he wraps his arm around your waist, burying his face deeper in your chest. And then his whole body trembles, and his hips roll towards you, and for a fleeting minute you consider edging the poor bastard, sliding your hand completely off his cock and watching it twitch violently, uselessly in the air.

But he begs so sweetly. And his next session was already pre-booked.

The hand you kept on his head leaves his hair, and you rub the head of his cock with your flat open palm, jerking him off with firm, fast strokes. He bites down on the curve of your breast, and you’re grateful he still managed to retain enough brain cells to not break skin.

“Do it then. Come, honey.” You trill, feeling his tears wet your skin through your shirt. It’s almost instantaneous, so fast it’s kind of impressive. His body goes bowstring-tight, and he squeezes you so hard it almost hurts. Ropes of sticky white seed shoot from his cock, covering your hand and his spasming abdomen. You slide your hand up, milking just the first two inches of him through his orgasm, until he stops your movements himself, covering your hand with his own.

When you finally break contact, you stare at your hand for what feels like ages, thick beads of his cum rolling down your palm, sliding to your wrist. You extricate yourself from his hold, using your clean hand to brush his sweat damp hair from his forehead. You press that kiss you wanted to the space between his brows. Why start restraining yourself now? His body shivers periodically, and you turn to the sink, to wash your hands clean, clenching your own thighs together, his moans and sighs echoing in your mind. You turn to face him, grinning wide and cheery,

“So...I’ll see you next week?”

hoe, you are getting fired! at least you got a man outta it though.

support city girls who love gummy worms, reblog what you like.

find the rest of the masterlist here.

[geminiwritten]

i’m yours ; billy butcher

fandom: the boys

pairing: billy x reader

summary: you find out that butcher slept with maeve, and attempt to ignore your feelings by going m.i.a. and going home with a complete stranger, only to awake the green-eyed monster living inside of butcher

preface: this isn’t set in canon timeline, it’s basically just using the bit where butcher sleeps with maeve as a bit of a jealousy catalyst

notes: this man has a hold on me... and i feel like this got a little rushed at the end but i still kind of like it, please let me know what y’all think! (also, i’m sorry all my stuff has the same formula, i promise i’m trying to mix it up!)

warnings: a lot of swearing, the ‘sewer-slide’ word, google-translated french, sexual content, and some soft smut

word count: 5315

Things are good, too good, but you’re doing your best not to look a gift horse in the mouth. Hughie and Annie are happy, MM is content, and Frenchie is excitedly creating new methods of blowing up Supes almost daily. Butcher is… well, Butcher. He’s grumpy and brash, but seems to be feeling a little more positive lately, focusing more on recon and intel rather than running in with guns blazing.

For the first time in what felt like a lifetime, you had managed to go grocery shopping without anyone stumbling home bloody and bruised. Frenchie is humming along to the song that had been playing on the radio, carrying most of the plastic bags while MM carries one with you on his back. You were all in such high spirits that he had let you jump on his back at the bottom of the apartment stairs, carrying you up four flights as if you weighed no more than a hiking backpack.

Frenchie chuckles at the two of you as he unlocks the apartment door, entering first and pushing it open all the way. You have to duck a little, giggling and holding on to MM for dear life as he starts jogging toward the couch. He drops the bag on the floor before falling into the sofa, and you squeal as he squashes you.

“Hey,” you exclaim, still laughing, “what the fuck? Steeds don’t sit on their riders!”

“You want to ride me next, petit ange?” Frenchie calls from the kitchen.

You writhe until MM moves, standing up with a satisfied grin across his lips. You flip him your middle finger as he turns away, ushering Frenchie out of the kitchen so he can put the groceries away. You find the TV remote buried in the couch cushions, and just as the old screen flickers to life, Kimiko emerges from the hallway. She looks at Frenchie with a small smile, signing hello before her nose crinkles, and she signs another sentence you struggle to catch as your attention is called toward the master bedroom doors.

Frenchie frowns curiously, “She says that it smells in here.”

“Yeah, ‘cause you lot are stinkin’ up my fuckin’ apartment,” Butcher says, running a hand through his hair.

He looks like shit. His shirt is wrinkled and the buttons are fastened crookedly, his hair is standing up in all directions, and the circles beneath his eyes are several shades darker than usual.

“It is our apartment, Butcher,” Frenchie states, “it is the least you can after making me blow up my last two places, eh?”

Butcher rolls his eyes before dropping into one of the dining room chairs, holding his face in his hands as he takes several deep breaths.

Frenchie looks to Kimiko again before translating, “She says it smells like alcohol and sweat, and a perfume that she has not smelt before.”

“I don’t wear perfume,” you note, “every time we have to haul ass and run, the bottles end up broken or missing, so I gave up.”

MM raises his hands in defence, “Don’t look at me, I haven’t seen anyone but you lot in the past twelve hours.”

“Perhaps it is something we picked up at the shops,” Frenchie shrugs.

Kimiko signs again, and you watch her to listen.

“You can smell a stranger?” you ask with a frown.

“To reiterate,” MM says, “I stayed at a motel alone last night, I was too tired to drive all the way here after visiting Janine.”

“I stayed with Annie,” you point out, “is that who you can smell?”

Kimiko shakes her head, and your heart begins to race anxiously. Neither she nor Frenchie stayed here last night either, opting for one of his old hideouts after scouring the city for any possible missed traces that Vought could use to find you all.

MM turns to Butcher, “Was there someone here last night?”

“Why would you not tell us that there was a break in?” Frenchie demands, his face a mixture of irritation and concern.

Butcher sighs, “There wasn’t a fuckin’ break in, calm down.”

Kimiko pads quietly around the room, subtly sniffing the air around MM and then Frenchie before moving toward you. She inhales above your head and grimaces, before moving to the side and taking a deep breath over the couch.

You shoot up from your seat and stumble toward the kitchen, “Me or the couch?”

She points at the sofa.

“Butcher,” MM says, his voice demanding, “explain before I slap your hungover ass.”

Its only then that you notice the two empty bottles of whiskey, one on the coffee table and one laying on the floor. You back up slowly toward the kitchen, a fresh wave of panic washing over you.

“Someone stopped by,” Butcher mutters into his hands, “that’s all.”

You reach the kitchen bench at the same time Kimiko does, still sniffing like a police dog, and her face twists into a disgusted frown. You startle again, jumping back from the bench as if it had burnt you.

“Care to elaborate?” MM presses.

Butcher sighs, and you can feel a lump growing in your throat.

“We all sleep here too, Butcher,” Frenchie states, “and we deserve to know if it is still safe to do so.”

“‘Course it’s fuckin’ safe,” Butcher says, finally turning his head to face the room. “Maeve came by, alrigh’? Just her, ‘n’ she had some information, so we had a chat and a drink. Is that alrigh’ with you nosey bastards?”

A weight drops in your stomach, anchoring you to the floor as moisture begins to blur your vision.

Kimiko stops sniffing when she reaches Butcher, cringing and stumbling several paces back until she is beside Frenchie.

“You slept with a Supe?” MM gasps.

Butcher huffs and pushes himself up from the chair, “No fuckin’ privacy with you lot, is there?”

MM raises his hands again, “Hey, I’m not judging, just shocked.”

Frenchie’s concern melts into taunting smirk, “No need to be defensive, Monsieur Charcutier, we all have our needs, and I am surprised that you managed to woo such a beautiful woman.”

“Fuck off, Frenchie,” Butcher sighs, dragging his feet toward the fridge.

Their voices blur into white noise as you focus on the slow inhale and exhale of your breath. You wriggle your toes in your boots, forcing yourself to feel your physical body instead of the whirlwind of emotions swirling through your head. It feels like your skull is fracturing with the effort that it takes to contain the storm, but you refuse to let your feelings win. You find a bottle and push them inside, jamming the cork in just as Frenchie snaps his fingers in front of your nose.

You blink, “What?”

“Are you okay?” he asks, a soft crease between his brows.

“Yeah, sorry,” you blink again to quell your watery eyes, “what’s up?”

“Are you hungry?”

You glance over his shoulder at Butcher, his head in the fridge as he ignores MM’s demands to get out of the way.

“Not really,” you reply, “I was actually thinking about going back over to Annie’s, I think I forgot my… my socks.”

The concern between Frenchie’s brows deepens, “You forgot your socks?”

You nod, “My favourite socks.”

“Didn’t know you had favourite socks,” Butcher mumbles as he steps out of the kitchen.

“You don’t know a lot of things,” you state, plastering on a smile that you know doesn’t reach your eyes.

You can feel their curious gazes on you as you turn, retrieving your wallet and keys from the couch before striding out of the apartment door without a second glance. You pull your phone out of your pocket and text Annie to let her know that you’re on your way before switching it to ‘do not disturb’ and zipping it inside your jacket pocket, determined to forget about it until you’ve got a handle on your emotions.

The sun is setting by the time you reach the familiar street on which Hughie and Annie’s apartment is located, and you’re rather proud of the fact that you managed to focus on nothing but your steady steps the whole way here. You look up at the brick building on your left, but instead of turning toward the front steps, your feet carrying you across the street toward the park, not stopping until you’re standing in front of an empty bench.

“Something wrong with that one?” a voice asks, and you startle toward the source of it.

A young man is standing beside you, clad in running shorts and a tight exercise jacket. He doesn’t look menacing, but your whole body tenses as your fight or flight instincts battle for dominance.

“I’m sorry?”

He chuckles, “The bench, I mean. You’re frowning at it as if it’s diseased or something.”

“Oh,” you look back at the moss-ridden seat, “no, I just- I don’t know.”

“Are you alright?”

He buries his hands in the pockets of his jacket, and you let yourself relax, deciding that he isn’t a threat, just an overly friendly stranger.

“I’m fine, sorry,” you sigh, “just had a weird day.”

“That’s nothing to apologise for,” he says, sitting on the bench and looking up at you. “I know the feeling.”

You sit beside him, watching his side profile and slowly realising how attractive he is. His hair is cropped short, shorter than you usually liked, but his eyes are a stunning green and the faint shadow of stubble across his jaw is definitely something you can appreciate.

“Do you often approach strangers in the park?” you ask.

He laughs again, his eyes sparkling under the orange sky, “No, not really, especially not strangers as gorgeous as you.”

You blush at the ground, deciding to focus on your fraying shoelaces rather than the handsome stranger.

“But I figured,” he goes on, “that if I didn’t ask this pretty girl if she was okay, I might not be able to stop thinking about her for the rest of my life.”

You actually giggle, immediately cursing yourself for being so easy, “That’s a long time.”

“I know, right? I didn’t fancy the risk, and hey,” he smiles at you, “looks like it might have been worth it.”

“Maybe,” you smile back, “I’m Y/N, by the way.”

“Nate.”

You’re not sure if you’re an idiot or if you’ve just given up on your own personal safety, but you sit and talk to Nate until the sun is well below the horizon. You learn that he’s a journalist and a dog person, and lately he’s been more afraid of Supes than comforted by their presence. You tell him you’re a freelancer, because it isn’t technically a lie, and that you’re in between gigs at the moment but questioning whether you’re really doing what you want to be doing. Also, not a lie.

“I know that this is probably very forward,” he says, his knee bouncing nervously, “but did you want to come back to my place for a drink? I would suggest a bar, but I’m not really dressed for it, and I just get this feeling that as soon as we say goodbye, you’re going to disappear forever.”

You frown, “You’re a real long-term guy, aren’t you?”

His cheeks flush pink, “I don’t have to be.”

As you walk alongside the man you met mere hours ago, you come to the conclusion that you must be suicidal. In the current state that the world is in, who in their right mind goes home with a complete stranger? You, apparently.

His apartment isn’t far from the park, which is a little comforting, knowing that you will have a speedy escape to Annie’s place if this guy does end up being a psycho serial killer. The buildings all look the same as you approach a row of tall brick blocks, climbing the few concrete steps up to the lobby doors before scaling three flights to reach his apartment door.

It’s surprisingly well decorated inside, and you can eye a few expensive items that make you wonder if he really is a struggling journalist, or perhaps a shady underground arts dealer. You take a seat at the kitchen bench as he babbles about how crappy his landlord is and how much money he’s had to spend on the place to make it liveable. The glass of wine he places in front of you is gone within two gulps, and he happily pours you another.

“I feel like I probably should have asked this a few hours ago,” he says with a sheepish smile, “but you aren’t with anyone, are you? Engaged or married, or anything like that.”

You choke on your mouthful of cheap wine, coughing the burn away while he hurries to get you a glass of water.

“No,” you finally reply, “I’m not, at all.”

“Good,” he replies, his earnest grin returning, “I mean, it’s surprising because you’re incredible, but I’m glad.”

You offer him a smile that you hope appears coy and not at all forced before drinking down the rest of your second glass of wine. He moves into the lounge room, and you take the opportunity to pour yourself another generous glass, quickly swallowing the two mouthfuls left in the bottle while his back is still turned. You gingerly place the empty bottle in the sink before following him, dropping onto the soft leather couch as he turns on the television.

A news broadcast lights up the screen, and fiery images of a truck collision flash behind the breaking news banner that reads: ‘QUEEN MAEVE SAVES THE DAY’. Your stomach twists into a knot as the bottle of emotions you had managed to almost forget about begins to break, the glass fracturing and threatening to send you into a full-blown mental breakdown.

“Damn,” Nate sighs, “I know the Supes are pretty sketchy these days, but Queen Maeve is just gorgeous.”

With one last burning gulp of wine, you turn to the man beside you and take his head between your hands, crushing your lips against his. He gasps, but responds quickly, his hands finding your hips and guiding you onto his lap.

The rest of the night is a blur as you attempt to give all of your attention to this stranger that you barely know instead of confronting the green-eyed monster roaring in your belly. He finishes once on the couch, pretty quickly, but you’re not one to judge, before you drag him into the bedroom and away from the incessant news broadcasts of Queen Maeve’s heroic act.

It isn’t your alarm that wakes you, or the sound of Frenchie and MM arguing about how to cook eggs, but rather the unfamiliar scent that douses your breath. Your body trembles with anxiety and your eyes snap open, darting around the strange room as your thoughts scramble to remember how you got here.

