#deep dive workshop

[tfatwsbarnes]

honey, where is my shield? | john walker

summary: you’re the fixer upper of weapons for the new avengers and want to do something for john walker’s upcoming birthday

pairing: john walker x fem!reader

word count: 2.7k

content: silly short fluff. walker has a bad attitude briefly, swearing, bed rot with self wallowing, kissing and illusions to sex if you squint

a/n: oh no 🧍‍♀️i’m forming into a 🧎‍♀️john walker apologist 🐀

        "Has anyone seen my shield?" John Walker strolled into the Watchtowers Living Quarters with his hands at his side, perplexed whilst the rest of the unorthodox team unwinded separately.

        He stopped at the foot of the sofa that Yelena Belova was sprawled across with a bowl of popcorn tucked under her armpit. Hands on his hips, she looked to him and he expressed impatience.

        "That tin taco?" A cheek full of mushed popcorn, Yelena snorted and fed her guinea pig a piece of red pepper she had prepared on the side, "No—I haven't seen your shield, Walker. You should take care of that thing. Or, throw it in the garbage disposal."

"Agreed. It's a heap of junk." Ava added along to Yelena.

"OK. Thank you for the unsolicited advice." Walker sneered and turned on his heel to find Bob to see if he had located his shield. As he turned, Yelena snapped her forefinger and thumb together in a Eureka! moment.

"Yes. I have seen it!" Yelena proclaimed and Walker ushered her to complete her thought, "Miss Fixer Upper has it."

Of course. Walker swore under his breath. Of course, you had taken it.

The Watchtowers esteemed colleague that wasn't apart of the New Avengers, but essential to the team. Their handywoman. You had been recruited by Valentina after a number of occasions where the team would come back from their missions with their items that were key in their protection, crumpled up like a piece of paper. That, or, Bucky Barnes arm needed reworked after temporarily disarmed by his opponent.

You were a kind little thing. Worked hard until your fingers had peeled many layers, sleepless nights sat with your miniature spotlight zoned into one of the New Avengers equipment that had to be fixed by that morning. Everybody sung your praises — hell — even John Walker liked you even when you had taken it upon yourself to remove his shield from his personal area and fix it.

The elevator dinged to the level you were on, John grimaced at the decor Valentina Allegra de Fontaine had curated for the Watchtower. It was an eyesore leading up to your workshop at the backend of the hall.

He didn't even knock as he burst through the door, making you jump the height of yourself in your seat, hands flying to your chest — your eyes magnified through the magnifying headset you were wearing.

"Oh—John!" You huffed as his eyes went to the very thing he had been ransacking his room for.

        It was propped up against a stand, the exterior faced you, the metal still tattered and warped but it seemed as if you had managed to pry it back into a circular shape again. There was something metaphorical about his second shield not fracturing at the seams when up against The Sentry, John Walker didn't want to deep dive into that therapy session. But, it made him upset. You fixing a problem that didn't need to be fixed.

        Two strides and he had snatched it off of the stand upon your worktop. You reached for it, your equipment clattering as you stood, "No, no, no! The paint hasn't dried yet!"

        He felt the wetness of the paint smudge beneath his fingers and to prove a point with his jaw tightened, John stared at you before his hands bent it back into the taco shape it had originally been prior to your non-consensual repairing. John was just adding flare to the dramatic stroke, wedging the shield back onto his forearm.

        "Ever heard of, if it's not broke, don't fix it?" He seethed without reason.

        You mulled over your answer, "I mean—It, it kind of was broken, John. I was doing you a favour. You know how many pliers I went through to bend it back into shape?"

        "Don't touch my stuff again."

        He slammed the door, shutting you off in your little cubbyhole and leaving you utterly gobsmacked at his behaviour. No. You wouldn't stand being spoken to like that. Having had your fair share of quips when attempting to help these supposed heroes and their reckless need to destroy their possessions, John had yet to be added to that list.

        There was an obvious knowledge of his bitter attitude, the rest of his team made shallow remarks at his expense, but you hadn't been one to dogpile onto that. He was sweet on you in particular moments, holding the door open for you, catching you at the elevator before your days work began — hair frazzled and eyes heavy — whilst he took the boxes of supplies from your arms and helped you to your workshop.

John had even invited you out for a friendly drink that you politely declined as you looked back at the mountain of work Valentina had left in her wake.

He was — no — had, been having an exceedingly hard time in regard to his personal life, not that you meddled too deeply but you wanted to do something nice for him. A surprise for his birthday which had been circled in red on your Bricky Gervais calendar that he had gifted you for Secret Santa after he thought you were an architect.

Even then, the calendar was in reference to construction workers.

Nevertheless, you pushed yourself out of your seat, magnifying glasses still in position which made it hard to identify how close things were, but you had worn them enough to figure it out. John had made it to the end of the corridor when you swung the door back open, your feet stormed across the marbled floor; hand drawn back before you launched your attack.

The pencil in your hand hit his forehead with the softest of smacks and paint smeared fingers rubbed the red mark that began to flourish.

The air grew thick with silence. The kind that had you suddenly regretting your childish actions against a serum enhanced vigilante.

“Don’t speak to me like that again.” You feigned confident pride, arms folded over your beating heart whilst John bent at the waist to pick your pencil up.

Dwarfed in his hand, John stepped into your space, his lips retained a humoured smirk from the absurdity of the situation. You counted your blessings that a man like John Walker had a softened spot in his heart for you. Pencil gifted back to you, he turned on his heel without another word; the elevator dinged at your level and he stepped in.

As the doors slid across to connect, John looked down at the paint smeared shield, his eyes narrowed at some chicken scratch that rounded with the curve of the shield:

You’ll never walk-er alone :)

His head rolled back and he sighed.

Now he felt like an asshole.

That continued through the night. It was a rarity, but John had a day-off from pummelling said enemies into the concrete with his fists. After his divorce, there wasn’t much of anything on his list to do when he had a gap in his crammed schedule thanks to Valentina. Fuck, he hated that woman after the Captain America comment.

He went grocery shopping for himself, a few extra items added to the basket to make a batch of Cactus Juice for himself and anyone else who took a fancy to it. Once returned, he packed his small section — compared to Alexei’s — of perishables in the fridge and returned to his room. John didn’t want to spend time with anyone in the group; and the feeling was mutual.

Fingers slotted between each other on the slow rise and fall of his stomach, John had laid for hours and stared up at the ceiling like he was doing time in solitary confinement. He eventually snapped out of it, after thinking about the downfall of his marriage. . . And his failure toward his son and Lemar Hoskins.

Eyes shifted to the corner where he kept his shield propped up as if it were a trophy. A tragic one, but still a prized possession. His eyesight had dwindled, even with the serum, but he could still see the bespoke white writing you had etched into his shield. Close to it were the smeared fingerprint evidence of John’s premature anger inflicted upon you. He had hoped you didn’t take it too personally, Walker was trying to work on that flaw, he really was.

John liked you. A lot, if he thought about it too hard. He had wondered for a long enough time if he only liked you because you weren’t launching vituperative insults in his direction. And, when you did insult him, John seemed to like it? He wasn’t sure. Things were complicated and he harboured guilt for looking at you in a certain light when he was finalising his divorce with Olivia.

Still. He had to make things right.

Knowing your ability to work overtime, John shifted off of his bed and pulled a white tee over his head to protect his modesty. Although — obnoxiously — he did think you may have thanked him for a shirtless moment. He worked hard for his lean physique.

Door opened, the blonde male almost body slammed you who had been on the other side carefully protecting the small flame lit from the pink candle atop of a sloppy red velvet cupcake you had made. Your alarm was voiced into a squeal, your shoulders quick to deflate once you had noticed that the flame had been blown out by the swift movements of John.

“Fuck sake, John.” You mumbled, “That was the last of the lighter fluid.”

John stared at you, “What are you doing?”

“It’s your birthday, duh?” Finger pointed to the clock that had struck twelve to signify the roll into the next day, which coincided with John’s birthday. You turned back to him and whispered, “Happy Birthday. You already spoilt your present from me.”

That was his birthday present?

“Your present to me, was to fix my own shield?” He sounded more ungrateful than he meant to. Actually, his tone was in disbelief that you were stood at his bedroom door in Hulk slippers and a large tee that read: Take a shower, I just did you dirty. You looked silly.

He really liked it. And you.

“Don’t make it sound like such a terrible idea. Bob said it was a good idea for someone that nobody knew what to get.” You waved your free hand in the air to defend your own honour and John just listened.

From the way your eyes shone from the warm glow from the lamp on his bedside table, the slope of your nose and down to your lips that were moving at a million miles per hour as you talked the ear off of him about his tendency to shoot first and ask questions later, resulting in him spoiling his own birthday gift; physically and figuratively.

Man, he was down bad.

He nodded along to your vexed words, taking the hit as he stepped closer to you, his hand unmistakably smoothed over the small of your back, head dipped as he reigned you in. His apology formed in the action of pressing his lips against yours — words muffled and soon snuffed out.

So, you hadn’t expected that type of response. Eyes wide as your lips warmed against John’s, your breasts pressed into him as he practically inhaled you in the corridor. Sure, there was an inkling of a crush on the Big Bad Wolf of the New Avengers. You hadn’t really tapped into it much aside from small acts of service that John didn’t seem to reciprocate. It was your love language after all, maybe it didn’t stretch to his.

To add to that, you didn’t want to be branded the other woman so to speak. It was a grey area when it came to a person in the finalisations of a divorce, and with this new group of heroes heavily saturating every front page of New York newspapers, you couldn’t imagine the guttural punch it would cause for his ex-wife to see him prancing around with another woman. If he liked you, that was.

But, you weren’t in the public eye. You were stood in a dark corridor, wrapped up in the troubled John Walker. And, you took your chances.

His hand came to yours, where you were tightly grasping the cupcake made especially for him. John’s fingertips plucked it from you and tossed it to the side which earned a pull back from you and he chased your lips.

“I worked really hard on that.” You warned at the discarded cupcake that spread it’s cake matter across the flooring.

John watched you, “It made a thud when it hit the floor. It would’ve broken my teeth.”

“I know. It was intentional after your little outburst in my Workshop, Walker.” You heard the grumble in his chest before he returned his reaction in the form of more kisses.

Hands smoothed to the meat of your thighs, John lifted you up with ease and turned to lead you both into the bedroom with a kick of his heel to shut his door. The cupcake long forgotten as he showed you how much he appreciated your efforts on fixing his shield that had dwindled in the shadow of his own ugly behaviour.

bonus:

        "Honey—?" You lifted your head to the call from your fiancé. Feet up on your desk, you had been admiring the way the new jewel on your ring finger caught the sunset that dipped below the horizon. John stumbled from the bedroom, hair in all directions from yanking his original attire off and back into his U.S. Agent gear.

        Oh. Absolutely not.

        "Have you seen my shield?" He asked through panted breaths.

        You blinked at him innocently, the corners of your mouth pulled downward into a frown as you shook your head.

        "Why? Do you need it?"

        He gawped at you. Look at him! Of course he needed it! "What—Yes, baby. I need my shield, please. Have you seen it? The guys are waiting on me" John begged before he dipped back into the bedroom, the scene in disarray as he clawed into every corner to try locate it.

