#dio writes

[demonstenes]

A sketch from my fic Truths of the Heart <3

[dio-icarticaae]

Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: Superboy (Comics), DCU, DCU (Comics) Rating: General Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Kon-El | Conner Kent & Lindsay Wah, Hero Cruz & Kon-El | Conner Kent, Kaliber (DCU) & Kon-El | Conner Kent, Hero Cruz/Leander (DCU), Hero Cruz & Kaliber (DCU) & Leander (DCU) & Kon-El | Conner Kent & Lindsay Wah Characters: Kon-El | Conner Kent, Lindsay Wah, Hero Cruz, Kaliber (DCU), Leander (DCU) Additional Tags: Reunions, The Event Horizon (DCU), Superboy and the Ravers - Freeform, Friendship Series: Part 1 of '90s Superboy Week 2025 Summary:

“Alright, what’s going on –” Kon stopped, momentarily stunned by the sight of the Event Horizon and very familiar faces. “Aura? Kaliber? Hero? Leander?” “Surprise, Superboy!” Aura said, a grin on her face and hands on her hips. “You said to let you know if we got the party going again!”

 Or: Kon reunites with the Ravers.

For @90skonweek Day 1: Friends/Family

[dio-icarticaae]

I wrote a thing! :D

Fic idea: A world where Clark and Bruce both get put under Black Mercy’s spell and see their alternate “ideal” dream realities. These realities are identical, though they don’t realize that — a world where they finally give into the pining and realize the other cares about them just as much.

They get married, raise kids, and build the League. Years pass in domestic bliss.

Cut to them waking up. Both are devastated that their marriage/lives weren’t real and resign themselves to a miserable world with a partner who doesn’t remember them.

They both think the other saw something else — Clark mumbles something about Lois and Bruce lies that he saw his parents alive again (they were in his dream, but that wasn’t the focus? hmm)

But. As they try moving on from the years-in-a-second bliss they shared, odd moments keep cropping up.

Bruce says something Clark only ever heard in the dream world. They know things about each other they shouldn’t. Clark slips up and reaches for Bruce’s body in a way that’s too achingly familiar. They’re both choked with denial and grief.

Cue the most aggravating dual pining ever.

[dionysus-drabbles]

been thinking a LOT of slutty bruce banner thoughts :)

I'm just a woman guys. nsfw below the cut!

warnings for oral (f receiving), pet names (sweetheart, honey, good girl), marking/hickies, teasing, mmm men cumming in their pants, dacryphilia if you squint, bruce banner likes having his hair pulled, reader is female!

💋 Thinking about how much of a munch he is! I can just see him, arms looped around your legs, holding you open, mumbling under his breath just quiet enough that you can’t make out any words except “perfect”, “pretty”, and “mine.”

💋 Thinking of how he is such a tease, letting his hot breath fan against your pussy before moving just slightly away from you, choosing to leave sloppy, open-mouthed kisses to your thighs, so close to your cunt but so far at the same time, not letting up despite your hand tugging at his dark curls flecked with greys.

💋 Thinking of him leaving dark bruises on your thighs, deep shades of scarlet, maroon, burgundy, admiring as they fade into muted purple, slight indents of his teeth that he runs his tongue over from where he’s sucked with too much vigour, fuelled by your sweet whines and pleads for him to pay your pussy some attention.

💋 Thinking of how, when you complain and writhe under him, almost in tears with desperation, he pouts mockingly, rubbing your hip with his thumb, as he whispers that “patience is a virtue, sweetheart.”

💋 Thinking about the way he smiles when he pulls back and admires his work, his gorgeous girl, her kiss-littered thighs. Making eye contact with you, holding it, before spitting directly on your clit with no warning.

💋 Thinking of the way he chuckles as you yelp and shudder, grip tightening in his hair, but the second he tastes you he’s moaning too, deep groans causing vibrations that rush through your body, leaving your legs quivering.

💋 Thinking of what is practically a whimper escaping his mouth as you tug his hair particularly hard, nails digging into his scalp so hard you’re worried you’re going to draw blood, his hips beginning to rut down into the mattress.

💋 Thinking of him letting go of your thighs, one hand reaching up to grab at your tits, the other nudging a fingertip into your slick pussy, but when your legs come to close on either side of his head, he withdraws completely, despite your pleas.

💋 Thinking of the way you’d let out a whine of “Bruce…” as he just tutted at you.

“Did I say you could move your legs, honey? Need you to hold them still for me, be a good girl,” he responds, toeing the line between praising and mocking, but utterly in control. When you move them back to how he had held them, he places a kiss to your thigh, diving back into your pussy with a whisper of “atta girl”

💋 And finally, thinking about him reaching his orgasm alongside you, hips rutting more firmly and desperately into the mattress as you clench around two of his fingers, your moan of his name bouncing around the room, and when your eyes focus on him again, fingers still pumping in and out of you helping you ride through your orgasm, but the way he presses his forehead into the mattress and his hips are shuddering tell you all you need to know.