“Fuck,” you sigh at the sound of someone snoring beside you.

You gently roll over and slip out of the sheets, cold air immediately nipping at your naked body. You find the nearest item of clothing and slip it over your head before tiptoeing out of the bedroom and into the lounge room. Nerves and hunger mingle inside of your stomach, making you overwhelmingly nauseous by the time you find your jacket thrown over the back of the couch.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” you mutter as you retrieve your phone from the pocket.

Dozens of missed calls and text messages fill your lock screen, several from Annie and Frenchie, a couple from Hughie and MM, but the majority of them listed under Butcher’s contact name, ‘Big Willy’. You thought it was funny a few days ago.

You quickly text Annie that you’re okay, you’re incredibly sorry, and that you’ll fill her in as soon as you see her. You find your jeans and wriggle into them before finding your panties and tucking them into your back pocket. You scoop your bra and your shirt off the floor on your way to the kitchen, and check your phone again for a reply from Annie. Nothing yet.

You drink the glass of untouched water from the kitchen bench before splashing your face and trying to calm the vibration of nerves coursing through your body.

“Hey.”

You startle at the sudden voice, turning to find Nate in nothing but sweatpants as he emerges from the bedroom.

“Hey,” you murmur.

He frowns, “Are you okay?”

“Yeah, I-I’m fine, just- uh, my friends have been calling me,” you gesture to your phone, “and they’re pretty worried.”

“Oh,” he lets out a long breath, “I didn’t even hear it ringing last night.”

You smile weakly, not bothering to explain that you were intentionally avoiding your phone all afternoon.

He steps forward, “So, did you-”

The apartment door bursts open, splinters of wood scattering across the floor as you squeal and Nate jumps away from the blow. Your heart is racing, but your body reacts as it was trained to do, and you dive for a knife from the block beside the stove before freezing as you recognise the figure stalking through the broken door.

“Butcher,” you say, “what the fuck?”

His head snaps toward you, the crease between his brows softening and his eyes looking almost vulnerable as realises that it’s you.

“I’m sorry, but who the fuck are you and why did you just break my door?” Nate speaks up.

Your stomach sinks as Butcher’s attention is turned toward the shirtless man, murderous intent returning to his face.

“Who the fuck am I?” he spits, “Who the fuck are you?”

Nate looks tiny compared to Butcher, his narrow frame absolutely dwarfed by Butcher’s broad height and intimidating stance.

“I-I’m Nate,” the smaller man says, “and this is my apartment, that’s my door that you just destroyed.”

“Yeah?” Butcher taunts, stalking forward, “An’ what’re you gon’a do ‘bout it?”

Nate looks at you, his eyes frantic and begging for help.

“Butcher, calm down, he’s-”

“Calm down?” he whirls toward you, “You want me to fuckin’ calm down?!”

“Hey, man,” Nate says, “we can talk, you don’t have to-”

“Nate,” you put your hand up, “I’m sorry, but please shut up.”

“Nate,” Butcher repeats mockingly, “if you value your life, I’d listen to ‘er.”

You drop the knife on the bench, “Butcher, can we just leave, please?”

“You don’t get to make any requests right now, sweethear’,” he says, taking a heavy step toward you, “not after the shit you put me through for the past twelve fuckin’ hours.”

“What the fuck are you talking about?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” he drawls sarcastically, “maybe ‘bout the fact that you fuckin’ disappeared! You didn’t answer your damn phone, didn’t tell anyone where you fuckin’ were! I got a call from Hughie askin’ if you were back home, ‘cause you texted Annie ‘n’ told her you were comin’, but didn’t fuckin’ show up!”

A pebble of guilt drops into your stomach, but you ignore it, squaring up to him with a scowl.

“So?” you shrug, “I’m an adult, I can do as I fucking please.”

“Not without tellin’ me!” he exclaims, “Not if I don’t know where you fuckin’ are or if you’re even fuckin’ alive!”

“You’re not my fucking father, Butcher!” you shout back, feeling another fissure in the bottle of emotions. “I don’t belong to you, I don’t have to ask you for permission to live my own fucking life!”

His jaw twitches, a tidal wave of emotion crashing through his eyes all too quickly for you to try and discern any of them.

“A-Are you Y/N’s boyfriend?” Nate asks timidly.

You and Butcher turn to him in unison, exclaiming at the same time, “No!”

A beat of silence passes, and Butcher’s glare doesn’t falter. You take a deep breath to try and sooth the storm of frustration threatening to consume you.

“Butcher,” you say softly, “can we please leave?”

His head snaps back toward you, his eyes scanning your body as they fill with realisation.

“Did you fuck her?” he asks, turning back to Nate.

He doesn’t respond, his mouth hanging open as he takes several steps back.

“You gon’a answer me?”

“Butcher,” you say again, “cut it out.”

He takes another menacing step toward Nate, “I asked you a question.”

“W-We slept together, yes,” Nate stammers.

The laugh that leaves Butcher’s lips is chilling, sounding almost mad.

“Oh, pardon my French,” he says, “perhaps I should’a asked if you made sweet fuckin’ love to this gorgeous woman right ‘ere.”

“For fuck’s sake!” you shout, “Stop it, stop whatever the fuck this is, and let’s just fucking go!”

“You’re tellin’ me that you fuckin’ disappeared so you could hide out with this fuckin’ twat?” Butcher exclaims, “You let me worry myself fuckin’ sick so you could get a lousy fuck?”

The bottle explodes, shards of glass cutting you from the inside and sending white hot waves of frustration and anger, and despair rolling through your body.

“I can fuck whoever I want, Butcher!” you scream, startled by the volume of your own voice.

His eyes narrow, but his lips don’t move.

“And you can fuck whoever the fuck you want,” you spit, “obviously.”

You snatch your phone off the bench and stomp toward the door, turning to Nate with an apologetic smile. “I’m sorry, about… this.”

You continue down the hall and the three flights of stairs, not bothering to check if Butcher is following until you’re outside. The temperature is significantly lower than it was yesterday, but your stubbornness doesn’t let you show it as Butcher strides past you toward the car haphazardly parked at the curb.

You climb into the passenger’s seat, sitting as close as you can to the door and hugging your clothes against your chest as you stare out the window. Tears fill your eyes, your nose growing hot and your cheeks undoubtedly red as you use every ounce of self-control you still have to stave of the inevitable. All you need to do is make it home and make it to your bedroom, and then you can cry. You can curl up with your face in your pillow and sob, and admit that you’re jealous, that you’re hurt, and that you love a man who doesn’t even understand the meaning of that word anymore.

“You look like shit,” he grunts.

You sniffle, keeping your face turned away from him, “So do you.”

“I’m sorry I didn’t get much fuckin’ sleep,” he says as the car comes to a halt, “I was up all night worryin’ ‘bout whether or not you were fuckin’ alive.”

“Well, I didn’t get much sleep either,” you retort, before pushing the passenger door open and stumbling out.

You hear the car door slam as you hurry up the stairs and into the building, taking the steps two at a time until you reach the apartment door. To your great relief, it’s unlocked, and you let yourself in before Butcher has even made it into the hallway.

“Oh, my goodness, mon amour,” Frenchie gasps, “you’re alive! You’re okay… are you okay?”

You don’t realise your crying until you try to look at him, your vision blurred by heavy tears as they fall in fat droplets down your cheeks.

MM steps forward, “What happened?”

“Nothing,” you wipe your eyes with the back of your hand, “I’m fine, I was with a-a friend.”

“A friend?” Butcher echoes, the door slamming behind him.

Your blood sizzles in your veins, heated by the overwhelming frustration coiling in your chest.

“How the fuck did you know where I was?” you demand, spinning around to face him.

He doesn’t answer.

“Do you have my fucking phone bugged?”

Butcher blows a long breath out of his nose, the thick vein in his neck throbbing under his red skin. “Look,” he says, “I know that whatever the fuck just happened wasn’t ideal, but why can’t you fuckin’ see this from my point of view?”

“Our point of view,” MM corrects, “we were all worried.”

“I get that!” you exclaim, “I fucking understand that, but what I don’t understand is why Butcher is still acting like such a fucking cunt. You can see that I’m fine! I’m alive, so what’s your problem?”

“What’s your problem?” he snaps, “Why didn’t you answer your fuckin’ phone? Why didn’t you tell anyone where you fuckin’ were? And why the fuck did you go home with a complete fuckin’ stranger?”

“Oh, shit,” Frenchie murmurs.

“Maybe I just needed a fucking break.”

The room falls quiet, the only sound being Frenchie’s soft footsteps as he backs away. You use the clothes in your arms to wipe the fresh fall of tears from your cheeks and try to ease your shaky breaths as you wait for another onslaught of reprimands.

Butcher sighs, “Go shower.”

“What?”

“You need to shower,” he says, stepping forward.

You frown, “Why?”

“You look like shit, and you sm-” he stops himself, pausing when you take a small step back.

“I look like shit and I smell,” you finish for him, “thanks, Butcher.”

You drag your feet toward the bathroom, dropping your clothes on the floor and staring at your wrecked face in the mirror. Your hair is a mess and your face is blotchy and red, with streaks of black painting your cheeks. The shirt hanging loosely from your shoulders is unfamiliar, and something akin to disgust settles in the pit of your stomach.

“Give me your clothes,” Butcher says as he appears in the reflection behind you.

“Why can’t you just fucking leave me alone?”

He sighs, “I’m tryin’ to help.”

“I don’t want your fucking help,” you turn to him and lean against the vanity, “go offer it to someone else. I’m sure Maeve would love to see your fucking name pop up on her phone.”

His frown disappears, and you can feel the air shift. Fuck. Now you’ve done it. The shards of glass sticking you from the inside have cut right through your chest, slicing it open as your ribcage cracks and unfolds, presenting your pathetic heart to the man who already held it in his hands.

“Fuck,” he mutters.

Tears sting your eyes, but you blink them back with determination.

“I-Is that what this is-” he struggles for words, running his hands through his hair, “for fuck’s sake, Y/N.”

Your breath comes and goes in short gasps, the lump in your throat crushing your windpipe as it demands to be felt.

“For fuck’s sake!” he exclaims, before taking one step forward and slamming the bathroom door shut.

Fear sparks through you, and you whimper, “Butcher, please don’t-”

Before you can finish, he pulls you against his chest, his arms wrapping around you in a vice hold as he rests his chin on the top of your head. You sob into his shirt, tremors wracking your exhausted body as every bit of fear and frustration tears you apart from the inside. You’re not sure how you let yourself get this emotional. Maybe it’s the fact that the world is falling apart, and you’re supposed to act like you’re ready to save it? Or maybe it’s because you’re fucking tired of having everything you love ripped away from you, every chance you think you might have at happiness taken from you by the cunts in the sky who call themselves ‘Superheroes’.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers, “I’m so fuckin’ sorry.”

The turbulence inside of you quells simply because you finally acknowledged it, and you manage to swallow the lump in your throat.

“Butcher,” you croak, looking up at him through tear laced lashes, “kiss me?”

He hooks a finger beneath your chin and tilts it up, leaning in to meet you the rest of the way before his lips brush yours. It’s hesitant and soft, barely a touch, and he pulls away too soon.

“You need to shower.”

“Oh,” you try to wriggle out of his arms, but they’re too strong.

“I can smell that fuckin’ twat all over you,” he growls, “an’ it’s makin’ me fuckin’ sick.”

Realisation slaps you across the face, giving you the strength to remember how to hold yourself up as he pulls away. His fingers curl into the material at the neck of your shirt, ripping it apart right down the middle before pushing it off your shoulders and tossing it on the floor.

Another growl rumbles through his chest and the air in the room shifts again, now thick with a tension that has your heart throbbing in anticipation. Your mind races, your thoughts riding rollercoasters as you struggle to catch up with his fast hands. Your jeans are unbuttoned and pooled around your ankles in less than a second, and he takes another moment to devour your naked body before moving to turn on the shower.

You stumble out of your jeans as he quickly sheds his own clothes before wrapping an arm around your waist. He pulls you under the warm stream of water and holds your body against his, the feeling of his bare skin making your head spin. He takes the bottle of bodywash from the small shelf and pops the cap with one hand, turning it upside down and squirting a ridiculous amount all over your chest and his.

You giggle and he grins, returning the bottle to the shelf before crushing his lips against yours. The soap makes your skin slide against his in the most delicious way and you can feel your core clench, eliciting a wanton moan from your open mouth. His tongue swipes across your bottom lip before pushing into your mouth and claiming you with hungry, sloppy kisses.

“Didn’t think you’d be jealous,” he murmurs against your mouth, “didn’t think you fuckin’ cared about me.”

You slide your hands across his bare shoulders and behind his neck, finding purchase in his wet hair and tugging gently as you kiss him with every ounce of passion that you have.

“I do care,” you sigh when his lips leave yours to lap at your neck, “I am fucking jealous.”

“Sweethear’,” he whispers, his hands moving to your breasts, “you’ve got nothin’ to be fuckin’ jealous ‘bout.”

His mouth leaves your skin as he turns you to face the wall, pressing his body against your back before pushing you into the tiled wall. You gasp first at the sudden cold, and then at the feeling of him grinding himself against your ass.

“I’m yours,” he growls, his lips against your shoulder, “always fuckin’ have been.”

You still manage to speak despite the pleasure of him threatening to overwhelm you. “Then why?”

One hand wraps gently around your throat while the other splays across your lower belly, teasing the place just below that aches for his touch.

“‘Cause I never fuckin’ dreamed that I’d have you,” he says, his lips at your ear now.

You reach back with one hand, holding the nape of his neck as you turn so that your mouth can meet his in a messy kiss.

“You’ve always had me,” you murmur, “I belonged to you the day I met you.”

His hips buck against your ass, pressing you against the wall and making you whimper.

“You’re mine,” he says, moving back just enough for you to turn around.

You nod as you lean down to kiss his neck. Your tongue laving at his wet skin before your teeth sink in and he hisses, one hand squeezing your hip as the other smacks against the tiled wall.

“All yours.”

You place your hands against his chest, pushing him back enough for you to drop to your knees, your hands trailing down his body until they reach his hips. You dig your fingers in and look up at him through your wet lashes.