        You slowly stood from your chair and rounded the table, your sweet time was taken to meet him in the bedroom. Shoulder rested against the doorframe, you folded your arms as you watched your fiancé dissolve into a flared panic with profanities leaving his mouth.

        The thing was, it was your birthday. And, John Walker had gotten on his knees in front of you and promised that the third birthday spent in a relationship with you — now newly engaged — would not be spent alone whilst he sped off to gallivant with his Thunderbolts, no, New Avengers esteemed co-workers. 

        As observant as ever, you had overheard Bucky Barnes speak about a minor incident they would have to step into the day prior, and, well, you took that opportunity to misplace John Walker's slightly out of shape shield, the old writing of yours faded but still present on the curve.

        John turned to you, frantic, "Honey, we are talking about the greater good here." His muscular back turned on you.

        "Greater good?" He halted his movements, his posture straightening when he took a deep inhale — eyes closed as he connected the dots. You scoffed, "I am your fiancé, I am the greatest good you are ever gonna get."

        Blue eyes met yours. Stern and telling that he was cemented in his decision. You stood your ground, expression stoic, making sure to have your ring finger exposed enough to remind John Walker who he was devoted to.

It lasted all of forty seconds at most. Then you deflated like a balloon, arms to your side and surrendering to his face.

“Fine. It’s where you never look.” You admitted. You watched as the cogs turned in John’s head before he sprinted down your shared hallway and into the laundry basket brimmed with fresh clothes that needed to be folded; the idea of your birthday dinner a distant memory.

He came back, folded shield in hand and pressed a chaste kiss to your lips that followed with an ‘I love you’. Or, more along the lines of: I love you, I might die at the hands of my enemies or my co-workers. The lines are blurred on that, but I love you. And, then, you blinked and he had gone whilst the dust settled amidst the sudden chaos.

You sighed and retreated to your bedroom.

John made sure to bring you home a red velvet cupcake and a pink candle to match.

[ecstxsyy]

KISS ME. | E. DIAZ ❦

Eddie wants to try something new.

18+ mdni!

eddie diaz x fem!nurse reader

warnings: voyeurism, oral (f receiving), fingering, p in v, cream pie.

cupid’s candy hearts masterlist

───── ⋆ ⋅ ꨄ︎ ⋅⋆ ─────

NOBODY CELEBRATED Valentine’s Day like the 118, or any holiday. They held community events for the public and decorated the firehouse from top to bottom. Red, pink, and white heart garland hung from the railings and little Cupid cutouts hung from the rafters in the ceiling.

Every year you helped them out with the decorating, your dating Eddie practically made you part of the firehouse. You designed concepts for themes every year, ordering them all around, because frankly, if it weren't for you and Hen, they’d have a hand-written banner and a plate of cookies for the community.

This year, you decided Cupid’s Workshop should be the theme. You had all the decorations made at a party supply store and sent Buck and Chimney to get the rest. Eddie was helping you hang up what you already had when the alarm rang throughout the station, all of the firefighters sprung into action immediately while you continued as if nothing was happening.

The chaos of the firehouse was nothing new to you, whenever you and Eddie worked opposite shifts it was basically your home.

Eddie jumped up to begin getting his gear when Bobby shouted to him,

“You can stay behind and help her, it’s not too big of a fire, we gotta get those decorations up fast,” Bobby said before taking off on the rig with the rest of the firefighters on shift.

Eddie sighed and turned back to the table full of decorations and glitter.

“Well, looks like you’re stuck with me,” you teased, elbowing his shoulder lightly. Eddie chuckled and looked around, moving to grab your hand and pull you upstairs towards the kitchen. Eddie checked the upstairs before pulling you into a deep kiss.

The kiss made you stagger a bit, you and Eddie were adventurous in bed but never anything like this. You kissed Eddie back for a brief moment before coming to your senses and pulling away.

“Eddie, we can’t. We’ll get caught,” you whisper yell at him, looking around to make sure nobody had decided to come up for a snack.

“Sure we can, you just gotta be quiet,” Eddie mumbled, feathering light kisses across your jaw, “You can do that for me, right?”

You scanned around one last time, a thrill running through you. You didn't know what to do, you wanted so badly to have Eddie bend you over every surface around you, but you were also terrified of being caught.

“But Edd-” You were cut off quickly by Eddie.

“Just shut up and kiss me,” Eddie grumbled, pulling you in to kiss him again. This time, you relaxed, you let him take the lead and let your body melt into his. Your tongues clashed until eventually, you took Eddie’s into your mouth to suck on it. That always drove him crazy.

Eddie hoisted you up onto the kitchen counter, unbuttoning your jeans with speed; he slid them down your legs, your panties following suit. Eddie wasted no time, diving into your pussy immediately. He licked a long stripe up your folds, stopping at your clit to kitten-lick it slowly.

You loved it when Eddie ate you out, he was very skilled with his tongue and fingers. He dove in like a starved man, slurping loudly on your clit. Eddie teased your hole with his index finger, getting off on the way you whined every time he slid just the tip of it in just to pull it back out.

“Please, Eddie,” you begged.

“Please what, baby?” Eddie teased, sheathing his index and middle finger fully inside of you. Your hand flew to your mouth, catching the moans that threatened to tumble out. You would probably die of shame and embarrassment if you got caught.

Your orgasm soon washed over you in waves as you gripped the edge of the counter, fighting back every sound that would give away the sinful things the two of you were doing right under everyone’s noses.

Eddie rode you through your orgasm, your slick covering his chin. He stood and unbuckled his belt, he pulled his pants down just enough to get his cock out and slapped his tip on your sensitive clit. You jolted with every slap and he smirked, he loved the way you reacted to him.

Eddie slid his cock into you quickly, he didn't have the time to savor this the way he wanted to. Your quiet whines and moans were music to his ears, he couldn't wait to have you to himself later tonight.

The angle Eddie was thrusting into you sent his tip straight into your spongy g-spot, his fingers habitually found their way to your clit, rubbing quick small circles against the tiny bud. You could feel your second orgasm already beginning to hit you, your legs starting to tremble around his waist.

You came with a small squeak, biting your knuckles to keep yourself quiet. The tight clench of your pussy sent Eddie toppling over the edge after you, his breath coming out in small shudders as he pumps his load deep inside of you.

As Eddie finished cumming, the sound of the rig pulling back into the station sent you both into a panic. Both of your hands flew to pull your clothes back on and grab a bottle of Clorox wipes to wipe down the kitchen counter, once the two of you made sure you both looked normal, you grabbed some snacks that were supposed to be set up and walked down the steps to meet the crew.

“How did you two manage to not get anything done the whole time we were gone?” Hen questioned with a raised eyebrow. You and Eddie held up the snacks in your hands with a small smile.

“We had to run to the store to get more snacks for the kids,” Eddie lied, the both of you immediately returning to your previous stations decorating.

At least you didn't get caught.

───── ⋆ ⋅ ꨄ︎ ⋅⋆ ─────

[pearlprincess02]

dating & dates (sagittarius version)

sagittarius: (sagittarius venus/mars/5th house/7th house)

dating someone with sagittarius venus, mars, 5th house, and 7th house placements means stepping into a world of excitement, adventure, and spontaneous passion. they crave freedom in relationships and are drawn to partners who encourage their individuality rather than try to confine them. a deep intellectual and philosophical connection is just as important as physical attraction, and they love engaging in stimulating conversations about life, culture, and personal growth. they are natural explorers—whether that’s through travel, new experiences, or personal challenges, they want a partner who is open to adventure and willing to embrace the unexpected. sagittarius venus seeks love that is exciting, open-minded, and full of discovery. they are happiest with a partner who shares their thirst for life and isn’t overly possessive or clingy. sagittarius mars approaches intimacy with intensity, enthusiasm, and spontaneity. they love the thrill of the chase and are most attracted to confident, independent partners who keep things fresh and unpredictable. sagittarius 5th house enjoys fun, laughter, and creative self-expression. they thrive in relationships that feel playful and dynamic, where they can continuously explore new ideas and experiences with their partner. sagittarius 7th house desires a relationship that allows for mutual freedom and growth. they are drawn to open-minded, optimistic individuals who share their adventurous spirit and aren’t afraid to take risks in love.

date night ideas

taking a spontaneous flight to a new city for the weekend, going horseback riding through open fields/on the beach, taking a surf/scuba diving lesson in a tropical destination, exploring a new city with no itinerary, just seeing where the day takes you (sagittarius venus, sagittarius mars) hiking a scenic mountain trail with breathtaking views, going to a lively cultural festival/street fair, trying an exotic cuisine at an authentic restaurant, camping under the stars & making s’mores by the fire, taking a dance class in a lively style (salsa, tango, hip-hop), going on a scenic hot air balloon ride at sunrise (sagittarius venus, sagittarius 5th house) spontaneous road trip to an unknown destination, backpacking through a foreign country together, exploring ancient ruins/a historical site together, doing an outdoor yoga/meditation retreat (sagittarius venus, sagittarius 7th house) trying a high-adrenaline activity (skydiving, bungee jumping, zip-lining), attending a comedy show/improv night for nonstop laughter, attending a music festival & dancing all night, spending the day at an amusement park, riding the biggest coasters, attending a spontaneous pop-up event/underground concert (sagittarius mars, sagittarius 5th house) joining an adventurous couples’ workshop (rock climbing, archery, survival skills) (sagittarius mars, sagittarius 7th house)

over 18+ spicy bonus 🔞

sagittarius: (sagittarius mars/cupido/eros/lust/amor)

someone with sagittarius mars, cupido, eros, lust, and amor approaches intimacy with unfiltered passion, wild enthusiasm, and a craving for adventure. they are spontaneous lovers who thrive on excitement and unpredictability, often treating the bedroom as a playground for exploration and thrill-seeking. there’s a natural hunger for new experiences, and they aren’t afraid to push boundaries or try unconventional things if it keeps the energy electric. playfulness, laughter, and a sense of freedom are essential—they despise routine and need a partner who can match their fiery intensity while embracing the fun side of intimacy. sagittarius mars brings a bold, energetic, and sometimes reckless approach to passion. they enjoy physicality, urgency, and uninhibited pleasure, often preferring intimacy in unexpected places or moments. sagittarius cupido thrives on the thrill of the chase and seduction, enjoying playful teasing, flirtatious games, and lovers who can keep up with their adventurous spirit. sagittarius eros is passionate about pleasure as a form of exploration, seeking lovers who are as open-minded and adventurous as they are. they crave variety and spontaneity, ensuring no two experiences are ever the same. sagittarius lust has an insatiable desire for excitement and novelty, often getting turned on by the idea of risk, the forbidden, or pushing the limits of what’s considered “normal.” sagittarius amor views intimacy as a way to connect deeply through shared experiences, valuing partners who aren’t afraid to get wild but also understand the power of bonding through adventure.

kinks you might have

travel-related encounters (hotels, foreign flings, vacation passion) (sagittarius venus, sagittarius cupido, sagittarius lust) adventurous roleplay (explorer, pirate, foreign lover themes), chase & capture (playful resistance, cat-&-mouse energy), long, teasing foreplay that turns into uncontrollable passion, (sagittarius mars, sagittarius cupido, sagittarius eros) risky encounters (public spaces, spontaneous passion), power play with an unpredictable dynamic, spontaneous initiation (zero planning, just raw attraction), exploring light domination & playful authority exchanges (sagittarius mars, sagittarius cupido, sagittarius lust) outdoor intimacy (under the stars, in nature, on a beach), experimenting with different locations (cars, rooftops, new cities), toys & props to amplify the experience, trying new positions & techniques every time, freedom to roam (open relationships/the thrill of occasional new partners), passionate, slightly rough encounters full of intensity & desire, voyeuristic/exhibitionist tendencies (thrill of being watched/watching) (sagittarius mars, sagittarius eros, sagittarius lust) passionate, uninhibited physicality (picking up, throwing around, fast-paced sessions), quick, urgent, & unexpected moments of passion (sagittarius mars, sagittarius lust) laughter & playfulness in the bedroom (tickling, joking, lighthearted energy), worship of the body (appreciating physical beauty through touch & admiration) (sagittarius cupido, sagittarius eros, sagittarius amor) blindfolds & sensory deprivation for heightened excitement (sagittarius eros, sagittarius lust, sagittarius amor)

all observations are done by me !!! @pearlprincess02

main masterlist

[melgillman]

Very excited that I get to teach two back-to-back workshops at the Center for Cartoon Studies once again this June! If you want to spend a week with me in scenic Vermont doing a deep-dive into horror comics or graphic memoir (or, hell, both?? if that's the kinda life you've lived??), class registration is now open!