💋 Thinking of him still mustering up the energy to roll off of you, but managing to drag his two fingers up to your lips and press them into your mouth, feeling as your tongue licked them clean of your own slick before speaking, words slurred with pleasure. “You’re gonna be the death of me, sweetheart. Creaming my pants over you now.”

[rowyndodendron]

Diomedes really cranked the "simp-o-meter for Odysseus" from 0 to 12 in approximately 0.6 seconds in book 10 (choose ur spy buddy) and im snort-laughing.

Partially because of how Unnecessarily Extra Diomedes is.

And then even more so because of how Extremely Done Odysseus is in his reply (every time he uses the "long-suffering Odysseus" epithet i fucking DIE laughing. I can FEEL the -_-)

But also, because I feel like the opposite is more typical (Odysseus having the flowery flattering speeches and Diomedes just, like, "read at 2pm"-ing him in return):

I am choosing to headcanon that Dio is very subtly/very gently teasing/mocking Odysseus. And that Ody has done the "oh i pick Diomedes the incredible, the unmatchable, unwinnable force of the gods' will!!!" thing to him recently and Dio is now just throwing it back at him in a "do u hear what u sound like when u talk???" Kind of way.

Which is why Ody is peak "i am Unamused by this, diomedes" in the scene. Because he knows he's being gently roasted in a way the others likely won't pick up on/which is Just For Him.

And i think that's beautiful

[occasionalsnippets]

I need to know more about fd au reader as robin 🙏 /lh

Main concept

Some assorted miscellany.

If you didn’t think Batman was going to get better, you wouldn’t have allowed Tim to become Robin no matter what. You'd reluctantly give Bruce a B- in parenting. He's not perfect but he's trying which is enough that you're willing to help.

You, through gritted teeth: I know and believe you can be good but this is rotten work, especially to me, especially if it's you, but I'll do it.

Your persona as Robin is carefully curated so that you are almost exactly like Tim. It’ll get annoying if people get confused about there being two different Robins running around at the same time so it’s easier if you just pretend to be the same person. You fill in enough times that putting on the Robin uniform automatically makes you slip into “Tim-Robin” mode which freaks a lot of people out at how uncanny it is.

You can perfectly imitate Tim's voice.

Despite your efforts pretending to be as similar to Tim as possible, it’s not totally perfect, obviously. You’re- a bit scary actually. You make the right quips, make the same distractions and appear to be exactly the same as “normal Robin” but it’s just… something is a little bit off. You’re always watching. Maybe you’re just the Robin that takes after Batman’s demeanor the most.

Part of what adds to the whole “hmm something is up with Robin 3” is that sometimes people will be like “I definitely saw Robin break his arm yesterday so how tf is he okay and patrolling today???”

Tim is still a better detective than you are but you’re no slouch either. You did not squint at gritty photos of crime scenes from three different newspapers and reconstruct doll house versions of them with dollar store craft supplies so you could teach 9-year old Tim how to analyze crime scenes just to become a “mediocre detective”.

During the early Robin 3 days, Batman used to accidentally call you and Tim, Jason. He’s also called you Tim on several occasions.

You take the Robin role during Batman’s “bad days” early on in Tim’s run as Robin because you’re able to handle to worst of it. Batman is… relentless, cold, terribly uncooperative on those days. He didn’t want another Robin and you’re well aware of how he lashes out at the two of you because of it. You don’t want Tim to go through the worst of Batman when being Robin is supposed to be something good. What are you meant to do if not protect him?

Wrangling Batman is difficult. You spend way too much time pulling him aside to say “You need to pull back on your punches. If you land them in the ICU again I will be ending this patrol early.” Although just having a Robin beside him makes things better, it doesn’t mean it’s great by any means. Depending on how much he pissed you off, you enact various punishments upon him such as making all his coffee decaf, helping Alfred make his least favourite foods, shutting down the batcomputer so he can’t work on cases and so on.

Overtime, as Batman gets better, you fill in less often. It's also because around this time you get very busy running Drake Industries.

You get on Commissioner Gordon’s case about how many cigarettes he’s smoking. All these Robins and you're the first to look so disappointed in him.

You have gone on patrol several times and no one noticed it was you and not Tim. It’s funnier not to correct them until you de-mask at the end of the night and reveal that it was you all along.

Sometimes you and Tim just swap in the middle of the night.

At the top of a lot of contingencies, there’s a note that just says “if (Y/n) inexplicably has an answer or solution, believe them and follow what they say”

[dio-icarticaae]

as an author, I really like hits! I like seeing that people found my fic interesting enough to click on it, and that people are still engaging with that fic months and years after it was first posted. I like having something that says "x amount of people read this thing you wrote".

why does ao3 has hit counts?

i feel like it's a little irrelevant metric to keep track of for an archive and on top of that i see sadly a lot of readers taking it too seriously and not reading fics with too many hits but not proportionally high kudos count.

i know there skins exist that hide it and personally i don't have issues with them, it's just sad to see something so small weaponized by readers and use it as indication of fics quality.