“Show me who I belong to.”

END.

[suzukiblu]

Day twenty-eight of fic NaNoWriMo, obligatory sugar daddy Tim/sugar baby Kon AU.

“I'll show you how it works,” Tim says, smiling a little helplessly at him for no good reason. Kon's just–pretty. And cute. And wearing slightly smudged eyeliner, like he went out of his way to learn how to apply it just for this and didn't quite get enough practice with it during said learning process, which might be a little much to assume but sure is a thought either way. “There'll be placards and stuff that explain how it all goes too. If you don't like it we can leave, obviously, we'll just go to dinner early.” 

“You wanna do dinner too?” Kon asks. 

“My intentions tonight are for this exhibit, dinner, and then another surprise destination,” Tim says. “Do you like Japanese food, because I got us a reservation at a Japanese place I know, but if that's not your thing, there's always other options.”

Tim definitely did not make three back-up reservations in a Bat-panic, because that would be an insane person thing to do and he's operating with fully rational behavior for fully rational reasons here. Obviously. Of course-ly. 

Just like, yeah. There may or may not be back-up reservations. 

Contingency plans are vital, okay? 

“I like Japanese food,” Kon says. “Well–I like sushi and musubi and poke bowls and that kinda thing, at least. So like . . . same diff, right?” 

“Right,” Tim assumes, with still no idea what either musubi or poke bowls are. He'll google it. It'll be fine. If nothing else, Kon can get sushi. He'll buy him one of those huge fancy boats of it if he's gotta. 

. . . actually that's not a bad idea, Kon could probably use the calories. Hm. 

“You planned all that stuff, though?” Kon asks, peering around the gallery as they finally step out into it and frowning in confusion. 

“I promised you I'd take you someplace nice,” Tim says with an easy shrug. “So I found some nice places to take you. That's all.”  

“You only promised me one nice place,” Kon says with a little laugh, shaking his head. “Now it's three?” 

“I'm intending to take you to a lot of nice places, Kon,” Tim says, and feels his chest clench up a little when he sees the way Kon's expression softens at the sound of his name. He needs to be using it more, he thinks to himself. Like–way more. “Or just wherever you wanna go.” 

“Sure,” Kon says, ducking his head, then glances around the gallery again as his frown reasserts itself. “What's everybody doing? They're like–messing with everything.” 

“It's a sensory exhibit,” Tim repeats in clarification. “You're supposed to interact with the exhibits. Touch or listen to or manipulate them. Things like that.” 

Kon . . . blinks, slowly. Then he glances sidelong at Tim, biting his lip. 

He doesn't ask, but the question in his eyes is obvious enough, Tim thinks. 

“It's tactile telekinesis, isn't it?” he says. “So I thought you might be interested in something tactile.” 

“You . . . did?” Kon says, glancing back towards the rest of the room. 

“It at least seemed like a valid theory,” Tim says. Kon had kept touching the cashmere on and off for as long as he’d worn it, and petted the goat, and had apparently been clocking the whole damn mall most of the time they’d been there, and he’d just thought–well–

Kon really does talk about his TTK so much, whether it’s relevant or not. Doing something that might be deliberately relevant to it had just seemed, well . . . natural. 

If nothing else, it might help keep Kon interested in him a little longer. Tim still isn’t sure how long to expect Kon to stay interested, depending, so until he knows one way or the other, he might as well frontload his success here. Or at least try to, anyway. 

Look, he’s going to do his best, alright? His best is just the best he can do. 

“You know, if you wanted me to touch something, you could’ve just volunteered,” Kon jokes, but the way he says it doesn’t actually make Tim want to laugh. It’s actually all he can do not to frown, the way he says it. Just . . . something about it’s a little off, maybe.

“I told you I’d take you on a date,” he says. “Just telling you to feel me up doesn’t seem like putting in much effort there. Definitely not nice levels of effort.” 

“Oh,” Kon says, ducking his head as he glances away again. He’s still holding his hand. Tim wonders what kind of dates Kon’s even been on before–and if he’s ever been the one getting taken on one, too. Especially since as far as he knows Kon’s only dated girls, and there were probably some assumptions set in place there. Like–it seems likely that there would’ve been, at least. Even if just self-imposed ones. 

“Want to try?” Tim offers. “Like I said, if you don’t like it we’ll just go to dinner early.” 

“Um, sure,” Kon says. “We can try it. Um . . .” 

“This way,” Tim says, and leads him towards one of the closer stations in the exhibit. Kon looks a little unsure where to start, so he figures it’ll help if he gives him a little push. Though it’s weird to think of Kon as needing any kind of a push, except maybe a push to actually stay still and listen for ten seconds. Or like . . . anything remotely along those lines. 

The station is a low, hip-height sandbox full of . . . well, sand, unsurprisingly. There's stones and rakes and general Zen garden-style paraphernalia laid out inside it, and patterns and colors already marked and dyed into the sand to be mixed-up and deconstructed at will, though no one seems to have gotten too far into that yet. Kon tilts his head as he looks down at the display, his eyes briefly unfocusing. 

“You're just supposed to play around with it,” Tim says, wondering what that unfocused look on his face is about. “Rearrange the patterns or make new ones, I guess.” 

“Huh,” Kon says. “Okay. Like just however?” 

“I mean, what, are they gonna yell at us for doing it wrong?” Tim asks with a shrug. Kon smirks at him. 

“I could come up with something they'd yell at us for,” he says with a teasing leer. 

Tim suffers. 

“Let's wait a couple stations before we get ourselves kicked out,” he manages, swallowing awkwardly. Kon grins at him, then leans over the sandbox and presses both hands flat against the sand inside and immediately starts rearranging everything with his TTK. Tim is about to reflexively protest him not even pretending to check for any onlookers before realizing that there is literally no possible way that anyone could look at them right now without Kon being able to feel them turning their way, and also the two security cameras that were previously in their range are both cocked askew now.

Okay, so he could be worse at passing for civilian, Tim figures, and just leans over and lets himself admire the wave-like ripples spreading across the sandbox as Kon carefully constructs a swirling rainbow of an ocean with all of the brighter colors and a dark beach stretched out alongside it, accented with little rocks scattered around like shells and driftwood. The wave patterns look surprisingly accurate, but then again, he probably did get a great aerial view of the ocean on the regular back in Hawaii, didn't he. 

Tim takes his phone out and sneaks a quick pic or two of both Kon and the box on old reflex, and Kon laughs at him. 

“You like, babe?” he asks with a teasing smirk. 

“Most things about you, yes,” Tim replies frankly, because he's not Robin right now so he can do that, and Kon laughs again even as he blushes and straightens back up, the sand all brushing itself off his hands. 

“Only most?” he asks. “Guess I gotta step up my game, then.” 

“Find another excuse to wear that crop top and you'll be fine,” Tim advises, and Kon laughs so bright for that it's almost flustering. 

Well, no, it's definitely flustering. Actually it's very, very flustering. 

Adorable bastard. Absolute fucker. Tim should throw him off a bridge, but he'd just fly back up anyway, the asshole. 

Tim wants to kiss him so bad right now. 

Kon's eyes half-unfocus again, and then the sand and rocks and tools all . . . shift. Tim blinks, a little surprised, and then realizes–oh. He's sorting it all back. Like . . . very accurately back, in fact. The colors and patterns are all returning to the exact same designs as they were in when they first stepped over here. Which is probably for the best because again, they’re currently playing civilian, but–

“Holy shit,” Tim says as the patterns all settle back in and his eyebrows shoot up, more than a little incredulous. Okay, well–he's slightly less sure that Kon doesn't have Superman's eidetic memory now. Also, considering how mixed-around all the colors were, he doesn't even know how he did that so effectively. “How the hell did you do that?” 

“Wasn't hard,” Kon replies casually, but he looks smug about it, the–again–adorable bastard. Fucker. “Just undid what everybody already did, yeah?” 

Tim looks at the sand and belatedly notices that yes, in fact, Kon also reverted everything else that'd been done to it back to what was clearly the original design too. He cannot even fathom how Kon could tell how to “undo” any of that. Like–the pattern-recognition, fine, he could've done that himself–Bart could've, if he'd been interested enough to bother–but tracking back a design after undoing the whole thing to begin with and keeping the different colors of sand all correctly separated? Seriously? 

“Jesus,” he says. “That's incredible.” 

“No big,” Kon says, but looks very pleased about the compliment all the same. Tim thinks of about three thousand tactical applications for this skill alone and really wants to know why Kon doesn't brag about this part of TTK more. Or like, ever. It's always punching things and ripping up the street and tearing doors off their hinges and things like that, when he can do things like map an entire building blind and control sand down to the fucking individual grains? 

Tim might need to have a talk with all of their teammates about their actual abilities, actually, seeing all this. Like, some assessment tests might need to happen. Questionnaires. Something. The informal approach was clearly not thorough enough. If nothing else, he's definitely following up with Kon. 

“I honestly did not realize how good you'd be at that,” Tim says, and then has to watch in disbelief as Kon smirks smugly at him while simultaneously–without even looking–builds a little sand castle without even bothering to put his hands in the sand this time. Which he doesn't have to, obviously, because the sand is in the sandbox and it's part of the table which is on the floor he's standing on and Tim objectively understands how TTK works, but that really seems like it'd be much harder to pull off. Just–damn. Damn. 

. . . technically, if Kon can control things as small as a grain of sand, how small can he go? Could he–theoretically, at least–manipulate dust? Air molecules? 

Atoms? 

Because if he could, if things like that counted . . . well, the transitive properties of TTK would be a lot less of a limitation outside of maybe the vacuum of space, wouldn't they. There's always air, after all. And if Kon could manipulate anything on the atomic level . . . 

Jesus. There's a thought. 

As soon as Tim's done being desperately, overwhelmingly turned on and also reformatting several of his supervillainy-connected plans, he's gonna have to start drafting that superpower skills and applications thereof questionnaire. Like. Immediately once he's done, actually. 

Just–again, just Jesus. 

“I mean, it's just a party trick, but it's a fun one, right?” Kon says with another laugh. 

Tim is going to lose his actual fucking mind. 

“You call that a party trick?” he says in disbelief. There is no possible way that any lock could be secure against that. No one could ever hide behind cover. No one could even carry a concealed weapon without him knowing, for fuck's sake! 

. . . Tim is very glad he's been leaving the birdarangs home for his not-dates and current-date with Kon. Very, very glad. 

Jesus, that would've been fun to explain to Bruce. Well I didn't TELL him I was Robin, but I DID encourage him to tactile-telekinetically feel me up in a changing room while I was strapped with Bat-gear, sooooo . . . I mean, you never told me I couldn't do THAT. 

That's exactly how he would've explained it, obviously, but still. Bruce would not have taken it well. 

What a fucking way to come out to Batman, too.

[fairy-writes]

COME HOME SAFE

Reblogs and Comments are greatly appreciated!!

__________________________________________________________________________

Requester: @bublipuppy

Fandom(s): Tokyo Ghoul

Pairing(s): Uta x Reader

Prompt: Sharing a kiss after a massive battle (Action Prompt #13)

Genre(s)/Tag(s): Gender Neutral!Reader, Human!Reader, CCG Investigator!Reader

Notes: I KNOW I SAID NO DUPLICATE REQUESTS

BUT

I got both at pretty much the same time and didn’t want to pick and choose

This is a prequel to my oneshot linked HERE

Also, I used google translate for the French in this. Sorry if it’s incorrect!

TW: Tokyo Ghoul typical violence and gore

This is for my 1K followers event! It’s going on between June 8th and June 22nd!

__________________________________________________________________________

It’s dark. Almost overwhelmingly so. You ready your quinque and creep through the rolling fog that is almost debilitating. 

For you humans, anyway. You were sure the ghouls you were hunting could see just fine.

Suddenly, you hear something. 

Spinning on your heel, you drive the point of your quinque deep into the eye of the attacking ghoul. She falls with a scream, though that scream is cut off abruptly by your weapon to her throat. 

As soon as her gurgles die out, you lower your weapon, tuck it under your arm, and press your hands together in prayer.

“God… please allow this woman to pass on to the afterlife. Forgive her of her wrongdoings.” You whisper into the night air and feel a hand on your shoulder. 

“You know you don’t have to pray for them, right? They’re ghouls. Not people.” Comes your squad member’s voice. You turn to see Naoki—Rank Two Investigator and resident cynic of your squad. 

“Human or not, they still deserve something.” You retort, and he backs off, hand raised as he apologizes. 

How you can tell he doesn’t mean it.

The two of you steadily make your way through the ranks of Aogiri Tree, with you offering brief words of prayer as the ghouls die. Naoki looks on with a sneer twisting his lips, but you ignore it.

Perhaps the prayers are for your own conscience. 

Maybe they actually do something.

You’d never know until you die. 

You hear your name, and you whirl, tightening your grip on your quinque. 

It’s Yū. Another Rank Two Investigator and your apprentice—almost a prodigy, really. They were slight in build, one of the smaller investigators you knew in the CCG, but a talented one nonetheless.

“Arima Kishou wants you to take on the north sector. Naoki and I will take this section from here.” They say and you nod, adjusting your white coat before taking off toward the mentioned part of Aogiri Tree’s base.

The fact that Arima Kishou was trusting you with this task… you weren’t quite sure what it meant. Part of you was elated. Were you being scouted for a promotion? You were a First Class Investigator, so that meant Associate Special. Class Investigator was next.

What would Uta think?

You reached the north end of the base and immediately was attacked.

The tentacles of the ghoul’s kagune created craters in the concrete and you skipped back, wielding your quinque as if it were a sword. You gripped the smooth handle with both hands, swinging it and crashing it into the head of your opponent. 

The skull caved in with a crunch, the light abruptly dying from the ghoul’s eyes. He crumpled to the ground and you offered a prayer.

In the middle of your words, you heard the sound of footsteps. They’re running, soles of their shoes slapping against the ground. You pivot, ducking under the deadly blow and the ghoul goes tumbling.

He’s on his feet in a flash, a snarl twisting his lips under his mask. His kakugan is a mess of black and crimson. 

But before he can send another attack your way… hands sprout from his chest and he’s quite literally ripped in half.