[meatsaint]

Stupid girl.

Michael Gavey x Reader.

Summary: On Christmas Eve, Michael found himself alone, stuck in the quiet of his room, with no invitation to the Christmas party that everyone else was attending. He tried to distract himself, dive into something—anything—to kill the time. But it would’ve been easier if your arrogant, fucking beautiful face didn’t keep invading his thoughts.

Warnings: This will be Michael Gavey alone and bursting with need. Solo masturbation, nipple teasing, choking, whimpering, loud moaning, dirty talking.

By now, Michael swears he can see the letters burned onto the backs of his eyelids, etched onto the scratched lenses of his glasses. He’s been reading, re-reading, poring over the same pages for what feels like hours—not out of necessity, but out of sheer, exquisite boredom. Studying is beneath him; he doesn’t need it, not like the pathetic little plebs cluttering up Oxford’s hallowed halls. Especially not the ones fawning over Felix at tonight’s insipid Christmas party.

Not that Michael was invited, of course. NFI—no fucking invite. But who cares? Honestly, the idea of enduring that brain-dead circus of undercooked intellects is enough to make him laugh. Felix and his preening flock of hangers-on, spilling cheap wine and flinging around half-baked opinions as if they’re profound insights—God, it’s all so unbearably tedious.

Michael knows better. He's smarter than all of them combined. He doesn’t need their pathetic approval or their pitiful attempts at camaraderie. He's better than this. Smarter than this. And frankly, he knows it.

But even geniuses have their weak spots—turns out, he’s still human after all. The real issue? That old adage about idle hands being the devil’s workshop might as well have been written for him. And in his case, the devil wasn't some abstract concept—it was you. Yes, you. That insufferable, magnetic little thorn on its side, always lurking just out of reach. He couldn’t shake you—not in the university hallways, and apparently not in the supposed sanctity of his dorm room either.

What the fuck is your problem, anyway?

He’d clocked you from the start. And no, it wasn't because of your perfect face, or your body that made his stomach twist in ways he'd rather not name. It wasn't your eyes, either—though they had a way of locking onto him, melting his resolve with the precision of a surgeon. Nor was it how you always looked a little undone when you showed up late, messy but effortlessly captivating, like you weren't even trying. And it certainly wasn't the rare times you smiled—God, that smile—that fucking gorgeous, infuriating smile that seemed to light up the entire room and derail every coherent thought in his head.

Although, if he’s honest, he’s got a sneaking suspicion all of those things had more to do with it than he’d like to admit.

It was the way you were good. Not just good, but obnoxiously good. The kind of good that felt like a personal affront. You always seemed to know the answers before the question had fully left the teacher's mouth, every word perched smugly on the edge of your tongue, just waiting for the perfect moment to make everyone else in the room feel like an idiot. You weren’t mediocre—not in your looks, and certainly not in your intellect. And it drove him mad.

It wasn't a passing irritation, either. It burned. Deep. It clawed at him that there was nothing he could label you—no snide insult to fling your way. Idiot? Hardly. Loser? Not a chance. He couldn't even resort to the old “stupid, spoiled rich girl” trope, because like him, you were a scholarship student. No silver spoon. No trust fund.

There was nothing. Not a single flaw for him to latch onto. And that—more than anything else—infuriated him.

It was irritating him now—gnawing at him, scratching under his skin—until he threw the book back onto the wobbly table in front of him with a sharp slap of paper against wood. He let himself pause, tilting his head back and closing his eyes, feeling the ache of his body sink into the uncomfortable chair. His hand drifted to his face, thumb and index finger pinching the bridge of his nose as if he could squeeze out the tension gathered from hours of relentless reading. The release was brief—his hand dropped back to his lap with an exhale that was equal parts exhaustion and frustration.

And, of course, his mind began to wander. It always did.

He could still remember the only real interaction he’d had with you—back in those first few weeks after you’d arrived. Something stupid, trivial, forgettable. Except not for him. His brain, that obstinate bastard, clung to it like a dog with a bone.

The hallways had been chaos that morning, teeming with bodies and noise. Probably Felix and his band of sycophants stirring up their usual mess. He'd been trying to slip through, and apparently, so had you. He hadn’t even noticed he was behind you until it was too late.

The memory alone made his chest tighten. The smell of your hair, warm and clean, had hit him first, flooding his senses. Then the heat radiating from you, so alive it was almost unbearable. And finally, the proximity—too close, close enough to make his pulse hammer.

He’d had to touch you, his hands finding your hips without a second thought as he maneuvered past. “Excuse me,” he’d murmured, low and quiet, just beside your ear. And then your eyes—those fucking eyes—turned to his, locking onto him with an intensity that nearly stopped him in his tracks.

He remembers how, in that fleeting, charged moment, your bodies pressed closer together as he tried to move past you. How his hand lingered on your hips just a second too long, how your warmth seeped into him like some addictive, forbidden drug. And then, as he finally squeezed by, your hips brushed against his.

Holy shit!

The contact felt a jolt straight through him, lighting up every delicious, traitorous nerve in his body.

Michael bit his lip, the memory still fresh and alive, thrumming through his body like a pulse he couldn’t control. It was pathetic, he knew that. Laughable, even. And yet, there it was—the way it made him feel then, the way it was making him feel now. His gaze dropped, and he caught sight of himself: the loose black shorts he’d thrown on for the night already tented, his shirtless torso rising and falling with heavy, uneven breaths. The bridge of his glasses slid slightly down his nose, slick with sweat.

He could hardly believe it, how turned on he really was—how something so fleeting had embedded itself in him like this.

A low, involuntary sound escaped his lips as his head fell back again, resting against the edge of the chair. His hips shifted weakly, thrusting upwards in a desperate, almost instinctive rhythm, finding nothing but empty air. Torturous. Completely maddening. His fingers gripped the arms of the chair with white-knuckled determination, keeping himself grounded, holding back from giving in entirely.

No, not yet. He wanted to make it last, draw it out, at least for this fleeting moment. Since you were already so deeply in his fucking head, he might as well let himself indulge in it.

Slowly, so achingly slow, he let his hands drift from the arms of the chair, sliding up over his body. His fingers brushed against the flat of his stomach, gliding up to his chest, his touch igniting a shiver that made his back arch instinctively. Every inch of his skin felt alive, buzzing under his fingertips, alight with sensation.

And then you were there again, haunting him. He could see your hands in his mind—how effortlessly you wrote, quick and precise, how sometimes you’d press a fingertip to your lips to wet it before flipping to the next page. The memory crawled over him like fire, his skin burning with the thought of you, your face painted vividly behind his closed eyelids. Every inch of you felt so close, tantalisingly within reach—if only in the merciless confines of his imagination.

His fingers found his nipples, hardened and aching, and he rolled them between his thumb and forefinger, a shock of pleasure coursing through him. His hips lifted sharply, pressing against the frustrating barrier of his shorts, seeking some kind of release. A low, slurred groan escaped him, unrestrained, sweat dripping from his temple as his mind spun with thoughts of your smile—wicked and teasing—and your teeth, perfect and dangerous, that he was certain would leave marks he’d never want to forget.

Fuck. It was too much, all of it. Too much and not enough.

"Fuck, I'm so hard," Michael mumbled to himself, the words slipping out into the emptiness of the room, perhaps picturing how you'd react if you knew how much he was aching for you.

His hand finally ventures down, sliding under his clothes to free his erection into the cool air. He gazes at the precum beading at the tip, a clear sign of his arousal, almost laughing at how insanely turned on he is by the mere thought of you. A smile curves his lips, followed by a quiet chuckle. He's so wound up, it's almost absurd. With his thumb, he begins to circle the sensitive head of his cock.

"Oh, yeah," Michael whispers again, his lips parting, eyebrows knitting together as waves of pleasure wash over him. "Yeah, yeah, that feels so good." His words fade into the air, his other hand still on his chest, giving the nipple a sharp twist, heightening his sensations.

His breathing becomes labored, the pleasure intense yet unfulfilling. He craved you, only you. His hand moved to his mouth, thumb slipping between his lips, tasting himself, a moan echoing from deep within as he fantasized it was your essence he was savoring. He longed for the taste of your pussy, to dive between your legs with abandon, to explore every inch of that perfect cunt he imagined you possessing. The thought of you riding his face, using him for your pleasure, made his desire spike to new heights. He wanted to be the one to make you shudder, to feel your thighs clamp around his head as you took what you needed from him.

Withdrawing his hand from his mouth, he spits into his palm, the saliva making his hand slick, ready to simulate the wetness he'd bring out in you. His fingers then wrap around his erection, eyes rolling back as his hand grips him at the base, a silent moan parting his lips.

"Oh fuck," he murmurs, overwhelmed by the sensation, the throbbing of his cock almost punitive in its intensity.

Taking a deep breath, he begins to stroke himself, his other hand gripping the arm of the chair, nails digging into the fabric. His hips buck in rhythm with his hand, up and down, the mental image of you vivid in his mind. He imagines how snug you'd feel around him, how it would feel to stretch you with his thickness, to dive deep and watch your expression shift from clever to needy. Would you take all of him without protest? Would your moans fill the room? Would tears of pleasure brim in your eyes for him? Just the thought sends tremors through his legs.

"You're so tight," he vocalizes, not fully understanding why he's speaking it aloud, but needing to make the fantasy more concrete. "You little smug bitch, I want to fuck you so bad, so bad..." he repeats, almost like a mantra.

His hand accelerates, the pace frantic as he watches, his gaze fixed on his own arousal. His cock, slick with saliva and precum, is a mess, the head engorged, veins protruding like they're about to explode. He imagines himself thrusting into you, coated in your essence, shining with your desire. His chest is covered in sweat, his legs trembling, his toes curling in ecstasy.