I wasn't around in fandom during AO3's inception, but according to the news post when hit counters were released, it was by popular suggestion at the time. I'm old enough to remember a time when people thought hit counts were a cool thing to track. Maybe that was it? 🤷‍♀️

At least, that might be why it's displayed to users. Site administrators have other reasons for tracking web traffic, but I do not meddle in the affairs of sysadmins*.

Readers are people and people need to find some way to sort through information. Is hits the best way to find a fic you'll love? No. But then, neither are kudos and lots of people sort by those too. They tend to do that more when they're new to a fandom and new to AO3, though rather than as a standard method of searching.

No matter which stat a reader decides to organize their search by, it won't actually contribute to their enjoyment of the work. It's the story that determines that. Finding a story that you're actually going to like means reading tags and summaries instead of numbers. Give them enough time, and they'll figure that out.

[toxicsugarz]

going back and reading the phantom blood manga for nostalgia

[sweetheartsnips]

Daddy Cool - Chapter 3: Dio

NSFW WARNING - MINORS DNI

Summary: You are Dio's sweet girl and he treats you as such. He isn't mean and evil here because you're so lovely he can't help himself.

Tags: collars, biting, breeding, cockwarming, gentle choking, pet play, creampie, dom/sub

Words: 2.7k

Read ao3 version

A/N: Thank you to my dear friend Mosca for beta reading this chapter. They are always kind enough to read my drafts, support me in my freakiness, and encourage me to keep improving an challenging myself.

For other chapters in this series please see my JoJo masterlist

Candle wax melted, leaving the dim glow of their flames to drip down their sticks and pool at their feet. Little flits of warm amber were cast around the room, the boundaries of their light fading meekly into thick darkness. The faintest trace of incense, the lingering scent of vanilla. Dio preferred to keep blood out of the bedroom. 

Speak of the devil: you sat in his lap, bare thighs spread over his, the warmth of your body leaking from your skin and soaking into his cool, still-clothed lower half. You were naked, of course–as was demanded, save for your black leather collar. Dio’s hands roamed your flesh, strong fingers squeezing, kneading, rubbing, making your skin prickle. Slow, absent-minded caresses with his palms on the outside of your thighs. Thumbs tracing circles over and around your nipples as his palms cupped your breasts, each brush against the sensitive buds making you squirm.

To steady yourself, your hands rested carefully against his chest–smooth skin stretched over and between broad pectorals and wide clavicles. Truly a body to be admired. 

He loved each and every one of your reactions: every time your breath hitched, every flutter of your heartbeat. A satisfied hum rumbled from his chest. Parted lips ran over your pulse point, kissing feather-light, dry pecks against the thin, delicate skin. 

Then, slowly, he bit down–not hard enough to puncture, but firm enough to draw a shrill whine from your throat, canines smirking against your skin in their retreat. His lips left you, only to press a fleeting kiss against the mark he had left behind, as if to soothe.

His hands continued their wandering, palms rough as they slid up your thighs, settling in on your hips. Sharp nails dug into the flesh there, the ounce of roughness intended to coax another noise out of you. The tantalising rhythm of his touch was both possessive and patient in a way that made your throat thick with wicked excitement. 

Your collar sat snug���the perfect fit, an ever-present reminder of his power over you. He tilted his chin, teeth catching the leather, tugging at it playfully before hooking two fingers under it, right beneath the ring at the front. The dip between his forefinger and thumb replaced the familiar fit of the collar against the column of your throat. A slow squeeze, firm and commanding, the tips of his fingers pressed into the blood vessels below each corner of your jaw. It sent a dizzying rush through you– you were aware of every shallow breath you took, each thrum of your pulse beneath his hands. Your head quickly became hazy with that mindless, acquiescent desire to please. 

His breath tickled your earlobe, his nose nuzzling softly against your cheek. “You are just the most perfect little pet for me, aren’t you, dear?” he whispered. 

A squeak of a half-formed word left your lips, your voice almost entirely lost to his grip on your neck. Sensing your struggle, his fingers loosened slightly. His eyebrows raised in a small, expecting gesture, beckoning you to speak.

You swallowed, wetting your throat. “Yes, Lord Dio.” 

He smiled as fond a smile as somebody like him could manage, before planting a short kiss between your eyebrows. “You could leave me if you wanted to," he murmured against your skin, his deep voice dripping with amusement. "I gave you a Stand strong enough to defeat me." Another kiss, to the tip of your nose, this time. "And yet, here you are. It’s endearing, really."

He was right. You could have left. You could have fought. You had the power to escape, to end this game before it had even begun.

But yet, you stayed. Now you hated the thought of ever being without him. 

He pulled his head away from you slightly. “Now, you know what to do, don’t you, kitten?” 

You nodded obediently. You knew. Your hands, timid but assured, drifted to the front of his pants. 