You stand in shock. 

What?

And then you see him.

Uta.

He’s dressed in a long cloak. He spots you, eyes widening just the slightest bit, and you lower your quinque. He calls your name and suddenly you’re running forward, dropping your weapon, and throwing your arms around him. You don’t care about the blood that stains your otherwise pristine white coat.

His arms are strong as they wrap around your waist and he noses your hair,

“What are you doing here?” He asks, pulling back and looking at you in vague concern. He wasn’t one to show a lot of emotion, but you didn’t care about that.

“The chairman wanted us to lead a strike against Aogiri. But nevermind that! What are you doing here?!” You demand and he shrugs, 

“Yoshimura wants us to rescue Kaneki.”

Right…

Kaneki…

The artificial one-eyed ghoul. 

Uta had told you that he had been kidnapped by Aogiri’s Jason. That had been days ago. 

You only hoped that he was alright.

“Is this your lover, mon ami?” Comes a voice and you stiffen, stepping backward and picking up your weapon, all the while not taking your eyes off of the taller man in front of you.

Even without his mask, you recognized the violet-haired ghoul.

Gourmet.

Uta places a hand on your back,

“He’s with me.” He whispers into your ear. Even then you don’t relax. You don’t trust him. He’s eaten countless innocent people, ran a damn restaurant where other ghouls could do the same.

Gourmet offered a flattering smile and gave a grand bow.

“It’s a pleasure petite fleur. Uta here has told us much about you.” He grins and you glare, ignoring his comment.

“I have a job to do.” You snap at him and prepare to leave your lover’s side.

Only for him to snag your waist and pull you back in for a kiss. You once again ignore Gourmet’s comment about the affection.

“Come home safe.” He whispers against your lips. You pull back, mildly dazed at the sudden kiss.

“Uh… sure…” You whisper and he smiles, pressing another kiss to your forehead before disappearing, Gourmet vanishing soon after.

You turn to see Naoki and Yū staring, astonishment on their faces and a dark look in Naoki’s eyes.

This was going to be very complicated to explain.

Very complicated.

[pandorascripts]

hii :) can i request yandere wednesday x fem reader whos rlly skinny and insecure but wednesday is just like obsessed with them?

My Heart is Yours

summary: when things start to get intense with wednesday, fear and anxiety has you backing away.

pairing: yandere!wednesday x insecure!reader

warnings: yandere, make-out, insecurities, google translate.

note: thanks for the request!! as someone who’s been call skinny and been shamed for it, y’all should be proud of yourselves— no matter your size. everyone of you is beautiful.

note 2.0: I made wednesday battle w her yandere side, so there’s not too much, but still hints!

——————

Wednesday sighs. Her fingers impatiently tap her jaw, waiting for you to walk into Botany. 

Since you already had arranged plans, Wednesday had spent the entire weekend without you. It had practically drove her insane, not being able to see you for two days. Her hands ache to hold yours again, her body misses the way you fit perfectly in hers, and her lips desperately long yours. Wednesday’s counting down the estimated time it would take you to walk from your previous class to here. At the number two, Wednesday sighs a breath of relief. 

You walk into Botany, arms wrapped around your torso. You skip up to Wednesday, smiling at her. 

“Hi.”

Wednesday swoons, oh how she missed you. She unties your hands, holding one of them in hers. 

You chuckle, smiling brightly. Wednesday hates smiling, much more the people who do so, but your smile’s beautiful. It practically lights up every room you walk in, the way your eyebrows raise slightly, the corners of your mouth being pressed down as you suppress  it, just made everything feel right in the world. 

With your free hand, you wrap it once again around your stomach, grin never faltering.

“What should we do tonight?”

“Well, I’ve told Enid she won’t be staying in my dorm from three to seven, so that leaves us with four hours alone.”

You chuckle. “You cant just threaten Enid, Wednesday.”

She shrugs. “I don’t see why not”. 

“Because it’s not nice.”

“When have you known me to be nice?”

“Well, you’re nice to me aren’t you.”

Wednesday opens her mouth, about to retort, but she closes it, shaking her head. “You’re right, but Enid is not you. You deserve everything.”

A deep blush covers your cheeks as you bashfully duck your head. “God, you are such a romantic.”

Wednesday brings up the hand she’s holding, placing a kiss on your knuckles. “What can I say, you drive me crazy.”

You chuckle, smiling brightly as you shake your head. “Alright, lover girl,” Wednesday’s eyes raise upwards,”let’s focus on Botany, hm? I practically failed the last test.”

“I’d be willing to tutor you.”

You snort, lightly squeezing the hand she’s got locked with yours. “Wednesday, you’re the whole reason I failed! You kept distracting me.”

“One could say the same for me. How is it that I’m suppose to focus when all I can think about is you?” she asks, planting another kiss on your knuckle. 

Your face burns with the praise, and you turn your head to the teacher. As Miss Thornhill drones on about different types of plants, you find yourself running your thumb against Wednesday’s hand. Bored, you lay her palm upwards on the table, ignoring her curious eyes, and trace the lines along her palm. 

Wednesday grabs your notebook, deciding that she would take notes for you. Occasionally, her hand twitches from your featherlight touch, and you smile. Before you know it, she’s retracting her hand as the bell rings. 

Wednesday packs up her stuff, putting her folder and notebook into the corner of her arm. She grabs your stuff as well, and you make a move to protest. 

“Wednesday, you don’t need to carry my things.”

“I may not be required to, but I rather enjoy it.”

You chuckle, a smile blossoming after. 

“Especially when I receive something like that,” she muses, her free hand wraps around yours once again. 

Wednesday walks out of botany, you trailing after. 

“You’re in your free period, correct?”

“Yeah, why?”

“‘Cause I’m going to skip my next class.”

Your jaw drops as you stutter out a response. “Wha—Wednesday! You cant just skip class!”

“Watch me.”

She drags you along the staircase, stopping at your locker so you can pull out your stuff, and then, marches the two of you up to Ophelia Hall. 

“What if you get caught! Weems will hold me accountable, too!”

For the second time in your relationship, Wednesday laughs. She spins you around, pressing you against the dorm door. You gulp, eyes wide. 

“Darling, I practically own this school. Weems listens to my orders like a well-trained puppy.”

You nod your head, and Wednesday leans closer. You think she about to go in for a kiss, but then the door swings open behind you, and you’re tripping over your own feet. A strong hand wraps around your back, keeping you from falling, and Wednesday lifts you back up. 

“You’re so clumsy.”

“Sorry,” you mumble, an embarrassed smile plastered on your face. 

“Don’t be, it’s truly adorable.”

You don’t bother her with a response, seeing as your brain is spinning, and instead lay down on her bed. Wednesday lays down next to you, turning her head to face you. 

Your gaze meets hers and you smile once again. Wednesday’s hand finds yours, and she tangles your fingers with hers. She looks down at your hand, the corners of her mouth twitching upwards. 

Wednesday looks back up to you. “When did you steal my sweatshirt?”

You turn away from her, laughing. “It took you a whole week to notice!”

“Nonsense, I noticed the moment it was gone, I just decided to let you have your moment.”

You turn to face her again, noses brushing together along the way. “Totally.”

“Definitely.”

“You going soft on me, Addams?”

“Undeniably so.”

With that, Wednesday closes the gap between you two with a kiss.   She turns the two of you over, her knees keeping her up so she doesn’t crash on you. Wednesday unlinks your hands, hers going to hold your jaw, as you hold her hips. You pull away, grinning wildly. 

Wednesday brushes a loose strand of hair behind your ear. “Sei assolutamente mozzafiato.”

You chuckle, gazing fondly at her. “You know damn well I can’t speak Italian.”

Wednesday smiles slightly, and you resist the urge to gasp. You’ve only ever seen her smile once or twice, which is why when she does, you go starstruck. Your brain short circuits at the sight of her dimples, and you soak in this moment greedily, hoping to remember everything about it. 

You gulp, taking in a shaky breath. “You’re really fucking beautiful.”

Her smile only increases as she shakes her head. “You’re really fucking adorable,” Wednesday parrots.

She leans down again, this time more hastily. Wednesday kisses your lips with a rough passion, and you bask in it. After multiple crappy relationships, it felt so amazing to have someone love you like Wednesday. Her right hand wanders away from your jaw, down the the hem of your sweater. Cool fingers scratch lightly against your stomach, and a startled gasp from you breaks the kiss. 

Wednesday lets you breathe, lips traveling downwards. With your breathing stuttered, her hands inching higher and higher, and her lips traveling downwards, the reality of this situation hits you hard. Panic overwhelms you, spiraling thoughts about Wednesday seeing your body being the cause. 

With Wednesday literally on top of you, she feels it the moment you go rigid. Her hand retreats from under your shirt, and her head rises above you, away from your neck.

“Did I go too far?” she asks, worry in her eyes. 

You shake your head, smiling nervously. “No, no, I just,” you gulp, “don’t think I’m quite ready for that, yet.”

Wednesday smiles lightly, sliding off of you and back into her position minutes before. She’s quiet for a moment, and you thought you might’ve upset her. You swallow harshly, rushing out words before she can say anything. 

“I — I’m sorry.” You look away from her, ashamed. 

Wednesday pauses, her jaw slack. Did you just apologize for boundaries? She turns your head back to face her, a firm look on her face. 

“You’ve no need to apologize, truly. When you’re ready, that’s when we may go farther.” Wednesday places a hand on the base of your neck, fingers tapping against it. “We have no rush.”

You breathe out a shaky breath, lips trembling. Usually, you’d spend hours, sometimes days, making it up to your last boyfriend. He really didn’t like when you said no. It was weird, having Wednesday be supportive and understanding of you.

“Wednesday,” you bite your lip, trying to gather courage, “it’s not that I don’t want to, or that I’m not comfortable, I just — I’m just worried.” 

You look away from her curious gaze, scolding yourself. God, you sounded stupid, people had it worse. Your dumb insecurities about your body just ruined a perfectly good thing. Wednesday was probably laughing at you. She should be laughing at you. 

“Of what?” she asks, voice low and sincere. 

Your hands link themselves together, aggressively wringing them out and bending them. Wednesday’s eyes follow your hands, noting basic signs of anxiety. 

Wednesday doesn’t turn your head to face her, instead, she simply lays on her back, staring up at the ceiling. She understands that eye contact in this situation might not be the best for you, the last thing she wants to do was increase your stress. Wednesday’s mind fights with itself, a gory civil war was raging within. On one side, Wednesday wanted to assure you that your had nothing to be ashamed of, because you truly didn’t. She couldn’t imagine a single thing about you that wasn’t sculpted to perfection. 

The other side wanting to scold you for being stupid, to teach you to not think so lowly of yourself. How could you not see was she was seeing? She’d give you her eyeball if it meant you could. Wednesday stifled the thought of conditioning, she’d promised her father she’d never give into her darker impulses. She truly intended to keep that. 

Another moment of silence passes before you speak up. 

“I used to be teased really bad about my weight. I guess it just stuck with me. It scares me, y’know, the thought that you might think of me how I do. And I just — I just, really want that to not be true,” you whisper, eyes wide open as you stare at the stone ceiling. 

Wednesday breathes in, counting to five before releasing, she repeats this a couple times, eyes shutting in concentration. When’s she’s sure she’s in control again, she holds your hand lightly. 

“I wish you could see yourself how I do. Because trust me, you’d realize how magnificent you are, and how you’ve truly blessed me. You are beautiful, in every way.” Wednesday turns to face you, staring at your profile. 

The war in her mind dies down, both sides satisfied with the answer. The log in your throat budges, and you take in a shaky breath. With her newfound acceptance, breathing seems absolutely life-changing. You turn to her, eyes darting across her features. 

Wednesday slowly leans forward, wanting her kiss to be full of love, and not desperation. She wants you to feel her emotions. Wednesday grabs one of your hands, pressing it between her chest so you can feel her racing heartbeat. 

“Do you feel that?” she asks, lips brushing yours. 

“Yes.”

“It beats for you, only you. It breaks, and mends itself for you. My heart is yours, as it always will be.” 

Your chest rise and falls in sync with her, hearts beating the same rhythm. 

“I love you.”

Wednesday kisses you once more, slow and soft. As she retreats, a smile graces her lips. 

“As I love you.”

[denaliwrites]

Something Meaty For The Main Course

Aziraphale x GN!Reader

Summary: You cook a special meal for Aziraphale to tell him how much he means to you.

Soundtrack: Take Me To Church by Hozier

Requests: Open!

Warnings: Blatant use of Take Me To Church lyrics for the symbolism. Also weird Christian symbolism. I saw the opportunity and I took it.

You were no trained professional when it came to cooking, but you knew your way around the average kitchen, you knew the names of most tools and utensils, and in a pinch you were quite skilled with Google.

But Aziraphale deserved better than "average home cook." He deserved a meal even Gordon Fucking Ramsay couldn't find fault in. You weren't exactly sure you could deliver that kind of meal, but you'd be damned if you weren't going to try on the angel's behalf.

After all, this meal in particular had to be perfect. Literally perfect.

You settled on roasted lamb with pomegranate sauce and mint.

You didn't consider yourself a particularly religious person, or a particularly sinful person, but you were pretty sure Aziraphale wouldn't miss the meanings there. You were also pretty sure God was docking off some points for your brazenness.

There were still a few minutes left on the kitchen timer when Aziraphale's knock on your door filled the otherwise silent flat. "Coming!" you called, shooting the oven a warning look (as if it could see or understand) before wandering to the door and opening it for the angel to enter.

"Oh, it smells absolutely heavenly, my dear," he purred as he stepped over the threshold. You could see his eyes taking in the flat -- you didn't have a lot of belongings, and most of what you did have was second-hand. It didn't bother you too much, that was just the reality of living on your wage.

Even though you knew he wasn't, you couldn't help but feel a little judged.

He stepped towards the kitchen area, and you followed with your hands nervously wringing as they rested over your belly. "Erm, the table is just there," you offered uselessly, motioning towards the rather obvious dining set that he couldn't have possibly missed.

Stellar.

"Would you like me to sit?" he asked, and when he turned to you his eyes were nothing but cheerful and kind.