"Oh fuck, I need you, please," he begs, as if by some divine intervention, you'd hear and materialize right there. "Please, please make me cum, please..." His plea, though soft, reverberates around him.

The hand that was clutching the chair moves to his throat, his grip tightening, a statement of need. He imagines it's your hand, while you ride him, those perfect breasts bouncing before his eyes. He craves the suffocation, the breath taken away by you and your sharp mind. His fingers press harder into his throat, moans escaping as muffled sounds, his other hand now punishingly fast, the veins in his forearm standing out with the effort.

"I'm cumming, fuck..." He cuts off his own words, his grip on his throat tightening further, not allowing his hand on his cock to slow. "Cum with me, fuck!" The words are barely audible as his body surrenders to the climax.

His eyes roll back, and he quickly moves the hand from his throat to cover his mouth, muffling the scream of pleasure as his release hits, cum spilling onto his stomach, his thighs clenching in desperation, his whole body tense with the image of you in his mind. Everything fades into numbness, except for the vivid image of you, the thought of fucking you.

Michael’s body slackened in the chair, sliding lower as his arms fell limp at his sides. His head tipped back, eyes half-lidded with exhaustion. When he glanced down, he saw the mess he’d made—his stomach sticky, his skin glistening with sweat, strands of hair plastered to his damp forehead. He was a wreck, a pathetic disaster, and all for someone who would never know.

A stupid grin crept onto his lips as his eyes wandered to the ceiling, a long, heavy sigh leaving his chest.

“I hate you so much,” he murmured to the empty room, his voice barely audible. A part of him almost wished you could hear it, wherever you were right now. Then again, maybe it was better if you didn’t.

A low chuckle rumbled from his chest, his head shaking faintly from side to side as that ridiculous smile lingered. Yeah, he hated you. Hated the way you got under his skin, the way you took up space in his thoughts without even trying. But, God help him, he should probably thank you—for making Christmas Eve marginally more interesting than the stale, lifeless pages of his books.

Stupid girl.

[goyardgoyangi]

𐙚 busy woman pt. 1 ໒꒱ ‧₊˚

⌗ pairings: eren x reader, slight! erwin x reader

⌗ summary: you don’t believe in fate, but you do believe in probability. the odds of running into a stupidly attractive guy at a highly competitive internship interview? low. the odds of him rejecting you? …higher. the odds of ending up in the same program — and on the same project team after all that? practically zero. and yet, here you are.

⌗ word count: 1.2k

♥ pt. 2 ♥ masterlist ♥

The first time you see him, he’s sitting across from you in Amazon’s sleek, modern lobby, scrolling through his phone with an air of boredom. His long hair falls effortlessly over his shoulders, framing sharp green eyes, and the all-black outfit he’s wearing only adds to the effortlessly cool aura he exudes. It’s infuriating.

The other candidates in the lobby are visibly tense— eyes darting across their laptop screens, reviewing LeetCode problems like their lives depend on it. Meanwhile, he looks like he just rolled out of bed and showed up for fun. He’s probably the type to start coding projects the night they’re due and still get a perfect score. The type who never second-guesses himself in a technical interview. The type who coasts through life on sheer talent.

It’s hard not to be at least a little resentful, especially in this job market. You sent out over 200 applications, grinded through a grueling technical screening, and sacrificed weeks of sleep just for this shot. And here he is, looking like he has nothing to worry about.

You fidget with your fingers, trying to shake off your pre-interview nerves. Maybe he’s a nepo baby. Maybe his dad is a senior dev here, and this interview is just a formality. That scenario isn’t unheard of. There’s no way a normal college student would be that calm right now.

You sigh, letting your mind wander to all the K-dramas you’ve watched about office romances. Out of the sea of awkward, smelly, socially inept CS major guys, he’s like a rare exception— the kind of guy who actually looks good while coding. Gosh, imagine if someone like him was your coworker. Debugging wouldn’t be so miserable if you were pulling all-nighters next to a guy like that. If only.

You’re still lost in your little fantasy when a voice snaps you back to reality.

“The next interview group, please come forward.”

Your name is called first.

And then—

“Eren Yeager.”

Oh.

You glance at him from the corner of your eye as he stands, stretching lazily before trailing after the recruiter. As he walks past, you catch the faintest whiff of something clean and expensive, so unfairly good.

Life really isn’t fair. Not only is he ridiculously good-looking, but he’s also tall. And he smells good.

You force yourself to refocus, but as you follow the recruiter inside, the awareness of him lingers, making your heart rate spike even more. You shouldn’t care— he’s just another candidate, really, just another competitor. You should be silently praying for his downfall. But something about the way he carries himself, so effortlessly confident, only makes you hyper-aware of your own unease.

By the time you’re seated, you push all unnecessary thoughts aside.

The interview goes well— better than well, actually. You answer the behavioral questions smoothly (after rehearsing them so many times you could probably recite the prompts in your sleep), showcase your problem-solving and people skills (shoutout to all those painfully competitive career workshops from uni), and even throw in a few well-placed jokes that make your interviewers smile (carefully crafted after an embarrassingly deep dive into their LinkedIn profiles).

By the time you walk out, you feel good— so good that, on a wild impulse that not even your obsessive need to be prepared could have accounted for, you find yourself stopping in front of Eren by the elevators. He’s leaning against the wall, scrolling through his phone like he has nowhere to be.

“Hey,” you say.

He looks up, surprised. His sharp green eyes flick over you, taking you in for a moment before he responds. “Hey.”

You hesitate for half a second. Then, before you can overthink it, you say, “We were in the same interview group, and I think you’re really cute. Would you wanna go out sometime?”

Eren blinks. He wasn’t expecting that. Hell, even you weren’t expecting that. But when someone has a face card like his, sometimes you just have to shoot your shot.

Then— silence. A long, excruciating pause. The kind that stretches just long enough to make you wonder if you sounded creepy. Oh god. Maybe you came off weird. Or desperate. Or worse— maybe he thinks you’re completely out of his league, and not in the fun, delusional way.

Finally, after what feels like an eternity, he exhales, his gaze flicking over you once more before taking out an airpod to bluntly say, “I don’t really date.”

Oh.

You try your best not to let the rejection sting for too long. After all, Eren’s gorgeous and probably gets asked out by girls all the time—enough to build immunity to it. What could you say? Beautiful people should date other beautiful people, and even with your fair share of self-confidence, you felt deep down that he was out of your league.

But your obsession with being prepared had its perks. It helped you be adaptable in situations like this. “No worries,” you say smoothly, flashing him a casual grin (one you practiced in front of the bathroom mirror, imagining hypothetical situations like this) like it’s no big deal— despite the fact that your heart feels like it’s been stomped on. “Good luck with the internship.”

And with that, you turn and leave down the stairs, pretending like it never happened.

A month later, you get the acceptance email.

You’re beyond thrilled— thrilled when you (finally) announce your highly coveted internship at frickin’ Amazon, thrilled when you go out to the club with your girlfriends to celebrate the end of internship application season, and thrilled when you hear about the sweet, sweet pay (which you’re already planning to save up for a winter break trip to go snowboarding) during the Zoom onboarding meeting.

You’re so thrilled, in fact, that you can’t imagine anything ruining your high. That is, until you walk into orientation and see a very familiar face sitting at one of the tables.

Eren Yeager.

His gaze flicks up as you enter, recognition flashing in his eyes. For a split second, neither of you says anything. You freeze, feeling your face flushing with heat. He holds your gaze for what feels like an eternity before you break it, quickly looking down at the floor, mortified beyond belief. The probability of this happening was practically zero.

And yet, here he is.

You tug at the hem of your newly bought shirt from Mango (a mini present to yourself to celebrate landing the internship of your dreams, the pinnacle of what your college experience had amounted to on your resume), trying to distract yourself, but nothing can shake the immense embarrassment you feel.

To make matters worse, the project manager steps to the front of the room and announces, “Alright, summer interns! You’ll be working in assigned dev groups for the summer. Let’s introduce you to your teams.”

You can already feel the impending doom, as if the universe and all its forces are conspiring against you. What were the chances? Your opps must’ve gotten together in a group chat and ordered the most expensive bootleg spell from Etsy to make sure this moment— your moment, the one you’ve worked your butt off for— was as awkward as humanly possible.

You knew life was getting too good to be true.

[kamaluhkhan]

GUILTY AS SIN?

GLUTTONY — part vi of we'll write sins not tragedies

pairing: luke castellan x nemesis! reader (afab) word count: 3k summary: after a mission gone wrong, you unknowingly take the fall for a friend; you get drunk with the enemy; and you start to think that, if they’re going to crucify you anyway, you might as well indulge in a few fatal fantasies. warnings: set during the last olympian so spoilers for the entire pjo book series; luke + reader get drunk; mention of death + war + reader has some survivor's guilt; smut (unprotected p in v, oral f receiving, kinda sub!luke, brief allusion to knife kink — 18 + MDNI) + angst author's note: not sure how i feel ab this one but i've been workshopping it for weeks so i think her time has come !! also maybe got a bit too deep into book lore oops. also also ive been listening to this song an outrageous amount and i hope i did it justice ANYWAYS lmk what y'all think, thanks sm for reading ♥

♪ "guilty as sin?" by taylor swift

you’re well aware of how suspicious this looks, rendezvousing with the enemy at a sleazy dive bar in the heart of the city. 

he walks in, and your heart starts to beat faster in anticipation. his familiar deep brown eyes are now striking gold, and a streak of gray is woven through his signature dark curls — evidence of the battles you've fought, on opposite sides, and an ominous reminder of a war that has yet to be over. 

as he casually orders himself a drink and one for you, you keep a hand on your concealed dagger. it’s become an instinct of yours, whenever he’s around.

“i didn’t come here to fight.” he assures, catching the glint of your blade. 

“and what about…..” you gesture broadly at him. 

“we’re not entirely synched yet, so it gives him a break whenever i’m in full control,” he explains as though reciting from a textbook (something like how to betray your loved ones and overthrow the olympians 101). “it’s only me tonight. i swear on the river styx.”

a shiver passes through you.

about a year ago, luke tracked you down in new york. apparently, kronos was pushing him to do something extreme, and luke felt conflicted. 

you thought it had to be some sort of cruel joke, because you could not think of anything more extreme than what luke had already done in facilitating a war between gods and titans. you had no patience for his crocodile tears, not after he played you so well the first time. 

you told him as much, then told him to fuck off. 

to be fair, you didn’t know that would lead to him bathing in the river styx and becoming a vessel for the titan lord himself.

luke wears the curse of achilles well: all strong muscles and sharp angles, his tan skin glowing ever-so slightly, and his body devoid of any fresh cuts or bruises despite surviving an explosion just a few days prior. 

“so….what? you’re the pilot whenever kronos needs to take a really long nap?” 

“i’d say timeshare is the closest way to describe it.” 

“50/50 ownership?”

“more like 90/10.”

you scoff. “sounds like a scam.”

the corner of his mouth quirks up in amusement. it reminds you so much of old times, his boyish charm peeking through whenever a camper would try to pull a prank on him, and then complain when he’d beat them to the punch. 