But before you could continue, he stopped you. Dio grabbed your wrist, his palm cold against you. 

Surprised, your eyes rose from his body to meet his: questioning. Pools of amber bore into yours—unreadable—except for the hint of something rare. 

Patience.

He was waiting. Seeking permission. 

A beat passed, then he spoke. “You are ready for me, aren’t you?” 

You nodded. It was small and quiet, but he knew you. You wanted this. You wanted him.

A slow smirk curled at the corner of his lips, his golden eyes gleaming in the dim candlelight. “Good, good,” he murmured, his thumb brushing over the inside of your wrist, idly tracing the shape of your veins. He relished the way your pulse fluttered beneath his touch, as if you were made to be held like this, delicate yet utterly his.

“I never want you to be in any discomfort,” he continued, his voice softer and smoother now. “But perhaps I needn't worry…We fit so well together, sweetheart.” 

A soft, indulgent chuckle bubbled from his chest at his lewd little tease. The sound sent warmth pooling deep in your stomach, and before you could stop yourself, you let out a breathy laugh, caught somewhere between affection and desire. 

Then, he leaned back in, his lips meeting yours in a slow, tender kiss that stole what little breath you had left. His touch was paradoxical—reverent and affectionate, yet firm enough to remind you of exactly where you stood. His fingers tightened ever so slightly against your skin, before he pulled away. 

Dio’s eyes were full of calm, something almost content. He took your hands in his, thumbs pressing lightly against your knuckles before guiding them away from his body. The coolness of his skin sent a shiver up your spine, a stark contrast to the heat simmering between your bodies.

“Allow me,” he said. A silken promise.

He admired the twinkle of anticipation in your eyes for a short moment. A slow, knowing smile played at his lips, as if savouring the way your mouth hung ever so slightly open, how your hands twitched against his skin, threatening to grab him and draw him in. His fingers drifted downward, grazing over the fabric that separated you from what you both craved. The soft click of undone fastenings filled the air, mingling with the hush of breathless expectation. 

His green belt was discarded, buttons released with enough haste to convince you he wanted you as badly as you did him.

The sight you were greeted with made you bite your lip. The perfect combination of length and girth–flawless velvety skin. A thick vein that pulsed in his arousal that ran up the underside. And he was so hard. It almost looked painful. His cock stood proud and at attention, nearly reaching his navel. 

You would have loved to kneel between his legs and fuck your own throat with his dick whilst he held you by the collar. But he was already squeezing the base in his fist, manoeuvring you with his grip on your hip to hover you over his eager cock. 

He pulled you close–so close your nipples were brushing against his skin, and lined himself up with your slit: slick and syrupy with your essence. He rubbed his thick uncut tip between your folds, gathering some of your wetness over the sensitive skin before dragging it down, letting it catch on your entrance. Pressing into you slowly, he let out a sigh as his cockhead was engulfed by your warmth.

The way he seated himself inside you was exquisite torment—the way your pussy stretched around him, his dick filling every inch of you with a pressure so tight, so overwhelming, it bordered on unbearable. It was too much and not enough all at once. Your body moulded around him as he pressed deeper, claiming space inside you that has never felt so deliciously occupied. 

“Dio…” you sighed, exhaling shakily to abate some of the bittersweet stretch. 

His grip on you tightened, and before you knew it, you were moving, but not of your own accord. Dio moved your body to his liking, dragging you up and down his length, in and out of your wet heat in slow, languid grinds. 

One hand lingered at the front of your collar, fingers curled, a quiet yet commanding reminder of his strength—how easily he can move you, how effortlessly he can seek out his own desires. The muscles in his arm flexed as he guided your movements. He didn’t just let you ride him; he controlled it, lifting you, dragging your cunt along the full length of his cock with a pace slow enough to tempt you to beg for more. 

He was such a vision like this, skin exposed, eyes trained on you like you were the most precious thing in the world. You had no idea how he could look so composed when his dick was splitting your depths open–only a slight pinch of his bottom lip beneath his canines betraying his true pleasure.

 His grip was ironclad at the backs of your thighs, fingers sinking into your supple, soft skin, anchoring you in place. The beginnings of your pleasure started to flutter warm and light between your legs as strings of mewls escaped your lips. But just as you were starting to get excited, he stilled.

No more of that sweet friction, no more movement, just heat and fullness—his body locked against yours, buried so deep you swear you could feel the shape of him moulded inside you. Your thighs trembled where they saddled his hips, the tip of his cock pressing firm against your cervix, teasing the edges of pain and pleasure. 

He tapped your hip with the pad of his finger, summoning your attention. “You are such a good girl,” he hummed, giving your flesh an affectionate caress. 

Christ, you could have almost come from just that. 

He held your gaze through hooded eyes, watching you, drinking in every shudder, every half-strangled whimper you couldn’t quite bite back. You wanted to keep being good for him, to stay quiet. You tried not to whine too much, but the way he filled you, how he held you there as if it was where he belonged–it was impossible not to. 