"Oh, er... only if you want," you stammered. "I didn't mean to... you can keep looking around. The roast isn't ready yet, anyway."

"Oh, you've made a roast? How delightful!"

The genuine joy warmed your heart and your cheeks. Much like the table, you were sure it was impossible for him to miss how red your cheeks got.

Despite your invitation to keep looking around the flat, Aziraphale chose to take a seat at the little table. Unbeknownst to him, he'd taken your usual spot -- you weren't going to tell him that, of course. He could sit wherever he wanted. You'd let him sit on your corpse if it so pleased him (though, now that the thought had crossed your mind, you really hoped it didn't).

Wordlessly, you stepped into the kitchen and grabbed the wine you'd bought for the evening. It was nothing special, the most expensive you could afford was a twenty pound bottle of some red you couldn't say the name of. But you knew the angel liked red wine, so you'd squeezed it into the budget for him.

You'd just set the bottle and two glasses on the table when the timer for the roast went off. "Oh," you sighed in disappointment.

"Would you like me to get it?" he asked helpfully.

"Oh, no, I couldn't... ask that of you," you told him, holding a hand out to pause his progress upward. "It's fine." You made sure he sat down fully before you ducked out again, this time to get the roast out and prepare everything.

You'd had to buy serving trays for this meal, something you hadn't really thought you needed until this whole affair. Now that you had them, though, you were determined to use them for any occasion that you could justifiably use them for.

You transferred the roast to a tray, then carefully carried it out to the table. Next were the potatoes, then the salad, and finally the gravy boat filled with pomegranate sauce. Finally, you were able to sit down, and you all but collapsed into the chair.

Aziraphale's attention immediately snapped from the food to you. "Are you all right, my dear?" he asked gently.

"Yeah," you answered, waving a hand dismissively. "Just glad to be off my feet."

He smiled sympathetically, then looked back to the food, his eyes lighting up. "Wherever did you learn to cook like this, my dear?" he asked distractedly.

"Google," you answered honestly, thankful he hadn't actually wanted an answer and hadn't seemed to hear you regardless.

He looked to you, as if asking for permission, and you motioned for him to go ahead.

You weren't sure how much you'd expected the angel to eat, but it certainly wasn't... nearly as much as he served himself. Not that you were complaining, you couldn't eat all that food by yourself, even as leftovers.

While he was busy piling food on his plate, you busied yourself with opening the wine and pouring the glasses, making sure to set his somewhere he wouldn't accidentally knock it over.

"This was very kind of you," he said suddenly, and when you looked up his eyes were on you rather intently. Uncomfortably intently.

"O-oh... no, it's nothing," you weakly assured him, smiling nervously.

"No, no, it's not nothing," he insisted, shifting in his seat to move closer to you. His delightfully warm hands wrapped around yours, and while his hands warmed your skin, his smile warmed your soul in a way you didn't even know was possible.

Then again, he was an angel.

"It is," you said, voice stronger. You wondered if he had something to do with that. "Nothing, I mean. It seems perfectly normal to cook dinner for someone you love, you know?"

Both of you froze.

Shit.

Well, that certainly wasn't how you'd planned to tell him, or how you'd planned to phrase it. You wondered, idly, if maybe he had something to do with that, too. Not that it really mattered now, since the words were out there, hanging awkwardly in the air.

"You... love me?" he asked softly.

"Oh, yes. Very much."

Finally, he cracked, and a joyful smile spread over his face, eyes gleaming. "Oh, isn't that just wonderful! And I you, of course."

"Of course," you agreed deliriously. "Of course."

"I do think this calls for a toast."

"With cheap wine?" you asked with a light chuckle.

He made an odd motion with a hand, then gave you a wink. "Not anymore."

[writing-whump]

Sick and hurt

Part 2 of this fic

Hector hated two things most in the world. One, to ask anybody for help. Ever. Two, to ask anything of Isaiah, because he fucking never knew how to talk to him and usually tried to pretend they had nothing to talk about.

He felt rejected by Isaiah in so many ways, that it didn't matter how his eldest brother sounded or what peace offerings he made these days.

Right now, his other brother was asking him to do both, to call bloody Isaiah for help. And couldn't say no, cause as it was, Hector was completely useless.

And he hated that even more.

Every breath hurt. Every movement hurt. While Hector wasn't a stranger to pain, though maybe a bit less used to it than a human would be, he could handle this just fine.

When he was comfy and unmoving on the couch. Not when he was running around Arnie, who was all but delusional from the fever.

Crouching down hurt. Bending at all hurt. Getting up hurt. It was only the adrenaline to keep him doing both, and he didn't know how long he could do it. The bandages that felt firm and steadying a few hours ago felt suffocating, cutting into his bruised ribs. His chest and sides were on fire, flaring up depending on how he turned or held his neck.

Hector googled symptoms, then called their pack's private doctor for advice. Tepid bath, he said. Yeah, that would be great, if Hector could freaking carry Arnie out the bed and help him into it. As he normally could. As he was supposed to.

Arnie's suggestion didn't let him wallow in his failure for long though. It was 3.40 in the morning. Why would Isaiah even pick up?

Hector took Arnie's phone, unlocked it with the password and found Isaiah's number in the last three calls. He tapped at the phone icon with a sigh.

"Arnie? What is it?" Isaiah didn't pick up on the first ring, but on the second and somehow didn't sound tired at all.

"No, it's me," Hector grunted, not sure if that was very informative.

"Something is wrong," Isaiah said it as a statement and Hector could hear the ruffling of blankets as he got up from the bed.

"Arnie is sick. His fever if off the roof and I don't know what else to do." Hector clenched his jaw. "He has been asking for you."

"I'll be there in 15. Take his temperature before I come." The line ended.

Hector blinked at the speed. No explanations, no questions, no awkwardness.

As if it was that simple.

Hector called, so Isaiah was coming.

……….

"I can come with you," Seline offered, rubbing her eyes sleepily.

"It's okay. Hector is even more difficult, when he is worried. Especially about Arnie. Besides, you didn't catch my flu by a miracle, but let's not push our luck."

Seline leaned against the dining table, watching Isaiah pack his backpack with a yawn. "Take Vitamin D too. 20.000 units. Maybe it will keep Hector off the hook," she instructed.

Isaiah nodded, adding the package to his supplies, before throwing the bag over his shoulder and putting on his shoes.

"Go back to sleep, babe."

Seline ducked her head with a tiny blush, waving her hand. "Keep me updated."

………

The rain didn't help with the visibility as Isaiah drove through the darkness, roads glistening, the aggressive patting of raindrops against the windows.

Isaiah tapped his fingers on the wheel, impatient at the red lights.

He was a light sleeper since childhood and Arnie's name in the middle of the night had him wide awake, heart plummeting painfully. Hector's rough reluctant voice in the phone didn't help with the unease.

He still had the address saved from when he saw their apartment the first time, a few weeks ago, when Hector was sick. The only time he was allowed to visit.

He parked the car and sprinted as dignified as he could down the street and into the apartment.

Hector didn't exactly live around his other packmates, not on the same floor, but on the same street, some in the same building. It would be suspicious for him to run into any of them. He was the Wolfson traitor, not someone his brothers should associate with. The only good thing about this happening at night was the low probability of it happening.

The world rushed out of focus until Isaiah got to the right floor, knocking at the door, only to find Hector's head in the doorway.

One would think Hector was the one sick, with the pained expression and his naturally wild hair sticking out in every direction. He opened the door all the way wordlessly, watching Isaiah like he expected a slap to the face.

"Temperature?"

Hector turned away, leaning against the closed door, hand balled into a fist. "40.1. I can't lower it. Water or pills won't stay down-"

"Hector-"

"I filled the bath with water, you know the medium temperature, not too cold? I called the pack doc, and that's what he said-" Hector punched the door next to him, eyes burning with frustration with a desperate edge.

"Wait, calm dow-"

"-I would take him to a hospital, it's not like I would let him die-"

Christ, he was more freaked out than Isaiah thought.

Isaiah cringed internally, throwing logic out the window and following instinct instead.

He stepped closer, taking Hector's face in both of his hands. "Hey. Look at me. Nobody's dying. You did everything right. He is going to be fine. It's okay."

It was from that close that Isaiah realized Hector was holding himself up all weird, posture all skewed like a badly hung picture on the wall. His breathing was off, which could be just from distress, but his upper lip was covered in sweat and his eyes had a feverish gleam, though he didn't feel warm. "What's wrong with you?"

Hector murmmed something, gaze dropping to the floor.

Isaiah narrowed his eyes. Yeah, this wasn't normal. "You look ready to fall over..."

Hector said nothing, a muscle in his jaw visibly spasming.

"Go get some rest. I got this," Isaiah suggested softly.

Hector frowned, head shooting up immediately with a snarl. "I'm not going-"

"You will sit down." Isaiah let go of his face, giving him a stern look, voice cold. If his shadow was out in the open, it would loom over him and the walls threateningly. "Cause I said so. I'll go see Arnie. End of discussion."

Isaiah hated doing that, he hated using his Executioner voice. But Hector stopped protesting, bowing his head the way wolves did when allowing precedence to someone else. It was the tone Isaiah used to get around teenage Hector that would say 'no' in every sentence.

Hector retreated a step, leaning back against the wall, eyes shimmering, face flushed. His right hand pressed against his ribs and he took a shallow breath through his teeth.

Isaiah was starting to put the puzzle together, but turned around to get to Arnie's room.

His youngest brother was in bed, a dark blotch of sweat on the front of his shirt, hair plastered to his face.

Isaiah dropped to one knee beside the bed, pushing the hair out of his forehead to feel the heat for himself. Yep, alarming heat indeed. "You up, champ?"

Arnie didn't open his eyes, but gulped, chapped lips moving in a ghost of a smile. "Hi, Zaya."

"There is a bath there going for you. We'll get that annoying fever down, dose you up with some good anti-nausea meds and you will be up and kicking in a few days, okay?" Isaiah stood up, hands sliding under Arnie's back and his knees as he talked, hoisting him up.

Arnie's head lolled limply towards him, the side of his face pressed against Isaiah's chest.

Isaiah carried him to the bathroom, where the bathtub was filled with water as promised.

He helped Arnie strip down from the clothes and then gently put him inside, slowing as Arnie's hands shot up at the first contact with the water.

"Easy, easy. This will help a lot, I swear." Isaiah let Arnie brace against him as he eased him down to lean against the back of the tub.

Arnie's lips quivered from the cold, though Isaiah found the water mild and pleasant temperature. "Don't fall asleep. I'm gonna stay right here and watch you."

Arnie turned towards him, eyes glassy, the emerald green in contrast with how pasty his face went. "I-I c-could r-really u-use a s-s-sauna after this."

Isaiah smiled, sitting more comfortably on the carpet, though in a good position to quickly stand up if Arnie tipped to the side too much. "A nice spa sounds like a good idea. Just hot tub."

"A-and b–b-bubbles."

"Yeah. And the different kinds of sauna. Did you know it's recommended to get into cold water or snow after sauna and then go back again? The way it will make your veins contract is supposedly very healthy."

"S-so I'm skipping the sauna n-now? N-not fair." Arnie tried to smile in Isaiah's direction, eyes focusing slightly too much to the right to land on his face.

Isaiah wanted to keep the conversation going, to keep Arnie lucid, but that's when Arnie suddenly lurched forward with a heave.

Isaiah straightened on his knees that instant, planting his hand on Arnie's shoulder and arm as the blond heaved and heaved over the water, but only a couple of burps and a string of bile came up.

"Okay. Shhhhh, easy. You are okay." Isaiah rubbed his back, hand dipping all the way into the water, following the outline of Arnie's spine.

Arnie's heaves slowly died down, though his body sometimes jerked forward. "Bleeeh. That felt awful."

Isaiah helped him lean back again, noticing the tears, spit and the snot on Arnie's face sticking to his chin. "I bet." He took a roll of toilet paper and tore a bunch to dry Arnie's face. "You are holding up really well, kiddo."

Arnie closed his eyes, his breathing still fast from the heaving. "I'm sorry. You will catch it, if you stay with me like this."

Isaiah chuckled. "I already had the flu, don't worry. It's a nasty one, with high fever and nausea."

Arnie opened his eyes at that, squinting at Isaiah. "You were sick?"

"Yes," Isaiah leaned his elbow on the edge of the bathtub with a chuckle. "Three days of fever and I couldn't even smell food. Got around without vomiting though."

Arnie seemed fascinated by the idea, eyebrows meeting together. "You with the flu...."

"Yep- hey, don't fall asleep!" Isaiah jumped up to pat Arnie's cheek, when his head fell to the left all of a sudden as his voice trailed off. He kept patting it until he got him to open his eyes again. "Stay with me, kiddo, come on. Just a bit longer."

"Ughhhmmm. I understand why sleep deprivation is used as torture," Arnie mumbled.

Isaiah looked at his watch, counting down the minutes for Arnie to have something to focus on. When the time was up, he lifted him all the way from the water, getting half-soaked himself and bundled him up in a giant towel.

Dried off and with a much milder heat coming off Arnie, Isaiah pushed him into a fluffy bathrobe and carried him back into the bed.

Arnie curled up protectively around his stomach, but he wasn't shivering as much, which Isaiah counted as a win.

"I got these pills from Sel. They should calm things down there a little and they have an anti-emetic effect too, so the nausea should stop. If you keep them down, I will give you something for the fever too."

Arnie hummed in response, hand around his middle, eyes open to slits. Isaiah helped him swallow the two small white pills with the tiniest sip possible, then sat down on the floor again.

After 15 minutes of relative calm, Isaiah dared to try the paralen too, nervously shifting his weight as they waited.

It took another half an hour before Isaiah let himself relax, for Arnie's squirming calmed, though he still didn't close his eyes.

Isaiah combed his fingers through Arnie's hair, curling them around his fingers and smoothing them back and forth gently.

Arnie nuzzled his head against the pillow, muffling a slight burp, but sighed contentedly at Isaiah's ministrations.

"Zaya? Can I ask you something?" Arnie stumbled over his words a little, so Isaiah leaned closer.

"Anything."