“it’s just me,” he repeats, but you didn’t need any more confirmation.

you know deep in your gut, from that mischievous smirk alone: it’s not the lord of time, but luke castellan next to you.

the bar is surprisingly busy for a weeknight. there’s a game being shown on TV, and people wearing sports jerseys occasionally groan or cheer or come to the counter to order another pint for their table while keeping their eyes glued to the screen. the jukebox in the corner plays music from the 70s and 80s as a group of friends starts to dance, tipsy after a deadly combination of jello shots and sangria.

for the first few drinks, you and luke are silent, letting these sounds of regular human existence fill the space between you. you half-expect him to ask about law school admissions, or the new tattoo you got on your upper thigh, or your band’s latest show — all fragments of your own mundane mortal life used to distract yourself from demigod realities. 

he doesn’t, though. luke just stares at the hockey game, one you know for a fact he doesn’t care about because the rangers aren’t playing, as he sips his old-fashioned like he has all the time in the world. 

“did you wanna meet so we could just sit here in silence or….”

when you had agreed to this meeting, you had a clear goal in mind: find out who the spy is and clear your name.

it might be too much rum or the crushing weight of recent events, but you no longer have the energy nor the drive to be strategic or even cautious around luke. now, you’re looking for a cure to your bone deep boredom and heartache.

"no. i’m here because….” he falters and runs a hand through his hair. “look, i heard about what happened at camp. and, with beck —” 

“dying?” you finish, taking one last gulp of your drink. all the rage, resentment and grief you’ve been feeling has been lodged in your throat. you’d hope each sip of your dark and stormy would burn through it, but instead it comes tumbling from your lips. 

“honestly, beck would probably still be alive if you didn’t join the dark side. i guess you’re kinda leading the dark side now, aren’t you luke? what’s that like?” 

luke polishes off his drink, too, his cheeks flushed. he gestures at the bartender for a third round of drinks. or is it fourth? 

“don’t be a dick,” luke sighs once a replenished glass is placed in front of him. “i obviously never wanted to hurt you — any of you.”

if you were of sober mind, maybe you’d point out that it’s too late; that luke already hurt all of you the minute he decided to side with kronos.

“i know i did, though,” he adds after swallowing a mouthful of his drink. 

you know that if luke was of sober mind, he would never have admitted that. he seems to know better than to apologize though, hopefully recognizing that the damage has already been done. 

it’s not like your hands aren’t bloody, too. 

“it was supposed to be me, you know?” you let out a watery laugh. “i was supposed to go with percy on the mission, but beck offered to go instead because he thought — he knew — that it would….it would be hard for me to see…. you.”

luke pauses and turns away from you. “you couldn’t have known what would happen.” his voice wavers, too. “beckendorf was looking out for you — it’s what he does. did.”

“i couldn’t even go to the funeral,” you continue. “i feel like i didn’t really get to say goodbye, you know?”

 “yeah,” luke hums sorrowfully. “mourning someone who fought for the gods isn’t really allowed where i am.”

again, you could point out the irony in what he’s saying. given everything he’s done, luke dug his own grave and clearly some for his friends, too. 

tears sting your eyes, but you blink them away. the reality is that one of your best friends died because you couldn’t handle an encounter with your ex-boyfriend, the one you’re currently sitting beside. 

you might not have done what they accused you of, but you’re nowhere near innocent. who were you to give yourself permission to cry?

in the dim neon light, you notice a tear slide down luke’s cheek before he wipes it away just as fast.

he clears his throat. “to charles beckendorf: a hero by any other name.”

you tap your glass against luke’s, and you both drink in honor of your lost friend. you drink to everyone and everything you’ve lost, too. 

beckendorf is dead; chris has lost his mind; clarisse might start her own war with the apollo cabin over a flying chariot; and ever since the princess andromeda mission went terribly wrong, silena can’t go one minute without bursting into tears. 

it was too easy for everything to fall apart, as though this was always what the fates had in store for you — the next generation of greek tragedies. 

thankfully, there always comes a break in the tragedy, and it seems to be now: you and luke, getting drunk off whiskey and rum and old memories. 

you remember countless times sneaking out to the beach after curfew, mixing store-brand soda with cheap alcohol smuggled into camp by luke’s half-brothers; hot summer nights spent fantasizing about existence outside of camp and returning to your head counselor duties in the morning with chiron and mr. d none the wiser. once you started dating, it became routine for the two of you to wander away from the group for some privacy, somewhere far enough away so that no one could hear you scream luke’s name.

those memories still make your skin flush, even as you’re here drinking cocktails at a bar in the city, with one friend gone to elysium and everyone else calling you a traitor.

“i can’t believe you don’t remember that night! mr. d caught a few senior campers getting drunk in his office? they stole a super expensive bottle of wine, threw up all over the carpet, and had to spend the rest of the night cleaning it?” 

you continue shaking your head. you tip your glass back to capture the last drops of amber liquid before confessing:  

“what i remember is spending the whole night jealous of malcolm pace because he got to slow dance with you.”

luke lets out something between a scoff and a laugh, then he’s silent for a few moments.

“i love this song,” luke muses, words blurring together. “i haven’t heard it in a while.” he finishes his drink and sets the glass down, holding his hand out to you. 

your brain is a bit foggy from all the alcohol, so it takes you a few seconds to realize what he’s asking. 

“you wanna dance?”

“yeah,” he answers. “make up for lost time.”

it’s not until you feel luke’s chest pressed against yours, his hands firmly on your waist, that you register what song is currently playing.

“downtown lights” by the blue nile — luke had spent so long trying to find the right song for your first time together. 

you told him not to worry, teased him a bit for planning every detail so meticulously, but deep down, your heart swelled with how much he cared.

the empty hermes cabin during capture-the-flag, both of you pretending to be too injured from sparring practice to play. luke’s sweaty hands fumbling with the condom, you having to step in and rip the wrapper with your teeth. clothes being haphazardly thrown on so you could run back to the infirmary before anyone noticed. silent vows to do it again, and again, and again. 

the more time spent exploring and experimenting, the more you got the rhythm of each other’s bodies, knew how to make the other squirm and throw their head back in pleasure — and that didn’t just go away when luke joined kronos’ army. 

even when your loyalties were more clear, your consciousness was plagued with visions of you and luke together, ones that left your sheets burning, more than the blazing summer heat. you confided in silena about these once, and she assured you that there is no such thing as bad thoughts. 

she did warn you, though: it’s when you indulge in these fantasies that they risk becoming fatal.

now, thinking back and forth between memories with luke and the events of this past very shitty week, you realize that maybe that’s why you’re here.

despite everything you’ve done, you supposedly betrayed people you consistently fight beside, fight for; you were thrown out of a place you once considered home and told never to come back. 

you were doomed from the start — a daughter of nemesis, assumed to be wicked and revenge-seeking since birth. 

well, if they’re going to crucify you anyway…..

once the song ends, you ask:

“you wanna go outside for a smoke?”

your hands start playing with the curls at the base of luke’s neck, hinting at what you were hoping comes next.

luke licks his lips, gold eyes darker than before. 

“guess you’re itching to put that celestial bronze to good use,” he says lowly.

“only if you ask nicely,” you drawl. 

luke blushes. 

you pull away from him, start walking towards the back exit, and pray that he follows you. 

—

this is why meeting with you was dangerous: there’s no one else in the world – god, titan, or otherwise – luke castellan would get on his knees for, let alone in the filthy alley behind a bar.  

technically, kronos sent luke here to recruit you. 

the scythe charm — the one used to communicate with silena — sits heavy in his pocket. it’s part of the reason why you were exiled from camp, why your friends don’t look at you the same way. why you can’t ever go back home, not really. 

luke imagines you might resent those who threw you out of camp, but you would never betray them. he knew that you weren’t likely to join kronos’ army.

he’s thankful that, at the very least, you still have a penchant for breaking some rules. 

the two of you are a tangled mess of teeth and tongue. luke tastes the spiciness of ginger beer and rum, mixed with sweetness from the clove cigarette you just smoked. you lock one leg around luke’s hip, and the brief glimpse of your lacy black underwear has him throbbing. one of your hands slips underneath his shirt to trace the contours of his abdomen. luke’s breath hitches when your hand reaches down even further. 

“wait –” you pause your actions to let luke finish his sentence, and already he regrets voicing his hollow concern. “i….i probably should not be doing this.”

“me neither,” you concede, breathing steadily.“but, they already think i’m guilty.”  with your other hand, your thumb dances over his kiss-swollen lips and luke feels something ignite in the pit of his stomach. “maybe i am, with how much i think about you.”

luke knows what’s at stake for him, if anyone finds out, but in a booze-soaked haze and with you looking at him like that, he can’t seem to care. 

it’s coming back to him now: that endless cycle of waking up sticky and drenched in sweat over dreams of screaming your name and going about his day like it wasn’t a paradox to be leading kronos’ army and still wanting someone aligned with the enemy to devour him. 

when he agreed, however reluctantly, to be a vessel for kronos, luke had to lock those desires inside a vault deep inside his mind. 

this might very well be luke’s last chance to satisfy his cravings, once and for all. tonight, he’s in full control of his body and mind. 

he’ll happily yield his power to you. 

soon enough, your teeth gnaw on his top lip as luke messily thrusts into you, your underwear hastily pushed to the side. he tries to savor every part of this, of you — the heel of your combat boot digging into his back; the sting of your nails where you grip him; the familiar scent of your skin, sickly sweet cherries and burnt vanilla; the hoarseness of your voice, encouraging him to go faster, harder. following your orders, luke wraps both of your legs around his waist and digs his fingers further into your hips to keep them secure.

it’s a religious experience, watching you throw your head back against the brick wall as your orgasm crashes through you. luke follows a few seconds later, pulling out just in time to paint the inside of your thighs with his cum.

luke grins as he watches you come down from your high, eyes closed, chest heaving, neck engraved with the outline of his teeth.

“sorry, didn’t mean to give you a concussion.”

you open your eyes just to roll them at luke, who’s tucking himself back into his jeans.

“you’re such an asshole,” you jest through labored breaths, registering his shit-eating grin. you fix the hem of your leather skirt and pout dramatically. “and you had to leave a mess behind, didn’t you?”

without another word, luke kneels in front of you. 

he leans his head back to admire how your lips curl into a bemused smile at his antics. your fingers press into his pulse point, no doubt feeling how reckless his heartbeat becomes underneath you. once more, your thumb prods at his lips; this time luke grants access, the cold metal of your ring burning on his tongue. 

“is this how you pledged loyalty to your titan king?” you taunt. 

luke shakes his head, still sucking your digit. 

he did have to bow, but not like this. the only entity he’d worship this desperately is you. 

“i’m honored,” you coo. luke bites back a whimper when you remove your thumb from his mouth, instead tracing the scar on his face, up his cheekbone. “i have to say though: i miss your brown eyes, pretty boy.”

his whole body is on fire with how you touch him, but your passing observation feels like a knife to the gut. wanting to be good for you, to prove he’s still your pretty boy, luke pushes up the bottom of your skirt so it bunches around your waist. 

“luke!” you attempt to scold, concealing a moan when his teeth graze your clit through the damp fabric of your underwear. “someone might see.”