His grip never faltered, keeping you there, holding you in place as he tilted your chin up to pull you into a kiss. Slow, consuming, his lips claiming yours as thoroughly and deeply as his body did. His mouth moved against yours, his tongue tracing along your lower lip before slipping past, tasting you, stealing every shaky sound you gave him. He kissed you like he owned you, like he needed you to be his from the inside out, and it sent a violent rush of heat to where his cock was buried inside you. 

And then, he shifted you—rocked your hips forward, kept fucking himself with your pussy and rubbed your clit up against the flesh above his cock. His skin was cool, and the little flecks of hair there tickled your sweet spot so perfectly. The friction was immediate, electric, and he did it again, guiding you, dragging you over him in a rhythm he knew would break you apart. 

“Let me hear you, kitten,” he purred, his voice a low command against your lips. “Don’t be shy.”

Your breath stuttered as you moaned softly, pleasure cresting sharp and dizzying. He took the opportunity, pushing a thumb between your parted lips, holding them open as your expression melted: pleasure-drunk, fucked-out, utterly wrecked for him. The fullness inside you, how he rubbed your clit against his body: over and over again until your slick dripped down between your bodies in warm rivulets– you were going to cum so hard you’d choke. 

He was relentless in drawing out your pleasure, each movement of his devastatingly precise, pushing you closer, closer, until you shattered.

 A sobbing gasp tore from your chest, your breath catching in your throat. Pleasure burned through you in waves, your pussy clenching and fluttering around his cock as you came, trembling, undone, all for and because of him. 

Your nails dug into his back, anchoring you, carving crescent-shaped marks where your fingers had once rested so softly, so gingerly against his shoulders. The contrast was stark—how delicacy had melted into desperation, how your hands clutched at him now, as if holding on was the only thing keeping you tethered to the world.

He shifted. He held onto you just a bit tighter as he fell onto his back, dragging you down with him by his hold on the leather around your neck until your body flush against his. You barely had a moment to catch your breath before he pinned your front against the broad plane of his chest, solid and warm. His pecs pillowed your hands where they settled against him for balance, his heartbeat a steady thrum beneath your palms, grounding you even as he lifted his hips and speared you with his cock with a fervour that stole your breath. 

Lifted you again. Up, down, up, down . Your hips crashing into his with a force so great you swore he was beating into your womb. You couldn’t see him, but the way he fucked you told you loud and clear that he was focused entirely on his own orgasm.

Each sharp cry that tore from your throat was swallowed by his own, your separate moans converging into one high-pitched, broken whine that stuttered with every ruthless thrust. Each stroke sent pleasure ricocheting through you, stretching you open, slamming into the deepest, most sensitive parts of you. He knew exactly where to aim, exactly how to push you far enough to break your mind but not your body. 

“Come on, my sweet girl,” he murmured, voice thick with desire, ragged with need. “Let me pump you full of my seed… give me a child, my kitten.”

The words sent a fresh shock of heat down your spine, something primal and instinctive sparking in your blood. You were aware, somewhere, in the farthest reaches of your mind, that he had a young son somewhere. The thought of him as a father, with you as a mother, of bearing something of his inside you, it made your breath catch, made your thighs tighten around his hips as if beckoning him to stay deep inside you. 

“I can’t wait to see you all soft and full…” he groaned, his hold on you possessive, reverent. “All heavy with my child… you’d be even more beautiful.”

His thrusts grew erratic, his grip on the collar around your neck bordering on desperate as his hips beat against yours in uneven thrusts. With one final push and a husky moan, he buried himself to the hilt and spilled into you, painting your walls with spurts of warm, fecund cum. He held you down, anchoring you in place as he let each rope sink deep, as if willing it to take.

He didn’t pull out. 

He held you there, locked against him, his breath shuddering through parted lips as his chest heaved beneath you. 

For a long moment, there was only silence. The slow ebb of heat, the sticky, sweaty, breathless aftermath. He pressed a kiss to the side of your hair.

And then, a pause, barely perceptible, like the world had hiccupped, like time had skipped a beat. He was pulling away as if he had kissed your forehead, his hand tangled softly in the strands of hair at the nape of your neck. 

Eventually, he sighed, stretching beneath you before settling again. “You know,” he mused, a cocky smirk tugging at the corner of his lips, “if you don’t move soon, I might not be able to resist staying here.”

You scoffed, propping yourself up on your elbows to look down at him with a playful smile. “Then I’ll stay.” 

He pretended to consider it, planting another soft kiss to your lips before rolling you both onto your sides, tucking you against him. “Fine. But I do not take orders from you. Do not get any ideas, pet.” 

“I wouldn’t dream of it, Lord Dio.”

An amused hum in your ear. “Sleep, sweet girl,” he murmured against your hair. “I’ve got you.”

And you did. Safe, warm, wrapped up in him.