"Check on Hex for me? His ribs are hurting..."

"Yeah, I'll check on him," Isaiah said, voice hoarse in the face of Arnie's concern. "Don't worry about it right now. Just sleep. I'll be here, when you wake up."

"Promise?"

"I promise."

Arnie finally let his eyelids close. Isaiah kissed the top of his head, smoothing the covers over him.

…….

"Who did this to you?"

Hector lifted his head at Isaiah's question in alarm. He sat on the edge of his bed, bowed, face in his hands and Isaiah could see the bandages peeking out from under his shirt. "What?"

"Who did you get those from? If you are anything like you were as a teen, you wouldn't lose a fight easily. If you are getting hurt, it's serious."

"And you are going to do what, exactly?" Hector's eyes were wide, voice stunned. "They are my fights and I can handle them, thanks."

"Just tell me the damn name and I'll solve this," Isaiah said menacingly.

Hector huffed. "Stop ordering me around. In my own house, no less.”

“You don’t listen to me otherwise!”

“I don’t listen to anyone. You are not special,” Hector said, throwing back Isaiah’s words from the conversation, when Isaiah helped him with the broken leg. "Besides,” Hector dropped his gaze again, just like he did in the hall earlier, "this was my own fault."

Isaiah watched him quietly for a long minute, stunned by the admission. "Show me."

Hector snarled. "Can't you just-"

"Arnie asked me to."

That shut Hector up. Even more effective than orders.

Isaiah sat down next to him. Hector reluctantly rolled up his loose black shirt. Isaiah inspected the wrappings with a critical eye. "This is too tight. It will only hurt more."

Hector wheezed a little from pain at having to hold his shirt up with his hands pulling at his chest. Isaiah reached for it, helping it pull it over his head so he could have full access to the bandages, unwrapping them with experienced cold hands.

Hector flinched at the touch of Isaiah's fingers, but as the wrappings loosened, his breathing came easier, more relieved.

Isaiah worked quietly. He had many questions, but he didn't trust himself not to bark orders. Hector saying no to him one more time that evening would break him. Arnie's authority to intervene felt borrowed, like something he shouldn't be doing.

Hector held himself stiffly, breathing through his clenched teeth. "Arnie?"

"Asleep. His temp is lower and he kept the meds in. The worst part is over." Isaiah finished unwrapping the bandages, wrapping them around his hand into a roll to dispose of. He almost whistled at the amount of bruises covering Hector's torse.

"Yeah, yeah. Laugh, why don't you." Hector held his hands to his sides defensively.

"This is no laughing matter."

Hector winced at Isaiah's stern tone. "I know. My mistake, okay? I went overboard. I never thought that-" he broke off with a pained breath. "I'm going to be more careful. I'm never going to be too weak to help him next time."

Isaiah regarded him thoughtfully, then sighed, the sternness falling off at the declaration. "Hey, I'm not saying anything. You are doing a good job with him. You were basically in charge of him since he was 12? And he survived just fine."

Hector's head went back a little at the praise.

"Part of being an adult is also realizing, when you can't do something," Isaiah said tentatively. "You know I don't mind helping. You don't have to be alone with this anymore."

Hector grunted something, glaring at his shirt.

Isaiah sighed, taking it and pulling it over Hector's head and helping him slide his arms in. Hector made an annoyed noise, but didn't stop him, pulling his feet up so he could lean against the bed's headboard, softened by pillows.

"I won all the fights, you know."

Isaiah chuckled. "Yes."

"More than that friend of yours. Your useless second."

Isaiah raised a quizzical eyebrow. What did that have to do with anything?

Hector leaned his head back, hands folded underneath him. "What exactly does he have that I don't?"

Isaiah frowned. "Oh." They sat in silence as Isaiah thought about the implications of that sentence. "Hex, come on. You don't have to win to deserve-."

"I never won enough of them," Hector growled. "Not enough for you to let me train with you. Or with Father. You kept me out of everything. What did I do wrong?" He looked up at Isaiah, seemingly younger in an unguarded way, his amber brown eyes wide and open.

Isaiah stiffened. "You did nothing wrong. It was never about winning or deserving things." He stood up, all the calm replaced by nervousness as the guilt settled over him like a second coat.

"Then what was it about?"

Isaiah stood with his back to Hector, breathing very very carefully so his voice wouldn't catch, so he wouldn't show how deeply upsetting that question was. He could see how Hector came up with that wrong assumption now, but he didn't have the words to dispose of it.

Because I didn't want you to go through Father's training. Because he promised me he wouldn't touch you, if I did what he wanted. Because keeping you out was the only way I came up with.

"Right. You are so eager to come, but you shut me out. Again." Hector's voice went rough and bitter at the end, picking up his anger just as quickly as he dropped it.

Isaiah smoothed out his expression, but it was he who couldn't meet Hector's eyes this time. His tongue was frozen, his heart clenching anxiously.

He didn't know if it would be right to tell Hector about the pack's biggest secret. He didn't know if Hector could take losing the image of his perfect father, no matter how skewed it was.

And even if Isaiah knew if he should tell, he wasn't sure he could.

“I’ll get you some painkillers,” Isaiah said into the heavy silence.

As if that could fix anything.

@bellysoupset

[rosetta-j-stone]

Buckle up guys, gals and non-binary pals, it's BoJere Tour Bus Renuion time <3

"...Bojan was tentatively asking me if I would join him on the tour bus" - Kris arches an eyebrow as he reads this part of the latest interview with Jere on his phone screen.

Tentatively? Seriously? Since when has Bojan done ANYTHING tentatively? Bojan is about as tentative as a- as a puppy. Which is why Kris has to watch him and "Nine Lives" Jure like a hawk.

Not for the first time, Kris is glad he doesn't have pets.

Turtles might be OK, he supposes.

Nace seems to think so.

Anyway, he's clearly going to have to talk to Bojan about this.

****

"Hey, Bojan, remind me: what are the rules of this tour?"

Bojan rolls his eyes. Like Kris doesn't know. Like Kris didn't write them. Like Kris didn't give him two copies (just in case). He shrugs.

"Let's see...what happens on the tour bus stays on the tour bus?"

Kris chucks a pillow at him. He ducks.

"That is the exact opposite of Rule 5 and you know it"

Ugh, he's in one of those moods. Bojan briefly considers throwing the pillow back, but decides against it.

"Rule 5? What were the other 4?" He grins. "Wait, don't tell me. They're all the same rule, just with different names."

Kris refuses to take this bait, unfortunately.

"Rule 5 is - as you very well know - No Sex On The Tour Bus"

How is he capitalising every letter of that stupid rule just saying it, Bojan wonders.

"Right, and why are you bringing up that rule with me? Shouldn't you be reminding...ooh, I don't know...your fellow guitarists of that one?"

Kris folds his arms and Bojan knows he shouldn't push it but he can't help himself.

"Or does it not apply if both parties are band members? Kinda discriminatory Krisko. Does this mean I have to start sleeping with Jure again?" He grins, gives Kris a suggestive look. "Or-"

Kris gives him a don't-even-think-about-it look in response - spoilsport - and thrusts his phone at him.

Ooh, it's an interview with Jere...

Ah.

OK, Jere has obviously said something.

Yep. Kris has highlighted it. Of course he has.

He reads the offending sentence, rereads it, laughs, looks up.

"Oh come on Kris, this is just Jerč-Jere messing around. He probably said it because he knew it would get attention. Although" he feels obliged to point out, because joke or no joke this slander will not stand: "it was actually HIM asking ME if he could-"

Kris sighs the deep sigh of the terminally exasperated.

"Look, I don't care who asked who, your boyfriend-"

"-NOT my boyfriend actually but do carry on"

Kris doesn't even bat an eyelid.

"Whatever he is, he's NOT coming on the bus. In EITHER sense. There's barely enough room for the five of us as it is"

He gestures to the admittedly cramped living quarters they've somehow got used to sharing. Bojan can see his point, even if he is making it in the most insufferable way possible. He sighs.

"FINE. No Sex On The Tour Bus"

Kris looks at him.

"Promise?"

He's such a Boy Scout sometimes. Bojan can't resist saluting as he replies.

"Yes, Mr-If-I-Can't-Get-Laid-Neither-Can-Anyone-Else, I promise"

And he runs off before Kris can find anything else to throw at him.

****

CarpeEveryDiemSlideIntoEveryDM: Hey

BikBik: Hey

BikBik: What happen?

CarpeEveryDiemSlideIntoEveryDM: Kris read your interview. I had to promise him I wouldn't smuggle you onto the tour bus.

BikBik: : (

CarpeEveryDiemSlideIntoEveryDM: I know, it sucks. No reenacting this for us

CarpeEveryDiemSlideIntoEveryDM: <video file: UKTourChaChaCha">

BikBik: <gif: "SadDavidTennant">

CarpeEveryDiemSlideIntoEveryDM: <gif: "SadDavidTennant">

CarpeEveryDiemSlideIntoEveryDM: ...

CarpeEveryDiemSlideIntoEveryDM: Anyway, I think we're both off Krisko's Christmas card list this year.

BikBik: ...

BikBik: OK but still on Christmas present list, yesyes?

BikBik: Still on track for visit from...Grandfather Walrus?

CarpeEveryDiemSlideIntoEveryDM: ...Grandfather Walrus?

BikBik: Is not correct? I put "Dedek Mrož" into Google Translate and-

CarpeEveryDiemSlideIntoEveryDM: OH

CarpeEveryDiemSlideIntoEveryDM: OMB

CarpeEveryDiemSlideIntoEveryDM: X D

CarpeEveryDiemSlideIntoEveryDM: DEDEK MRAZ

CarpeEveryDiemSlideIntoEveryDM: BRB DYING OF LAUGHTER

BikBik: ...

BikBik: ...

BikBik: F**k you Bojan X D

****

Jere is laughing as he puts his phone down, he can't help laughing whenever he interacts with Bojan, but he's soon serious again.

Yes, he ABSOLUTELY said that to that reporter because he knew they'd eat it up.

But...

He was hoping that he and Bojan would-

Well.

You know.

But Bojan has made a promise, and his Bojan doesn't break promises.

So Jere is going to have to...get creative.

He grins.

He's always enjoyed a challenge.

[myth-of-light]

Sorry to bother you a second time with an ask(none of my friends know kid Icarus so I got no one to talk to about)

But when hades pokes fun at pits inability to fly palutena states “his wings just don’t work right”

I googled “wing deformities” and the first thing that came up was angel wing, a deformity where rapid wing development causes the wing to outgrow proper bone support, causing the wing to bend out at an unnatural angle and a permanent inability to fly

And what’s it caused by?

An unhealthy diet of rich protein and carbohydrates.

And we know pit loves food. Specifically things like sweets and fast food, based on his distaste for veggies as stated in Palutenas Revolting Dinner

I rest my case

Well apologies, but I am going to challenge your case! A year late! (I am always happy to receive ask dw)

And if anyone notices mistakes below please comment! espically with formatting.

Angel Wing Syndrome

Angel Wing Syndrome is a deformity that effects aquatic birds, such as ducks and geese. Angels, like Pit, are typically inspired by the Dove and other birds that are typically non-aquatic birds. But let's say Pit is a swan or something, this still doesn't fit.

Angel Wing Syndrome also limits or completely restricts a bird from flying, which isn't the case for Pit, he can flap/glide on his own and with assistance from the Gods, can fly. If he had Angel Wing Syndrome he would mostly likely not be able to fly at all.

Not to matter that was make Angel Wing Syndrome so recognisable it the physical deformity is has on the bird. Having vitals feathers pulled to the rear. Pit clearly does not have this.

Though I will agree Pit doesn't have the best diet.

There are 10 possible food to have for health, this includes:

Fruits: apples, melons, grapes,

Meaty Foods: meat, hamburgers, sushi

Junk food: cakes, ice cream, doughnuts, bars of chocolate.

There is no vegetables! Unless you count anything in the burger haha.

But this ask did make me wonder, why can't Pit fly? And if there is any evidence in game to why.

I seem to find in an answer in by comparing when Pit can fly vs when he cannot.

Pit's Wings

In the original game he looks like this (oh gods the quality I apologise)

His wings go along his upper back, though pretty small right? Only reaching the neck when stretched out.

But now look at him with the Wings of Pegasus, they reach his head. Now while this could just be a visual to show the Pegasus' Wings Superiority, but perhaps Pit's wings aren't big enough to carry his weight.

But before I came to a conclusion, I looked at Uprising

First two (top layer) are Pit's wings normally where as the last two (bottem) layer is when the Miracle of Flight is activated. It may be hard to see but his wings are bigger when the Miracle of Flight is activated. You can see this when Pit jumps out at the start of a chapter, but can also see this in the cutscene in Ring of Chaos , when Viridi activated Flight.

You can see his wings grow. As seen in the images below and at the beginning of the clip.

I also looked at the pegasus wings for Uprising, but they are turned off because of potential unreliability, according to Palutenas(see image one below), hence they aren't any bigger than normal miracle of flight(image two below).

Note: when Pit is extracted from battle his wings do not change. (image three below)

So when Miracle of Flight is activated, Pit's wings grow? It that just a special detail or does Pit need bigger wings?

Dark Pit's Wings

To figure this out we can also use Dark pit for when he gets Pandora Power.

Pre-Pandora, his wings are similar to Pit's(see first image), but when he gets Pandora they almost double in size (see second image), you can really feel the difference.

But what is fascinating, is that when you fight him again, his wings are back to the average size (see third image). At first I thought this was an inconsistency, but no, as after the battle he seems to activate his wings, become big again (see fourth image).

Dark pit doesn't gain/have better wings, he gains power to activate his own infinite Miracle of Flight, which also make his wings bigger. He seems to prefer smaller wings for flighting (as they probably make them both lighter on their feet).

This makes me think that the Pits don't have big enough (or at the very least strong enough) wings to carry them. So the Miracle of Flight acts as an aid that give them these things while in flight (as Dark pit chooses to deactivated on the ground).

This is probably the answer.

(more speculation below)

But if that is the case, the biggest question is

Why does Pit's Wings Burn/Why is there a limit to the Miracle of Flight?