“it’ll be fine, baby,” he assures. “is this new?” luke is mesmerized by the fresh ink on your thigh, fingers trailing over swirling black lines. 

you hum, a goddess gazing down on her disciple. “do you like it?”

luke nods. he replaces his fingers with his tongue, journeying across your skin, tasting salty sweat mixed with his cum drying between your legs. he hears your whimpers for more. he complies and plunges two fingers beneath the lace until you reach your peak. luke places one last kiss to your core, before getting up again.

you crash your lips onto his, and you’re kissing him the way you did back when you really loved him, chaotic and feverish. your fingers snake through his curls, and you tug on them just enough to make luke’s head spin. 

you’re somehow more intoxicating than however many drinks he downed earlier.

he sees something simmering behind your eyes, when you ask if he wants to come back to your apartment. you both know you shouldn’t, but honestly — in the grand scheme of things, what’s one more sin?as the two of you are tangled beneath your bedsheets, you decide to frame it differently, as a mutual vow: maybe just one more time will satisfy this hunger.

[mikasaerens]

The real issue with the politics in s4 of The Boys

Ok before y’all jump me- I agree with most, if not all, of the political stances that the show takes. That being said there have been serious issues in the way the politics is being handled in s4.

It’s true that the previous seasons were never subtle, but the problem with s4 isn’t that it’s more in your face politics. The problem is the way it fits into the story.

In s1-3 whenever politics were brought up (all the time) they were well integrated into the plot. When they talked about racism, it wasn’t a one liner, it involved making characters like Stormfront a huge focus of the season. They EXPLORED and FLESHED OUT all of the political topics that they brought up.

In s4, instead we have random line drops about transgender people, abortion, immigration etc, without diving deep. Not every political topic needs to be included. They need to include ones only where they can seamlessly incorporate it into the plotline.

The abortion scene was so jarring. Here we have a MAIN character (Starlight) supposedly get an abortion and make that tough decision and WE NEVER HEAR OF IT. It basically happened *between seasons* and then is only brought up when exposed by Firecracker and then never again. Like tf is that?? What other show would leave out such a huge moment??

Similarly we have random lines where a white man talks about being a slave catcher while eyeing A-Train and all sorts of cringy BS. Whereas before, the racial dynamics of police violence (Stormfront, Blue Hawk) are a huge part of his arc and redemption.

They just threw shit in without workshopping it to fit the plot. I don’t mind funny campy moments like when they donated Tek Knight’s money to liberal organizations while he had a breakdown, but every political moment in s4 is taking that same tone. Just dropped in for no reason. I did like how they did Firecracker though, having her be a host spreading far right conspiracy theories worked.

[antinousletmehit]

The jobs and life styles gods and goddesses would have in modern era in your opinion?

୨୧┇cracks knuckles, I love these kinds asks KEEP THEM COMING🗣️🗣️

────୨ৎ──── ────୨ৎ──── ───

୨୧┇ Zeus

Job: CEO of a multinational corporation.

Lifestyle: Lavish, living in a mansion with the latest technology. He’d definitely be the boss who throws lavish parties for his employees but only to find hot chicks to sleep with. If you work in his company its like an episode of the office

Hera

Job: Marriage counselor

Lifestyle: Polished and professional, she lives with Zeus but on the other side of the house

Poseidon

Job: Marine biologist or owner of a luxury business that rivals Zeus

Lifestyle: Loves being near the ocean and probably has a beachfront home. always spending his weekends deep-sea diving or sailing.

Demeter

Job: Organic farmer

Lifestyle: Lives in a cozy countryside farmhouse surrounded by sprawling gardens. She’s deeply connected to nature and often organizes eco friendly community events.

Athena

Job: Military strategist.

Lifestyle: Lives in a sleek, minimalist apartment with a library filled with books. She’s always involved in intellectual debates and advocates for justice.

Apollo

Job: A singer and actor

Lifestyle: Lives a glamorous, fast paced life, traveling constantly for gigs or concerts. His Instagram would be full of sunsets and artistic selfies.

Artemis

Job: Wildlife conservationist

Lifestyle: Prefers solitude, living in a cabin in the mountains or deep in the woods. She’s always off hiking, or camping

Ares

Job: Military officer

Lifestyle: Lives in a modern, industrial-style apartment and spends his days training, competing, or chasing adrenaline.

Aphrodite

Job: Supermodel,or beauty influencer

ifestyle: Luxurious and glamorous, with a wardrobe that could rival any celebrity’s. She’s the kind of person who turns heads wherever she goes and probably has millions of social media followers.

Hephaestus

Job: Engineer, or blacksmith,

Lifestyle: Lives in a workshop style loft surrounded by tools and half finished projects. He’s hardworking and inventive, though he prefers to stay out of the spotlight.

Hermes

Job: travel blogger

Lifestyle: Always on the move, he’s rarely home and loves exploring new places.

Hestia

Job: Chef, interior designer, or caretaker at a community center.

Lifestyle: Warm and nurturing, she lives in a cozy home filled with the smell of fresh baked goods. She’s everyone’s go to person for comfort and advice.

Hades

Job: Funeral director

Lifestyle: Lives in a dark, Gothic style mansion but secretly enjoys a peaceful, quiet life. He has a dry sense of humor.

Persephone

Job: Florist

Lifestyle: Balances her time between a bright, airy greenhouse and a moody, Gothic estate.

Dionysus

Job: Bartender, or nightclub owner.

Lifestyle: Lives a bohemian lifestyle, throwing parties but also enjoying quiet vineyard retreats.

Eros

Job: Dating app developer

Lifestyle: A hopeless romantic, he spends his time helping others find love while occasionally getting caught up in his own messy love life.

Nike

Job: Professional athlete or motivational coach.

Lifestyle: Energetic and goal oriented, she’s constantly working toward her next goal, and always complete her New Year’s resolutions.

Nyx

Job: Astrologer

Lifestyle: Lives in a quiet, secluded mansion and keeps a low profile.

Eris

Job: Reality TV producer or a Twitter influencer known for stirring up drama.

Lifestyle: Thrives in chaos, always moving from one scandal or prank to another.

Hypnos

Job: Sleep therapist or owner of a luxury mattress brand.

Lifestyle: Calm and laid back, he’s always encouraging others to relax and take it easy, though he sometimes naps through important meetings.

[germanpostwarmodern]

In recent years two of Berlin’s (and actually Germany’s) most significant brutalist buildings sparked quite an outcry among architects, preservationists and lovers of Brutalism: the so-called Mäusebunker designed by Gerd & Magdalena Hänska as well as the Institute for Hygiene and Microbiology by Fehling + Gogel were threatened with demolition. Fortunately, a big discussion ensued and concluded with the heritage protection of both buildings. But until now only for the Institute building a viable continued use has been determined whereas the Mäusebunker still lies dormant despite the numerous concepts on the table. They range from b+’s plan to turn the Mäusebunker into a hub for studios and workshops to FORWARD’s proposal of turning it into a modern day ark. The latter was developed by Ludwig Heimbach, the editor of „Mäusebunker & Hygieneinstitut - Eine Berliner Versuchsanordnung“, recently published by Jovis Verlag, a volume that takes a deep dive into the history, present and potential future of the two emblematic buildings. The book is the conclusion Heimbach’s long-term advocacy of the buildings’ preservation and the comprehensive archival research that accompanied it. Together with different authors Heimbach recounts the building history of Mäusebunker and Hygieneinstitut, highlights their architectural uniqueness and also involves the heated debate surrounding their preservation or demolition, with the latter being especially hard-fought in the Mäusebunker’s case. As the book recounts, the Mäusebunker due to its function as „Central Animal Laboratories of the Free University Berlin“ from its very opening on had a hard time being accepted: for animal-rights activists it naturally was a fed flag and for the average Berliner an eyesore. But its monolithic, warship-like appearance shouldn’t deflect from the wealth of details the building contains and which the plans included in the book reveal. They come to life in Kay Fingerle’s essay and photographs that take a look behind the facades of both buildings and particularly vividly show the dystopian atmosphere inside the Mäusebunker.

Together with the incredible amount of plans, sections and historic photographs as well as the informative texts, Fingerle’s photographs leave no doubt why Mäusebunker and Hygieneinstitut are outstanding examples of German Brutalism that with the present volume receive a well-deserved homage!

[loveinhawkins]

Up until recent events, Eddie hasn’t really put much thought into flashlights—save for that time he had to take out the batteries in the T.V remote to get his to work, back when the power went wonky last summer.

But now? Oh, as soon as he’s through with this whole nightmare, Eddie’s gonna find out whichever saint invented the damn things and start a petition to get them a federal holiday. That’s gonna be his whole… raisin something, something—he thinks it’s French, Buckley will know.

Fucking wondrous creations.

… Okay, he might still be a little jittery.

So sue him. It’s either run with his increasingly stupid train of thought or have a thoroughly justified panic about—well, there’s just so much to choose from: the ash in the air, the apparently sentient vines on the ground, how it’s so fucking cold and dark—

Jesus H. Christ, calm down.

It’s not all that dark anyway—or at least, it’s not as dark as it could be. Steve’s lighting the way, flashlight in hand. Honestly, Eddie thinks he should get it preserved, like in one of those glass cabinets in museums, complete with a plaque: This bulb somehow survived a journey from the depths of a lake into an alternate dimension, and all for the low, low price of…

Well, Eddie doesn’t know how much it cost. He’ll workshop the whole plaque thing.

In his reverie, he stumbles carelessly, nearly pitching over right into Hive Mind territory.

“Ah, shit,” he whispers.

Steve’s hand must move because the light drifts over—ends up illuminating much more of Eddie’s path than Steve’s.

“Thanks,” Eddie says—glances sideways to find Steve already looking at him.

“Think I’m the one who should be thanking you,” Steve replies.

His hand flexes, as if he’d gone to twirl the flashlight before catching himself; Eddie has a very faint memory of Steve doing the same with pencils in class and fights a private smile.

“You gave me it,” Steve continues. “I would’ve just… gone right in without thinking.”

It’s said self-deprecatingly, but Eddie would argue that Steve’s impulsivity (his courage) is an admirable character trait, even if it sets his heart pounding.

His own problem is that he thinks too damn much, until the window of opportunity has almost been and gone.

He was the only one to hesitate before diving into the lake: he knows all too well how that could’ve made its way onto the increasingly long list of moments that haunt him.

He could’ve been too late, could’ve not found the Gate at all—and then, would only have been able to pathetically swim back to the kids and tell them that their heroes were gone.

The light skips onwards just a little, encourages Eddie to look up from his feet. He blinks a few times to try and adjust to the darkness looming ahead. There, the indistinct outline of trees, and he’s drawn back to a classroom again, to the soporific noise of chalk on a blackboard, to…

The woods are lovely, dark and deep.

“The hell is that from?” Eddie wonders, and he doesn’t realise he’s also said the quote aloud until Steve speaks.

“S’a poem. Robert Frost.”

Eddie clicks his fingers. “See, that’s why you actually passed English.”

Steve rocks his hand back and forth, so-so.

Eddie raises an eyebrow. “Don’t play coy now, Harrington.”

“I’m not, I passed by the skin of my teeth, dude.” Steve looks into the distance as he walks, like he’s being drawn back to some place, too. “I was meant to, um, submit a portfolio thing, and I just… didn’t.”