[punkp3rcyjacks0n]

Hey funny crack fic idea. Percy isn’t actually poseidons son. Poseidon looked at a demigod who killed a Minotaur, said hey. Why not pretend to be his dad, give him a blessing, and make him do all this stuff for him? (Yeah, I know it makes no sense, that’s why it’s just for shits and giggles)

Anyways, he tells Percy one day, probably after the battle of manhattan, and of course Percy is…distraught- doesn’t know what to do with himself. I mean, he didn’t like Poseidon anyway, but he’d just been lied to for years? Now he had no idea who his godly parent was, and he’d just been abandoned.

Anyways, word gets around camp, obviously, and Chiron and Mr.D are talking about it in the sunroom, playing pinochle and drinking soda. Mr.D gets curious and asks—“Whats Peter’s mom’s name anyway?”

“Oh, sally Jackson.” Chiron tells him, and Dionysus chokes on his Diet Coke. It couldn’t be, right? He tried to convince himself that wasn’t her name, that wasn’t the name of the woman he hooked up with on the beach, right? But he knew deep down it had to be. He’d been under the impression the woman was on control—but maybe because he was the god of fertility- she still got pregnant? and oh gods, HE WAS PERSEUS JACKSONS DAD!

Dionysus is just staring ahead all thousand yard stare like, Chiron is confused. And just watches as Dionysus slowly puts his head in his hands. He’d always felt weirdly attached to the kid. But then he was claimed by Poseidon, (in my mind Dionysus would never knowingly be a dead-beat, he just genuinely didn’t know percy was his son) so- Percy was definitely gonna meet a terrible fate, as a son of the big three. So he didn’t let him self grow attached. But now he understood why.

With a despaired sigh from Dionysus, across camp—a wine glass appears over percy Jackson’s head and grape vines grow into a sort of flower/grape crown around his head. Everyone is confused and absolutely shocked. Lots of conversations are gonna happen between Percy and Dio

IM DEFINITELY GONNA CONTINUE THIS- didn’t realize I’d rambled this much but now I gottaaa continue it. Don’t know if I’ll write a fic yet though…

[flowercrowngods]

a tiny insanely soft & gentle marvey post-migraine

It’s almost seven when the bedroom doors open again and a drowsy-looking Harvey emerges, somehow managing to look both insanely comfy and absolutely wrung out. Mike puts away the file he’s been working on and closes his laptop after saving the document, then turns to lean against the back of the couch, all of his attention on Harvey.

“Hey you,” he says, quiet and mindful of the splitting headache that might still bother his sleepy-looking boyfriend.

Harvey only grumbles in reply and shuffles over to him with a surprising amount of dignity for someone who had to knock himself out with a cocktail of pills to battle a sudden, inconvenient migraine. On his day off, no less.

Mike quickly holds out his hand, gently guiding Harvey around the couch and then pulling him down and into a hug. Harvey goes willingly, not protesting in the slightest — quite the opposite, actually, if the way he’s cuddling into Mike and wrapping his arms around him is anything to go by.

“Hi,” Mike says again, his voice no louder than a whisper as he settles into a more comfortable position to properly hold his tired, cuddly man. “How’s your head?”

“Better,” Harvey mumbles into his neck, growing heavier by the minute as he settles more and more of his weight against Mike. “Think I slept through the worst of it.”

“Good,” Mike murmurs, moving his head to kiss Harvey’s temple — not the side where the migraine was, he knows better than that. “That’s good.”

“Mm-hmm.”

Mike smiles despite himself. It’s rare that he gets to see Harvey like this, to hold him like this, all vulnerable and drowsy and trusting. No walls in sight, no jabs or barbs or quips prepared. Just Harvey, on the other end of a migraine, looking for comfort.

And Mike, smitten and enamoured and willing to give him anything he wants, anything he needs, and everything in between.

“There’s stir fry on the stove,” Mike murmurs after a while, his lips trailing featherlight up and down the side of Harvey’s face. “If you can eat.”

Harvey sighs against him, and Mike can’t quite read it but he’s sure it must mean that no, Harvey can’t eat, and that yes, the barely-there smell is still too much, but thank you for trying and being mindful.

But that’s not at all what the sigh means, because Harvey lifts his head and raises his hands to cradle Mike’s face. He holds him gently, blinking him into focus, and Mike’s breath catches at the adoration he finds staring back at him.

“Angel,” Harvey says, and Mike melts a little. He does every time Harvey calls him that. “I’m very much in love with you right now.”

A smile breaks out that Mike can’t contain, and he laughs quietly. “Because of the stir fry?”

“Well, have you had your stir fry?” Harvey throws back, his voice delightfully deep and rumbly from the five hour nap he’s had to take. The hands cradling Mike’s face move into his hair to scratch and his scalp and comb through his hair. They’re magical. Miracle workers. Mike hums.

What were they talking about?

“I think I wanna marry you.”

Oh. Oh wow.

“Yeah?” Mike asks when he finds his voice, though it’s barely more than a whisper. Awed. Revering. Absolutely, irrevocably, irrefutably gone for this man.