This part now is just speculation. (Also I am ignoring the last scene of 15min flying for this post, as I just think it's just a credit thing.)

Is seems that if the Miracle of Flight is used for too long Pit gets burnout both metaphorically and physically, his wings catch aflame due to the limit. So why is there a limit, and why does Dark Pit not have it?

The only difference between Pit and Dark Pit is how they gain their miracle of flight.

Dark Pit absorbed Pandora's power, making it his own. Therefore the power he uses to fly is (temporary) his own that he can control and regulate. Whereas Pit has someone else acting upon him, gods for that matter. Who cannot regulate their power being exerted upon him as well as Dark Pit can on himself.

I think it's the different between external vs internal regulation that is the difference between Pit and Dark Pit here. Dark Pit can know exactly how much power/usage he needs for flight whereas the gods made be just shoving a bunch of power in Pit's wings, not knowing how to regulate it correctly to Pit's needs. For the Miracle of Flight to be safe and unlimited, Pit has to be the one giving power to his wings.

But in order to get that power he has to steal it, which has been shown to be unsustainable as Pandora lived on in Dark Pit's wings. Not only that but it had to be all of Pandora's power, who was a goddess. So I don't think Palutena can simply give this power to Pit, as is has to be the power of an entire deity, but if you absorb that power, the deity lives on. While the circumstances of Pandora's revival were rare, there no certain way to know that there isn't other ways an absorbed deity can get their power back.

This makes in unlikely that Pit could one day fly on his own indefinitely. Though can offer explanation on why Dark Pit can fly. But alas, this part is more speculative than the other (hence under the cut). But it is interesting to think about.

Thanks for the ask!

[oh-surprise-its-me]

They got married.

It’s weird to Jamie, nothing really changed but he feels like a different person.

They’ve come back from two months off and it might’ve been the best vacation honeymoon combo in the world. He knows he should tell Roy his plan but, some casual mysteries are fun. Gotta keep old men on their toes.

He knocks on the office door, he’s spinning his ring out of nervousness, “come in.”

He opens Rebbeca’s door, “Jamie! Welcome back!” She says turning from her windows and opening her arms for a hug. He smiles, and accepts the hug.

“It’s great to be back. Had a fabulous time but home is home.”

Rebbeca nods, she walks him over to the couch, “not that I’m not happy to see you Jamie, but we don’t do this. Are you okay? Problems with Roy?”

Jamie’s ears go a bit red, he ducks his head. “No! God no, and I know we don’t I’m sorry. I needed to ask you if something would be a PR nightmare before I did it.”

She laughs crossing her legs and pats his arm. “You married you coach while still being coached by him Jamie, I think you’ll be okay.”

He nods, he really hasn’t stopped smiling since the wedding, fuck maybe even since the proposal.

“I want to surprise everyone, mostly Roy, by wearing just his name on my kit.”

Rebbeca nods, thank god she’s hard to shock. “Legal name change or just kit?”

“Legal. Roy and I have talked about me hyphenating but I want my fathers name to end with my father, I never really thought I would be able to get rid of it. But now that I have the choice? I choose to be a Kent.”

Rebbeca pulls him into another hug. When they pull away Jamie swears she’s wiping a tear out of her eye. “I’ll make it happen. You sure you can keep quiet about it for another month?”

Jamie laughs standing, he helps Rebbeca stand. “I kept quiet about my being in love with Roy for years I think one month won’t kill me.”

—

Roy was practically shoved out of the locker room, normally not weird but it was a bit weird because Jamie was still not in his kit.

He’s getting twitchy. It’ll be fine but it is the first game since being married, fuck it’s the first game in general.

He hears the players announcements, he hears a stumble in the sentence.

“Joey look at that! Jamie is wearing Kent on his kit! Looks like formerly known as Jamie Tartt is now going to be known as Jamie Kent, gotta say, I’m happy for them Joe.”

“Absolutely Richard, they were pretty private at their relationship but they got married a month into the off season. But Joey look down at Coach Kent. He looks shocked, we think this might be a surprise ladies and gentlemen!”

Fuck. Jamie.

Roy doesn’t know what his face is doing but he assumes it’s something smiley. Beard nudges him forward to where Jamie ended up in front of them.

He’s bouncing in place, must be nervous, nervous about how Roy will react?

Well count Roy as thoroughly turned on and happy. He knows. They promised they wouldn’t be relationshipy on the field but Roy’s pretty sure Jamie will forgive him.

He yanks Jamie to him. “Kent huh?” Jamie smiles and does a spin, god Roy hates the paparazzi but he’s going on google later to find these pictures.

“Thought you might like the surprise?”

Roy tilts his head back, Christ he’s about to do this, he leans down and kisses Jamie. “Love it. Love you. Now go focus so at least one of us is paying attention.”

Rebbeca has showed up down with them sometime during this, she’s smiling at them. “You do this Rebbeca?”

She laughs, patting his arm, “I might’ve known he wanted to shock you.”

Roy nods. God he’s happy.

Oh god.

His sister is going to be so annoying.

God Twitter.

God taking Jamie apart knowing his name is Jamie’s name.

Problems for later, they’ve got a game to win.

[paradoxcase]

Chapter 48 of Harrow the Ninth

Ahh, I've missed Gideon POV

At first I thought that the double douchebag comment was about Lyctorhood in general, but then I remembered that Gideon was totally 100% for getting eaten by Harrow. I guess Ianthe is just a double douchebag because Gideon considered both Ianthe and Naberius douchebags, so now they are a double douchebag

Oh Gideon, wanting to kick Crux down the stairs 100% makes you awesome

(Actually, reading it again, I'm not sure if she means "fantasizing about kicking Crux down the stairs doesn't reflect well on me because kicking people down the stairs is bad" or if she means "the fact that I never kicked Crux down the stairs doesn't reflect well on me because I never did it")

But don't worry, Harrow thinks you're great regardless

So like, to what exact degree have the second-person parts of this book actually been through Gideon's perceptions? Or are they Gideon's experience filtered through Harrow's perceptions? Like, if Harrow hallucinated something that was not there, would Gideon have seen and reported it? Earlier Gideon said that she couldn't actually see out of Harrow's eyes during that part, so maybe she was just getting second-hand information from what Harrow saw, or thought she saw, and reporting on it? If seeing Cytherea's body was a hallucination, it does make sense that Gideon wouldn't question it, since she's not used to questioning the things she sees. But, maybe Gideon was actually perceiving stuff herself, somehow, and everything that Harrow reported actually happened, including Cytherea's body under the bed, and Ianthe telling her that stuff didn't happen was just gaslighting? Now I'm not sure anymore

I love everything about this

Oh god, this isn't just a tumblr meme, it's actually a quote from the book

So Mercy ducked out to go kill Harrow, and just never came back, and Harrow left for obvious reasons, and then Augustine left for currently unknown reasons, and then Ianthe abandoned Gideon the First because she's just like that. I hope Gideon the First doesn't die because of this, I've sort of settled on him being maybe the only good Lyctor at this point

So he also came to whatever conclusion Mercy came to based on Gideon's eyes, in a lot less time, and it has something to do with John, and he's also had some thought about Mercy, so maybe he knew she was ducking out to go kill Harrow. Ok. I still don't know what the significance of this is. You know, it is kind of funny how much of this plot is hinging on people's eye colors, because I can't actually tell people's eye color in real life, like I feel at this point that Gideon's eyes must be like broadcasting the bat signal or something for everyone to be reacting to them this quickly. Like, I can see if eyes are light or dark, but are the light eyes blue, or grey, or green? I have zero idea. I don't think I could actually tell unless I went up to someone and stared at them from three inches away, or something. And while I was googling for pictures of what amber eyes actually look like in reality, I remembered that I don't even really know my own eye color, either. I was always told it was hazel, and that's what it says on my driver's license, but then when I joined the Sims 2 fandom like 15 years ago and downloaded some custom hazel eyes thinking I was going to go make some sims with my eye color, those eyes were a completely different color than my eyes, and I learned that by "hazel" people usually mean the kind of eyes that are like partially brown and partially green, whereas my eyes are definitely a single solid color all the way through and if I actually look at the wikipedia page on eye color, they do look most similar to the picture for the amber eyes. But then wikipedia also says this:

which is a pretty good description of my eye color, and I think also a good description of the picture on the wikipedia page for amber eyes. So I've got no idea, honestly. By the way, I can't find any other source online for this statement about hazel sometimes meaning hazelnut-colored, every site I can find seems to use the brown-mixed-with-green definition. The four sources in that image are not about language use with respect to eye color descriptions, or about eye color genetics, they're just miscellaneous eye studies in which eye color was a variable and all four of them divide all possible human eye colors into one of three categories: blue/grey, green/hazel, and brown. I can't read the full articles, but for all I know these references are just meant to mean "some scientists classify eye color this way for simplicity's sake". There's one person on the talk page of the wikipedia article claiming that the definition of hazel = hazelnut-colored is the main one and the brown + green definition is specious, but they seem to be contradicted by the entire internet. So what is hazel? What is amber? What are Gideon's eyes supposed to look like? What color are my eyes? I don't know. I don't know the answers to any of those questions

I am living for the Ianthe/Gideon banter

I appreciate Gideon for this more detailed description of the Cyrus and Valancy nude art that Harrow could not bring herself to give us

Did Gideon get "so many" letters from Harrow? The only ones I remember from Gideon the Ninth were the various snippy notes that Harrow left her after she went to go adventuring in the facility, and after the siphoning challenge, but I'm not sure that qualifies as "so many". Did Harrow write letters to Gideon before they came to Canaan House?

I have to wonder under what circumstances Harrow thought Ianthe might run into Gideon that she gave her this letter. Did she expect this exact thing to happen? I got the feeling at the beginning that she had some other ultimate plan in mind for Gideon besides her sharing Harrow's body. Also, didn't Harrow work very very hard to not achieve One Flesh One End with Gideon?

And of course, the sunglasses will hide Gideon's eyes, for when she goes to talk to John. I would have thought this was part of Harrow's plan, except I'm also like 100% sure that Harrow also has no more idea about what Gideon's eye color means than Ianthe does

No comment

Gideon just cannot resist the that's what she said joke even while clearly having some Big Feelings

I feel like Ianthe thinks she's in a completely different genre of book. She wants to be this clever, aristocratic lady in a fantasy of manners that's full of intrigue and backstabbing and then she falls in love with some dude (or some woman, maybe) and has to keep that from unraveling all of her plans, but instead she's in this gross body horror story where love isn't keeping a lock of someone's hair, it's giving yourself DIY brain surgery in order to prevent the destruction of their immortal soul after they died. I think she does know why Harrow did what she did, though, I think she said so herself in that one chapter we got that was from her POV. She's just trying to stir shit here. But more fool her, I'm pretty sure Gideon already thinks that Harrow removed her memories of her because she hated her, I don't think there's any way that Ianthe could hurt Gideon here that Gideon hasn't already done to herself

I feel like Harrow and Gideon came away with very different impressions of what exactly went down during the Pool Scene

I'm still not entirely sure how right Gideon is about this and how much of it really was just Ianthe trying to use Harrow. And I think it's hilarious that she immediately comes back to "she was a hypocrite for getting upset about the necrophilia"

Is there going to be any love confession in this story that is not completely fucked up?

This is obviously supposed to be some sort of joke, and it was mentioned repeatedly in that "what's the worst joke" poll, but I don't get it at all

[onboardsorasora]

hiii I was reading Reclamation which is my favorite fic btw

And I wanted to ask you, because in the story Victoria said something like “so you’re talking and not going away to duck like on your first date” SO HOW WAS THEIR FIRST DATE HOW DID THEY MEET?

Hey Bestie!!! 🥰🥰 this makes me so happy 😭

Omg, So in true Sora fashion, I dropped everything and opened a google doc 😅 I got like 500 words in and was like 'lets not rush this maybe.' It took a lot of willpower but I stopped writing lmao.

I'll probably actually flesh out a first meeting/first date coda when I have some time.

BUT, all that to say: I HAVE thought about it lmao. I'll put it under the cut

So we know they met through Charles. Jules and Daniel swung by Charles' to pick something up and Max was there. Max asks Daniel out first but Daniel chose the date. I feel like that would be their dynamic upfront. Max taking initiative and Daniel filing in the gaps.

The date is actually party- Daniel chose it because Charles wouldn't stop bitching and moaning that they can't date and Daniel figured a party is a low key, low stakes way to find out if things can work out and if not then its a party! Fun can still be had!

Charles is an equal opportunity bitch and moaner so he complains to Max while he's getting ready. This is what I actually wrote lol here's a snippet:

“Charles, are you really just gonna sit there and not help me?” Max was exasperated. Charles was exasperating. “No! I was serious when I was saying I wouldn’t help you! Mate, this is like technically incest or something– you can’t go on a date with Daniel!” Max rolled his eyes as he sprayed some cologne on his chest. Charles was being dramatic as usual. “Factually, it's not incest. None of us are related.” Max pointed out, just to be a little shit. He snickered when he heard Charles’ annoyed groan. “Max, you can’t go out with him, he’s like my uncle!” Max pulled out a crisp white v neck and shrugged it on, he was hellbent on ignoring Charles right now. His point was moot; he asked Daniel out, Daniel said yes and they were going to a party tonight. End of story. “You don’t even like Daniil.” Charles tried a different tactic, Max snorted a laugh. “No, I don’t like Esteban. I don’t know Daniil. But apparently he throws good parties.” Max shrugged. He turned to look at his pouting best friend. “How do I look?”  Charles sneered at Max’s basic white tee, blue jeans and sneaker combo. “You look basic as hell. Please do not put on a cap!” Charles snapped when Max started reaching for his favourite wide brimmed cap. “Sure sure, fine fine. No cap.” He conceded.

They get to the party and maxiel does that thing they do where they forget other people exist in the world for the first time. Charles is worried because he sees the signs that its actually going well. Then he loses them.

Max and Daniel are probably chatting on their own for an hour tops before Max kisses Daniel. Then Daniel drags him to his SUV that's parked further up the street from where Charles had parked, and they fuck in the backseat.