“Like stories and shit?”

Steve smiles. “Mm-hmm, and shit. Poems, too.”

“So why didn’t you…?”

Steve just shrugs in reply so Eddie changes tack—rolls his eyes expansively, but only at himself.

“Fucking Frost. Ugh, why can I remember that shit now, but when a paper’s in front of me, it’s just…” Eddie mimes an explosion in the back of his head, gone.

“Well,” Steve says, chuckling, “if the, uh, lovely atmosphere of this place jogs your memory, we’ll make some time, get you to write an essay.” He grins at Eddie, teasing and charming in equal measure. “We’re nothing if not productive.”

“Sure, that’s one word for it.”

Joking aside, Eddie finds that the mention of school calms his heart somewhat: to think of the foreboding sights around him as part of a story. Maybe it’s a control thing, like his campaigns. Dress shit up, put a film on top, then you don’t have to look at it directly.

He suggests as such to Steve in a longwinded ramble, and gets a thoughtful look in response.

“Like the Shire? And Mordor?”

“Yeah,” Eddie says. “Yeah, exactly.”

Steve nods slightly. The movement dislodges some particles in his hair—and yes, it helps, Eddie thinks, to believe it’s just freshly fallen snow.

“Yeah, that sorta never really worked for me?” Steve’s voice goes up at the end, almost apologetically, although for the life of him, Eddie can’t work out what he’s apologising for. “Like, when the kids ran with all the D&D stuff, the uh… analogy? Metaphor?”

Eddie gestures at himself with one hand, I failed English.

Steve laughs. “Yeah, whatever. Dustin and Lucas keep hashing that one out. Anyway, it didn’t exactly… help. Help me, I mean. Just made everything more…”

He sighs heavily.

Eddie thinks he understands. All his bullshit is just a veneer, after all: it doesn’t truly mask the fear.

“Hey, maybe you could give it a shot,” Steve adds. The light dances for a second, like he’s just barely resisted twirling the flashlight again.

“What?”

Steve smirks—juvenile, light-hearted, almost like he’s about to challenge Eddie at the school gym, like, bet you can’t make that shot from center court, Munson.

“You could write a poem. Make sense of…” Steve gestures around them.

“Harrington, as I keep reminding you, I failed English.”

“Yeah, so? I’ve heard Henderson go on about your campaigns, dude, s’not like they come from nothing.” Steve looks Eddie up and down in exaggerated scrutiny. “You look like the kinda guy who loves a theme.”

“Oh, really,” Eddie says flatly. He can’t hide his smile even if he tried.

“That’s what I thought, every time you’d come into class late: oh, here he is. The symbolism.”

“Jesus Christ, Harrington, shut up.” Eddie steps into Steve’s space just to shove him away (just to touch). He thinks that if he were to try his hand at poetry, it’d be horrendously self-indulgent—something about how he might not be the one holding a flashlight right now, but he’s certainly carrying a torch.

“I don’t work for free, Steve. You’ve gotta do one, too.”

“A poem for a poem, huh?” Steve says. “Sure. It’s a deal.”

And yeah, they might just be saying anything to pass the time. But Eddie chooses to believe otherwise; there’s still a pensive flicker in Steve’s eyes that makes him think he might just get lucky, that Steve might even dig up some old stuff from his abandoned portfolio.

It’s a nice thought—something to look forward to, at the end of all this.

He considers Steve, and even though he knows it’s not snow, he can’t help but turn the particles into flakes in his mind again, into something prettier, safe—almost as if Steve’s presence has softened the danger.

He wants to stop here, suddenly. Linger. It doesn’t make sense. But it feels like time is…

A gentle nudge—a warm elbow to his side.

“C’mon, daydreamer,” Steve says. “You can write down whatever you’re thinking later.”

Eddie snaps out of it with a breath of a chuckle, follows Steve’s light again. Keeps moving forward—past the ash, and the vines, and the trees.

The woods won’t be forever.

After all, he’s got promises to keep.

[aspenmissing]

ꜰᴀꜱᴛᴇꜱᴛ ᴡᴀʏ ᴛᴏ ꜱᴏᴍᴇᴏɴᴇ'ꜱ ʜᴇᴀʀᴛ

ᴊᴀʏᴄᴇ x ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ || ꜰʟᴜꜰꜰ || 1172 ᴡᴏʀᴅꜱ || ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢꜱ: ɴ/ᴀ

ꜱᴜᴍᴍᴀʀʏ: ʏ/ɴ ᴀɴᴅ ᴊᴀʏᴄᴇ ᴄʜᴀʟʟᴇɴɢᴇ ᴇᴀᴄʜ ᴏᴛʜᴇʀ ᴛᴏ ᴄᴏᴏᴋ ᴅɪꜱʜᴇꜱ ꜰʀᴏᴍ ᴇᴀᴄʜ ᴏᴛʜᴇʀ’ꜱ ᴄᴜʟᴛᴜʀᴇꜱ—ʏ/ɴ ᴍᴀᴋɪɴɢ ᴀ ᴅɪꜱʜ ꜰʀᴏᴍ ᴊᴀʏᴄᴇ'ꜱ ʟᴀᴛɪɴᴏ ʜᴇʀɪᴛᴀɢᴇ, ᴡʜɪʟᴇ ᴊᴀʏᴄᴇ ᴘʀᴇᴘᴀʀᴇꜱ ᴀ ᴅᴇꜱꜱᴇʀᴛ ꜰʀᴏᴍ ʏ/ɴ'ꜱ ɪᴛᴀʟɪᴀɴ ʀᴏᴏᴛꜱ, ʟᴇᴀʀɴɪɴɢ ᴀɴᴅ ʙᴏɴᴅɪɴɢ ᴛᴏɢᴇᴛʜᴇʀ.

ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ | ᴊᴀʏᴄᴇ

The soft hum of jazz filled the kitchen as the evening sunlight slowly faded, casting a warm glow over the countertop. The scent of fresh herbs and spices mingled in the air, mixing with the comforting hum of the stove. Y/N and Jayce were deep in their culinary challenge, each determined to master a dish from the other’s culture. It was a rare evening where they were both focused solely on cooking, an unspoken challenge to see who could bring the most flavour to the table.

Jayce was on a mission. He had grown up with food that was rich in bold flavours, spices that could light up your soul. Tonight, he was diving into the world of Italian cuisine, attempting to master tiramisu, a dessert Y/N had introduced to him not long ago. He had heard about it for years but never thought he’d get a chance to make it himself. Now, with Y/N by his side, he was determined to do it justice.

“You sure about this, Jayce?” Y/N asked, leaning on the counter with a teasing smile. She watched him carefully measure out the espresso, his brow furrowed in concentration. “It’s not as easy as it looks.”

Jayce grinned, his dark eyes gleaming with confidence. “I’ve got this. You’ve seen me make tamales. I’m just as good with sweets.”

Y/N raised an eyebrow. “We’ll see,” she teased. “Just don’t blame me when it turns out to be a mess.”

Jayce rolled his eyes but couldn’t help laughing. “I think I can handle this.” He began dipping the ladyfingers in espresso with the precision of someone who had spent years perfecting his craft. The strong, earthy scent of the espresso filled the kitchen, adding an unexpected richness to the air.

Y/N was still unconvinced. She was used to watching Jayce in the workshop, tinkering with complicated designs and fixing machines with his usual ease. But cooking a dessert, especially one from her culture, was a different kind of challenge. However, she admired his willingness to step out of his comfort zone and dive right into something new. She trusted him.

On the other side of the kitchen, Y/N was in her element. She was making tamales from Jayce’s Latino culture, and she took this challenge seriously. She had always been an excellent cook, but there was something special about preparing a dish that was a vital part of Jayce’s background. As she mixed the masa, her hands moved with practiced fluidity, the right amount of salt, chili powder, and cumin added to the dough. Her heart swelled with the joy of making something for him, something that was rooted in his traditions.

“Don’t forget the chicken!” Jayce called out, his voice muffled by the low hum of the music.

“I know! Just making sure everything’s perfect,” she replied, smiling to herself. She placed the seasoned chicken into the tamale mixture, her mind racing with thoughts of how this moment was more than just about food—it was about bonding, about blending two cultures in one place.

Jayce watched as Y/N worked. The way she moved in the kitchen was mesmerizing to him—focused, yet calm. He loved how comfortable she was with everything she did. He could see the pride in her eyes as she skilfully formed each tamale, folding them with the care and precision of someone who had learned the craft from generations before. She was giving a part of herself to him, and it made him feel even closer to her.

As Y/N wrapped each tamale in a corn husk, Jayce felt a spark of inspiration. He needed to step up his game with the tiramisu, especially after seeing how dedicated Y/N was to getting the tamales just right. He turned back to the counter, carefully layering the mascarpone mixture into the dish. He was determined to nail the balance between the espresso-soaked ladyfingers and the rich, creamy filling, just as Y/N had explained. He wasn’t about to let her have the upper hand.

“How are you doing over there?” Y/N called from the stove, keeping an eye on the steaming tamales.

Jayce turned and gave her a confident grin. “I think I’m almost done. It’s coming together.” He finished the final layer of mascarpone and began dusting the top with cocoa powder, a detail he knew was important.

“You’re starting to look like you know what you’re doing,” she teased, her tone light but affectionate.

Jayce flashed her a grin. “I told you I was a quick learner. Just wait until you try it. It’ll blow your mind.”

Y/N chuckled, though she felt a small sense of pride swelling in her chest. She was glad he was taking this challenge seriously, and she couldn’t wait to see how his version of tiramisu would turn out. And even though she was a bit nervous about her own tamales, she trusted herself and the generations of cooks who had come before her.

After Jayce placed the tiramisu in the fridge to chill, the two of them turned their focus to the tamales, carefully checking the steaming pot. The savory aroma of the filling mixed with the scent of the corn husks, creating a mouthwatering smell that filled the kitchen. Jayce couldn’t resist stealing a bite of one as soon as it was done, the hot, tender masa bursting with flavor.

“Okay, you’ve won this round,” he admitted, his voice full of admiration. “These are amazing.”

Y/N beamed with pride. “I told you,” she said, her eyes sparkling. “It’s all about balance. And a little patience.”

Jayce laughed, wiping his hands on a towel. “You’ve definitely got that part down.” He pulled out the tiramisu, now chilled and firm, and set it on the table. “But you’ve got to try this. You’re going to love it.”

Y/N’s eyes widened as she took a bite of the tiramisu. Her expression softened, and she let out a small, contented sigh. “I’m impressed,” she said, her voice full of warmth. “It’s perfect.”

Jayce grinned, his chest swelling with pride. “I knew it. The challenge wasn’t as tough as I thought.”

“Maybe,” Y/N replied with a playful look, “but don’t think you can get away with it so easily next time. I’ll be coming for you.”

Jayce laughed, clearly enjoying the banter. “I’ll be ready. But for now, let’s just enjoy this.”

The two of them sat down at the table, sharing bites of the tamales and the tiramisu, savouring each dish that the other had painstakingly prepared. As the evening wore on, the soft jazz continued to play in the background, and they found themselves talking about everything and nothing at all, their laughter filling the room.