“Yeah,” Harvey whispers back, welcoming Mike to rest their foreheads together. He doesn’t stop combing through his hair and massaging his scalp.

It’s not a proposal, it’s not even a question, it’s just Harvey thinking out loud because he can. Still it’s the most beautiful thing that’s ever happened to him. It makes him feel giddy and loved and seen and loved, and he knows it’s not technically a proposal, but—

“I think I wanna marry you, too.”

And now it’s Harvey’s turn to lose his breath, to catch it and release it against Mike’s cheek.

“Yeah?” Smart-ass.

“Yeah.”

I want this, this right here. Taking care of you. Sitting with you. Holding you. And I want you to know that I want this forever.

Carefully, mindful of the spikes and flares of pain that might come back any second, Mike manoeuvres them until he’s lying on the couch with Harvey on top of him. They kiss until the headache comes back, and then Harvey just buries his face in Mike’s neck. One hand still playing with Mike’s hair. It’s endearing. Mike’s heart wants to burst.

“I love you,” he whispers. “Harvey Specter-Ross.”

[demonstenes]

The full story in the link above ⬆️

Instead of doing separate works for each of the next few days, I decided to create a work that combines the prompts.

Originally this was supposed to be a comic but as usually I greatly overstimated how much time making such a long comic would take. So I'm just gonna turn this into a weird fic-comic hybrid. (for each chapter there will be one comic page)

If all goes according to plan, tomorrow I'll post the next chapter. (sorry in advance if i'll be a day late, I am quite often late with stuff)

Day 4: Fake Dating @morpherine-events

[dio-icarticaae]

Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: Superboy (Comics), Superman (Comics), Superman - All Media Types, DCU (Comics), DCU Rating: General Audiences Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings Relationships: Clark Kent & Kon-El | Conner Kent, Chris Kent & Kon-El | Conner Kent, Chris Kent & Clark Kent & Jonathan Samuel Kent & Kon-El | Conner Kent & Lois Lane, Clark Kent/Lois Lane Characters: Kon-El | Conner Kent, Clark Kent, Chris Kent, Lois Lane, Jonathan Samuel Kent Additional Tags: Post-Crisis (DCU), Superfamily (DCU), Legacy Heroes, Identity, Kon-El | Conner Kent-centric, Kon-El | Conner Kent Feels, Clark Kent and Kon-El | Conner Kent are Family, Legacies Series: Part 2 of '90s Superboy Week 2025 Summary:

Kon would apologize for the mess he’d tracked in in the morning. Right now, he needed sleep desperately. He flopped face first into the couch after he took his boots off and passed out immediately.

He wasn’t expected to be woken up an hour later by the sound of Kal coming through the window as Superman. Kal stared blearily at where Kon had jolted upright on the couch. “Kon? What are you doing here?”

“Heya Big Blue! I was in the area and figured I’d crash on your couch!”

Or: Kon, Clark, and Superman's legacy.

For @90skonweek Day 2: Superman/Cadmus

[dio-icarticaae]

So this panel and the associated fic idea possessed me today or something, because I got a sudden burst of inspiration and wrote this. Enjoy!

ur post abt batman begins reminded me of this scene from batman: the knight (bruce is away on training and is speaking on a voicemail)

AGHHHHHHHH THIS PANEL ALWAYS KILLS ME

(now I’m thinking about a fic where Bruce is away training and keeps leaving voicemails for Alfred and Alfred can never catch the phone ringing in time to ever hear Bruce’s voice on something that isn’t a recording, and as the years pass and the details remain vague he’s starting to wonder if any of the messages are real)

[dionysus-drabbles]

Constantly on the cusp (of tryin’ to kiss you)

pairing: sid jenkins x f!reader

summary: you hooked up with sid all summer. it becomes a hell of a lot harder trying to navigate your relationship when you’re back at college together.

word count: ~2.4k

warnings: fluff, smut, & a hint of angst, freud references, dug out my a level psych textbooks for this one, possible mischaracterisation, reader smokes, reader is described as wearing a bra, shirt, shorts, and tights but it’s easily overlooked, protected piv sex, teasing, one or two mentions of marijuana, hickeys, ghosting, one mention of alcohol, sid is mentioned to have kissed another girl, refs to casual sex between sid & reader.

a/n: if ur the anon who requested, hi! hope I did ur req justice, i tried to include fluff, smut, and a little angst - I got a little carried away! hope I characterised him well enough & you enjoy it 💋 title from do i wanna know? by the arctic monkeys

It’s a warm Friday night, the cool breeze blowing through the window serving as a distant threat of the September weather yet to come. The sky is streaked with pink and purple, the gold of the sun setting shining in the horizon, the type of night you’ll know you’ll see as nostalgic as you grow older, and you’re in Sid’s room. You’re sat at his desk, reading from one of your psychology textbooks, pausing for a minute so Sid can keep up with writing notes, but the telltale scratching sound of pen on paper doesn’t come. When you spin your chair around, Sid’s lying on his bed, fingers laced over his stomach, eyes fixed on the ceiling - pen and notebook by his side.