Then they go back to the party and giggle and make eyes and be gross the whole night. Daniel takes Max home because that's the clear path here and that's how they got together. They fucked around for a month or so before actually having a conversation about it and then they were together for three years before the horrorsTM 😅😅

[brzatto]

i remember distinctly at some point i promised myself i would finish blue chicago moon before my birthday (lmfao) and now it is my birthday .. and unfortunately it’s been weeks since i’ve touched a google doc in general much less that fic but to celebrate i’m posting an excerpt from a later part in the fic i’ve had written out for a while now. enjoy ^_^

They’re laying in bed together, after, the way that’s become more casual as of late, more natural; they take turns taking drags from the same cigarette.

Carmy’s telling some story, “And then Pete—”

Richie interrupts him with an exaggerated scoff, rolling his eyes, and Carmy smacks him on the shoulder with the back of his hand. “I know, I know, stop it—but Pete’s not bad. Really. He can be cool, sometimes, like actually cool—”

Richie groans, rolling away from Carmy, except the bed’s too small for him to go anywhere, so he really just turns onto his other side—Carmy rolls after him, propping himself onto his elbows so he can wrestle Richie onto his back, stubbornly crossing his arms over Richie’s chest and leaning his weight onto him to keep him there; he reaches over to crush the rest of the cigarette into the ashtray. “I’m serious, Pete’s not that bad, and maybe if you’d actually give him a chance or opened up to him a bit more Sugar wouldn’t hate you as much—”

“Oh, so now it’s my fault that Sugar hates me? When have I ever given a shit about what she thinks?” Richie gripes, and Carmy rolls his eyes.

“She doesn’t actually, you know. You just have a tendency of being a complete and utter piece of shit—”

“What, is she still fuckin’ mad at me for that one time—”

“You mean when you said women shouldn’t run for office,” Carmy interrupts him flatly.

“That was a fucking joke! And it was, like, twelve years ago! I love women in office! I fuckin’ voted for Hillary in 2016—” he ignores when Carmy snorts in his face, incredulous, “—and maybe if she actually had a sense of humor sometimes she wouldn’t have ended up marrying that goddamn fucking narc. Has the personality of fuckin’ wet tissue paper. You know how many times he’s tried inviting me over for a fuckin’ family barbecue or some shit like that? Like I’m the one who actually needs an invitation. Probably just trying to trick me into making friendship bracelets with him while watching Paw Patrol or some other fuckin’ propaganda—”

Richie’s rant continues, and it’s so ridiculous that Carmy can’t help the genuine laughter that bubbles out of him at the mental image of it, ducking his face into his arms to hide his smile; except Richie’s caught on and started laughing, too, chest rumbling beneath Carmy’s weight, and it honestly surprises him, how at ease he feels. Naked under the covers, lying on top of Richie of all people, and he’s actually laughing.

Carmy doesn’t really use the word happy to describe how he feels because he thinks it’s too loaded, too precarious, too complex. He doesn’t want to say he’s happy because the notion is difficult for him to pinpoint, and even when he does it usually doesn’t last too long anyways—but he feels… light. All of his usual heaviness absent for once. He feels good.

When he brings his face back up he finds Richie already looking at him, focused on his face, the trace of a smile still present in the curve of his lips, and Carmy can’t tell what the emotion in his eyes is but it looks a little bit like—marvel. It’s the same way Marcus looks at the pages he’d printed out of Carmy’s cookbook, carefully and lovingly taped onto the wall of his station, the fascination of discovering something new, of resonating with it; and Carmy doesn’t know what to do with that.

But then Richie’s eyes fall a bit, fixing themselves on a specific part of his face—Richie’s hand comes up to cup it, nothing unusual by now, but Carmy’s overcome by the warmth he still feels in his chest at the touch, this simple intimacy. Richie’s palm is familiar and calloused around his cheek, and it makes Carmy want to lean into it.

“What’s this from?” Richie murmurs questioningly, running the pad of his thumb gently down the skin of his cheek, just below his right eye, and it takes a moment for Carmy to realize he’s talking about his scar. “Fall into a barbecue again?”

Carmy huffs, half amused. “No. No, uh… it’s stupid. Happened while I was drunk, years ago. Back in New York, when I first left.”

Richie raises his eyebrows at that. “What, you actually got into a fuckin’ fight? I mean, sounds dope, but having a sick ass battle scar on your face isn’t really in character for you, no offense.”

Carmy rolls his eyes. “No, it wasn’t a fight—I… was drinking, and it was kind of just something I did, in the very beginning, I guess. In my downtime, by myself in my apartment because it wasn’t like I had any friends or anything better to do, and it was just supposed to be a way to keep myself occupied. Get me to fall asleep faster, if anything, so I wouldn’t fucking lie awake in bed all night thinking about shit. Except that time it backfired on me, because I got—” Carmy breathes out through his nose, an almost amused, self-deprecating laugh, “So drunk, and all I could think about was—Mikey.

“And I was just so fucking upset. I felt hurt, you know. Had been hurt for the whole past year, and I’d deleted Mikey’s number off my phone months ago so I wouldn’t do anything monumentally fucking stupid like call him while I was drunk or something. And I think I was just… fed up, at that point. I was so fuckin’ angry, at Mikey, at myself, at everyone that I just… kind of had this meltdown. Nearly trashed my whole fuckin’ apartment. Was breaking shit, throwing shit around, and when it was over I found myself in my bathroom, staring at myself in the mirror for the longest time. And I hated what I saw, because it didn’t feel like me. I never felt like myself back then. Didn’t know who I was supposed to be without Mikey and Sugar and everybody else around, and I hated that about me.

“And eventually all I could think about was—” Carmy cuts himself off, thinking about the words. How to say them. “How much I needed… a change. How much I wanted to. But I think I took that a little too literally, or maybe I just wasn’t fucking thinking at all, because I just… slammed my face into the mirror, as hard as I could. Like I was in a fuckin’ movie or something, you know. And there was all this fuckin’ glass, blood everywhere, my face totally fucked, all that shit. It was a mess. I could barely fucking see.”

Richie watches him recount the story with quiet intensity, and even though Carmy doesn’t look back at him he can feel Richie’s eyes on his face, gaze intent. But it doesn’t make him feel uncomfortable, or awkward, or exposed, the way having someone’s undivided attention usually makes him feel. In the moment, he simply just feels listened to. Richie’s watching him, but Carmy doesn’t feel watched; just seen.

“So what happened after? Just bled out all over your fuckin’ floor?”

Carmy huffs. “No, I, uh… had to take myself to the hospital. It was, like, three in the morning. Got four stitches out of it, and still showed up to work the next day.”

He’s expecting Richie to make fun of him, honestly. And why wouldn’t he? He thinks it might just be because of the good mood he’s in, but Carmy’s surprised to find that he doesn’t feel any residual bitterness recalling the memory. Thinks if he were anybody else he’d laugh at himself, too.

Richie doesn’t make fun of him, though. “That might actually be the most hardcore shit you’ve ever told me.” Richie sniffs. “Almost as hardcore as walking off a stab wound, anyways. You’re getting there.”

Carmy actually laughs, the memory of it amusing now that it’s all behind him. It seems fucking ridiculous, looking back on it now. It’s only been a few months, but it feels like a lifetime ago; when he tries to think about it now, he feels like a spectator of his own life, watching the events unfold from someone else's perspective, or like standing from the outside and looking in. He gets that feeling a lot, Carmy thinks.

“You know, I never actually asked you about that. Were you good? Like, was the wound deep, or…”

“Gee, thanks for the concern. Not like it happened, like, six fuckin’ months ago. Glad to know I mean so much to you.”

“Shut up and just tell me. And you probably really did fucking deserve it.”

Richie scoffs. “Couldn’t fucking tell you. Hurt like a goddamn bitch when it happened, though. Got Ebra to patch me up. Couldn’t sit right for a couple weeks, but it was whatever.” He sniffs. “At least it was somewhere people don’t see it. Not sure if that’ll make for a cool scar story in the future.”

“What, like mine was?”

“Nah, yours is just depressing. Do me a favor—next time somebody asks, just tell them you got it in a bar fight like a normal person.” Richie says, and then after a pause, “That why you don’t drink?”

It’s this question that finally makes Carmy feel embarrassed for some reason, glancing up at the ceiling. “Something like that.”

“Damn. And I thought Mikey was the one who was fucked up.”

Carmy laughs a little again, in spite of everything, running a hand through his hair. “Yeah, well. Guess it runs through the fuckin’ family.”

“They call you guys the Bears for a reason,” Richie says simply. But he still has his hand on Carmy’s face, running his thumb over his scar absentmindedly, like trying to soothe away pain that hasn’t been there for years. It’s a subtle sort of intimacy, quiet and tender. It’s Richie’s touch and not the recollection that makes Carmy’s chest prickle, and he wonders briefly if this is something he ever did with Mikey: lying in the dark, listening to each others’ stories, touching without thinking about it.

He wonders if this is how Richie treats those he cares the most about, or maybe if he’s just gotten close enough to be able to experience this side of him. If this is what it’s like to be Richie’s best friend, to trust someone wholeheartedly, sharing moments that are quiet and intimate and vulnerable.

“Alright,” Richie continues, making Carmy glance up. “Your turn.”

Carmy looks at him quizzically. “My turn for what?”

“Ask me something. Nothing off limits, everything on the table. You shared something about yourself so it’s only natural for me to do the same.”

Carmy frowns a little at this, if only because the notion is strange to him. It’s not like he’s never been open and honest with Richie before—in fact, those moments have been occurring more often than he’d honestly like to admit—but it feels different, this way. To be given the opportunity, no holds barred, because usually Carmy refrains from ever prying too deep; not just with Richie, but with everybody.

He rolls off Richie’s chest back onto the bed, lying on his side with his head propped in his hand as he considers. Richie is surprisingly patient for once, offering him the silence to think, and the whole thing honestly just makes Carmy flustered.

“Is there…” Carmy starts uncertainly, hesitating, but continues when Richie turns to him, expectant. “Is there a reason why you keep your ring?”

Richie stares at him for a moment, uncomprehending, before glancing down at the golden wedding band on his finger, like he’d forgotten that it was there, like he didn’t even know he was wearing it. Then his expression twists, incredulous, like he can’t believe that out of all the things Carmy could’ve possibly asked him about it’s his goddamn wedding ring.

“Why, does it make you jealous or something?” Richie teases him. “Does it make you feel like you’re my mistress?”

Carmy’s face turns hot, but he tells himself it’s out of annoyance rather than embarrassment. “You know what? Forget I asked.”

Richie chuckles, running his knuckles over Carmy’s side placatingly. “Nah, nah, I’m kidding. Uh… if I’m being honest, it’s, like, a distraction. Something for me to worry with. I stopped wearing it after me and Tiff split, but I started wearing it again after Mikey. I dunno. I guess after he died it felt like… nothing was right. Just everything gone to complete shit, and the ring just felt familiar. Like, having it there reminded me of this time in my life where I kind of, sort of had things together, and I guess I just wanted to feel that way again somehow, even if in reality it’s the complete fuckin’ opposite.”

Carmy nods slowly. In a sense, he thinks he gets it. Clinging onto that sense of familiarity; needing the illusion of stability in his life. He understands him.

[mistythedritten]

20 questions for Writers thing

So I got tagged by the lovely @bleue-flora so here I am!

How many works do you have on Ao3?

Twenty. Which is more than I expected.

2. What is your word count?

90,465 words, which is just over 200 words according to the words to pages website I use.

3. What fandoms do you write for?

The DreamSMP

4. What are your top 5 fics? (stats)

By Kudos, Glitter Green, The Retrieval, An Ugly Duck Named Dream, Bound By Black and White Strings, and Rescuing the Rivals

5. Do you always respond to comments? Why or why not?

Almost always, every once in a while I'll get someone who basically wants me to change an aspect of my fic so they can have what they want, like it's a restaurant. Which is different than someone creating theories on what might happen next or talking about how I've written characters. I don't respond to those people mostly because I don't know how? Do I just say "No, I'm not going to write that, thanks for the suggestion," or something?

But most of the time, yes. I love interacting with people who like my writing, it's fun!

6. Angstiest ending for a fic?

That would be a fic that's not done yet! This fic is going to have a bittersweet ending, but we aren't close to that yet.

7. First Fic with a Happy Ending?

That would be the first one-shot I ever wrote, Glitter Green

(I discovered how to embed links today, this is great!)

8. Do you get hate on fics?

I did once, I wrote some references to IRL events with Tommyinnit neg, which got two hate comments. I laughed at them and deleted them. I did add tags making it more clear there was Tommy neg, but it was 3 lines at most.

9. Do you write smut?

...yes and no. I have officially dipped my toe into writing it, but I certainly haven't posted any. Yet. I'm still deciding what to do with it. It's not even finished.

10. Do you write crossovers?

Does DSMP and Empires SMP count?

11. Ever had a fic stolen?

Not to my knowledge, but I also don't go looking for them elsewhere.

12. Ever had a fic translated?

No, but that would be cool.

13. Ever co-written?

Yes! I've got a couple. Zen doesn't have a Tumblr, one author wants to keep her Tumblr separate, and one author doesn't feel like she's done enough to have her name on the fic. (I disagree, but that's her choice.)

I recommend everything they have written.

14. Favorite ship?

Tough choice, I kinda rotate. I keep trying to pick, and I can't.

15. What's the WIP you want to finish but probably never will?

Black and White strings, it's been over a year, I'm thinking of orphaning the fic or putting it up for adoption.

16. Writing strenghts?

Hm, I like to write Emotions TM, but is that a strength? Same with dialog.

17. Writing weaknesses?

Flirting and fight scenes. I'm just unfamiliar with doing fight scenes and don't know how to flirt.

18. Thoughts on dialog in another language in a fic?

I've done it in my FarfaDream fic, but if it's something that's not easy to google translate, I find it a bit annoying.

19. First fandom you have written for?

The DSMP.

20. Favorite fic you have written?

Also a tough question. I'm not sure. The one that is most self-indulgent is definitely Children of the Realms

And there you have it folks! I would like to tag @citrus-blade @the-final-sif @percy-ils @morgueofstories @azures-grace @unholy-virtue @firedergen and everyone else who would like to!