For Y/N and Jayce, this evening was about more than just cooking. It was about sharing a piece of themselves—each dish was a story, a cultural exchange, and a memory in the making. The tamales and tiramisu were just the beginning of what they would continue to build together, one dish at a time.

[tobiasdrake]

I know you haven't done your deep-dive fighting style posts in a while, but I was curious if you'd want to do one for Cell? I think his whole deal as a composite of multiple powerful fighters could be interesting to consider...

Oh, sure. Let's talk about Cell.

Cell is a complicated creature. The surface level is just that he's a regenerating bio-android who can use everybody's attacks, but we're gonna go a bit deeper than that. The first thing to note about Cell is that he, very unusually, does not have a ki signature. Rather, he has five ki signatures; One for each of his five genetic donors.

There is no distinct "Cell" ki the way there is for "Yamcha" ki or "Gohan" ki. Cell reads like Goku, Vegeta, Piccolo, Frieza, and King Cold are all standing in a circle holding hands or something. But this isn't just a neat detail; It also informs on his fighting ability.

Cell is able to use moves like the Kamehameha because he has their wielders' ki. Which has wild implications for how ki and martial arts works, if we're being honest. Apparently your techniques are stored in your ki like genetic muscle memory. He can also perform the Taiyoken/Solar Flare because that, too, is stored in Goku's ki.

Cell taps into one of his five wells of ki to call on that person's moves. But that comes with drawbacks. Cell's Kamehameha against Piccolo was weak and unimpressive because the well of Goku ki he has inside of him was taken from the fight with Vegeta, and we're a long way past that.

Cell-Goku's ki just isn't strong enough to power a very impressive attack, compared to the Nameless Namekian.

Further, because these abilities are stored like genetic memory, Cell himself doesn't fully understand what he's capable of.

He knows what these abilities are on a conscious level. He knows that he can do them. But he lacks experience. He has a wealth of technical knowledge without practical understanding of how to apply it.

He has a good laugh at Trunks over this shit.

But when it's his back against the wall, he's no better than Trunks.

Cell may have Goku's, Piccolo's, and Vegeta's ki, but he is no Goku nor Piccolo nor even Vegeta. He doesn't know how to fight when he's on the backfoot. He doesn't know how to turn things around when the tide shifts against him. How to plan his moves out in advance and then execute that plan to overcome a superior foe.

Because for all his advanced knowledge, he's still green.

He's sitting in an engineering workshop with the best tools that billions of dollars of wealth can buy and a middle-school education. He only knows how to dominate.

Which frequently bites him in the ass.

Likely as a consequence of how many raging egomaniacs are packed inside of him, Cell has a severe overconfidence problem. He conducts himself as if he were invincible, at one point even going so far as to let Vegeta hit him with his best shot and very nearly paying the ultimate price for his foolishness.

Sometimes it's only Piccolo's regeneration that keeps him from losing fights that, with his power, he should be winning handily. He coasts a lot on being very hard to put down.

Cell's comfort zone is when he can step out onto the field, having leveled up so far that nobody can touch him. He's not playing a fighting game. He's playing an RPG. If the fight turns against him, if he can't overwhelm his opponents, he turns his tail and runs for his life so he can grind some XP and try again.

And when he can't do that, he turns to more desperate measure like crying about the unfairness or trying to nuke the planet to murder-suicide his opponents. Thought, admittedly, the former was a ploy to manipulate Vegeta.

Cell's an extremely sore loser, is basically what I'm getting at here. He has a hard time figuring out ways to snatch victory from the jaws of defeat, instead preferring to simply ragequit when fights turn against him. While also going out of his way to help his opponents power up, secure in the misguided belief that he's untouchable.

Cell has two modes: "I am invincible!" and "Oh no I'm vincible what do I do!?" The latter of which is a problem Goku, Piccolo, and Vegeta have all faced over their lives and come up with a variety of answers to, but for which Cell mostly falls back on "I need a level-up so I can be invincible again."

Cell's fight with Goku is his best. It's the one fight he has that genuinely feels like he and his opponent are both giving as well as they get.

It's this fight, keeping pace with Goku, that pushes Cell to his most interesting places as a fighter. Though, conspicuously, he's sandbagging and secretly this is yet another fight in Cell's comfort zone, where the true threat to him is minimal.

Uh, except when Goku outplays him.

See above, re: Cell nearly losing fights he should be winning handily.

Nonetheless, we get to see Cell at his best here. Which still pretty much consists of the basics: Punch, kick, Kamehameha here or there. And at one point pulling 17's force field out from desperation.

Cell's inexperience leads him to have difficulty anticipating his opponents' moves or gauging their strength.

And, fitting for a copycat fighter, he also has seemingly no capacity to innovate new ideas, strategies, or techniques for himself. Over the course of the Cell Games, he pulls "My Kamehameha will destroy the Earth if you don't stop it!" three separate times.

He really has no better ideas than this one. Which he stole from Vegeta.

But he also doesn't make a lot of use of his copycat abilities either. He mainly relies on the easy ones: The Kamehameha and Taiyoken, both of which are described as pretty simple and easy to perform. Though this isn't because he can't do more complex moves, as we see him break out Frieza's Death Beam in his fight with Gohan.

He has other moves. He just doesn't use them much.

(This is not the case in the anime, where he not only makes far more use of his technique pool but also they increased his number of donors to give him a wider pool of moves to copycat.)

I would be loathe to describe Cell as lazy. He puts a lot of effort into grinding XP in his own special way so that his Android manhunt can go off successfully. But his art is lazy. His style. His technique.

Out of all the major Dragon Ball characters, Cell is the most complacent. He was born already knowing everything he thinks he needs to know, and demonstrates little to no desire to refine his abilities on a technical level the way Goku, Piccolo, Vegeta, and even Frieza do.

He has a built-in roadmap of shortcuts to power, and so far as he's concerned, that's all he needs to become unstoppable.

[reallyhardydraws]

iiiit's monday!

i've got in person workshops out-of-the-house on tuesday, thursday and saturday. inbetween gonna be working on commissions but aaaalso:

sewed an apron over the weekend and it's looking for a new home:

so if you have been in need of an apron and want to support your local internet artist, [the link to buy is here!]

new tax year begins next month: all the big corps are upping their prices in april as inflation always goes, but i'm going to continue my comms at their current rates for a bit longer: hopefully you all with proper jobs get an inflation pay-boost and i'm going to try and stay affordable because i need the money 😅

but in non-money focused projects: i uploaded a lost-media type video on youtube (a longass deep dive) about this game "storyscape" that i used to play and it's joined my playlist of 'niche deep dives':

so if you wanna put some youtube videos on in the background while y'all work, [my youtube channel is here!] feel free to watch with adblock, i'm not a monetised channel! 🤣

that's it for now. wish my luck as i crack paint tool SAI open 🎨🧑‍🎨

[bloggin-by-zama]

Practical steps to help you grow in your faith. (via. ChatGPT)

1. Cultivate a Personal Relationship with Jesus

• Daily Prayer: Make time to pray each day. Share your thoughts, fears, and gratitude with Jesus as you would with a trusted friend. Remember to listen as well, seeking His guidance.

• Scripture Reading: Dive into God’s Word regularly. Start with the Gospels (Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John) to understand Jesus’ life, teachings, and heart for humanity. Reflect on how His words apply to your life.

• Be Honest with Him: Jesus already knows your heart (as seen in John 2:24-25). Don’t hesitate to bring your doubts, struggles, or joys to Him.

2. Strengthen Your Foundation in Faith

• Study the Bible Deeply: Go beyond surface-level reading by studying the context, background, and meaning of passages. Use study guides or commentaries to gain deeper insight.

• Memorize Scripture: Commit key verses to memory. This will help you rely on God’s truth in challenging times. For example:

• Proverbs 3:5-6: “Trust in the Lord with all your heart…”

• Philippians 4:6-7: “Do not be anxious about anything…”

• Understand Theology: Explore the core beliefs of Christianity to deepen your understanding of God’s character and His plan for humanity.

3. Build a Life of Worship

• Worship Regularly: Worship isn’t just singing—it’s a lifestyle of honoring God in everything you do. Make time to express your love and gratitude to Him through worship, both privately and in a church community.

• Live for His Glory: Seek to glorify God in your daily actions—whether at work, in relationships, or in how you treat others.

4. Be Part of a Community of Faith

• Join a Church: Being part of a local church allows you to grow alongside others, receive support, and learn from experienced believers.

• Participate in Bible Studies or Small Groups: These provide opportunities to discuss scripture, share experiences, and gain accountability.

• Serve Others: Jesus modeled servanthood. Look for ways to serve in your church, community, or even your own home. Acts of service help us reflect God’s love to others.

5. Trust God in Difficult Seasons

• Life isn’t always easy, but faith grows strongest in trials. Surrender your struggles to Jesus, trusting that He will guide you and work all things for your good (Romans 8:28).

• Develop a habit of thanksgiving, even in tough times. Gratitude shifts your perspective and reminds you of God’s faithfulness.

6. Share Your Faith

• Tell others about Jesus—not just through words but also by living a life that reflects His love and grace. Let your actions speak of your relationship with Him.

• Pray for opportunities to share your testimony. Your story can inspire and draw others to Christ.

7. Pursue Continuous Growth

• Read Christian Books: Authors like C.S. Lewis (Mere Christianity) or A.W. Tozer (The Pursuit of God) provide deep insights into faith and spiritual growth.

• Attend Workshops or Seminars: Look for events or conferences in your area focused on deepening your spiritual life.

• Embrace Discipline: Set spiritual goals, like fasting, journaling prayers, or taking quiet retreats to focus on your relationship with God.

8. Rely on the Holy Spirit

• The Holy Spirit helps us grow in faith and gives us the strength to live as followers of Christ. Pray for the Spirit’s guidance and empowerment in your daily life.

• Galatians 5:22-23 reminds us of the fruit the Spirit cultivates in us: love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness, and self-control.

Reflective Questions to Deepen Your Faith:

1. Do I truly believe Jesus knows my heart and loves me unconditionally?

2. How can I make more room in my daily life for prayer and scripture reading?

3. Am I trusting God fully, or am I holding back in certain areas of my life?

4. How can I serve and encourage others in their faith journey?

Closing Encouragement:

Remember, growing in faith is a lifelong process. Don’t rush it or feel pressured to be “perfect.” God is patient and delights in every step you take toward Him. Trust in His love, seek Him wholeheartedly, and allow Him to transform you from the inside out.

[moonspirit]

Aruani are so cute because i just know armin has a little itinerary on his phone that has every single detail of their dates planned out and how much annie enjoyed it. And annie is just happy to go with him and eat and enjoy her bfs company

T____T Anon, honestly, Annie's SOOOOOOOO relaxed dating Armin because he's like an autofill system: just give him the word 'date' and he'll come up with an itinerary for 12 days that has dinosaur tours, cake baking workshops, deep sea diving and riverside picnics, complete with backup plans and emergency contingencies.

At the end of it he has a feedback survey with a rating of 0-10 and Annie gives him anything lower than 8 he'll breakdown and become unusable for the next 3 months 🥺

And of COURSE Annie enjoys this! She's basically dating THE BOY and has to do absolutely nothing!

The dream life!!!