“Oi,” you say, standing up and plopping down on the bed next to him, the shift in weight making him sit up and meet your gaze. “You’re meant to be taking notes,”

“It’s only September,” he grumbles, rolling his eyes.

“Fine, suit yourself. Have fun failing your a-levels while we all go to uni, though, yeah?”

“Don’t be a twat. Why can’t I read and you make the notes?”

“Made them already,”

“Why can’t I use yours, then?”

“You’re seriously asking that?” You cock a brow, letting out a snort of amusement. You fall into silence for a minute, one that’s nothing if not awkward. Following your summer, being in Sid’s room without so much as a spliff, let alone your clothes on, felt unnatural. You’d found yourself fucking Sid for the first time after the first party of the summer, and it had quickly turned into a regular occurrence. Throughout August, the elephant in the room had been September, and you supposed it had been silently agreed to forget it ever happened. Easier said than done, based on the way your thighs pressed together whenever he moved vaguely in your direction.

“Can we not do this tonight, at least? Reckon we could make it to Tony’s party,” he suggested, snapping you out of your thoughts.

“Psychodynamic approach isn’t going to learn itself, Sidney,”

“Fuck Freud. He just makes this shit up, it doesn’t make sense,”

“See, if you’d revised, you’d be calling it unfalsifiable,” you teased, pulling a pack of cigarettes out of your pocket.

“Piss off, let me have one,” Sid insisted as you lit it, blowing the smoke from your first toke in his face instead.

“Never taught manners, hm?” You snarked, avoiding eye contact with him.

“Please?” He countered, if reluctant. You turned to face him - when did you two get this close together? You can feel the heat of his breath on your face, smell his breath, and you suddenly realise his eyes are on your lips, not the cigarette. It’s instinctive now, the way you tilt your head ever so slightly when he’s this close to you, the way you lean in ever so slightly. His lips are about to brush yours when your phone beeps with a text and you both jolt back. You read it, shoving the cigarette into his hand as you stand up.

“I need to head home. Finish the fag. You can keep the textbook.” You leave without waiting for a response.

You have two unread messages!

sid: same time nxt week?

sid: will do wrk this time

When he next comes to revise it’s at your house, and somehow that makes you feel like you have the upper ground in this emotional cold war more than anything else. Your stomach turns whenever you think of how near you were to kissing the week before, and you’re not entirely sure if it’s butterflies or nausea. Either way, you’re sickeningly fixated on it. Unfortunately, the one time he’s focused, keeping to his promise to do work, you’re distracted.

“We’ve finished psychodynamic. Take five before humanistic?” You suggest, and he nods, leaning to open the window before coming to sit beside you on the bed. You give him a cigarette before you get one for yourself this time, but curse when you feel in your pockets to find them empty. And, like he can read your mind, he offers a lighter. You go to take it from him, cigarette between your lips, but he lights it for you instead. It’s oddly intimate, and you’re sure the feeling in your stomach is butterflies this time - and every other time.

You’re quiet as you smoke. Apparently, your mind thinks this is the perfect time to replay every single interaction you’ve had with Sid in this room. Every smoke, every kiss, every fuck, and it’s becoming harder and harder to keep your resolve.

“Hey,” he says, nudging your leg with his foot. “Is there…are you okay?”

“Hm? Yeah, yeah, we uh- we should probably get back to-“ you stub your cigarette out as you speak, the butt of his already sat in the ashtray, but you’re not given the chance to finish your sentence as his lips press against yours. It’s a shock, but the farthest thing from unwelcome. One of his hands entangles in your hair, the other on your waist, and one of yours caresses the skin of his cheek whilst the other cards through the tufts of hair his beanie leaves revealed at the nape of his neck. Your tongue presses at his lips, compelling them to slide open, and you taste the smoke in his mouth, reminiscent of the cigarettes stubbed out only a moment before, stifling the taste of weed. He’s just as addictive, if not more than, and you think that you’d happily never smoke again if he said you could be together, have this regularity with him.

There’s a moment of awkward shuffling as Sid readjusts his position, and you take the minute to catch your breath. His back’s to your bed frame, and his hand travels south to your thigh and nudges with his pointer and middle finger, and you’ve been hooking up long enough to know he wants you in his lap.

“Are you- can I?” He stammers, hand having moved to the hem of your shirt, looking down at it before meeting your eyes, and god, you’re not sure why you ever thought you had the higher ground with him. You pull it off for him, and his breathing falters, leaving him shakily as his eyes are level with your breasts. You can feel his hardening cock twitch in his trousers belong you, and all of a sudden it’s summer again, and you don’t care about exams, universities, anything but each other.

His lips attach to your chest, sucking dark bruises onto your flesh. They’re discreet, they’ll be hidden by your shirt, but they’re there, and he gave them to you. You grind your hips down into him and he lets out a broken moan, voice cracking with pleasure halfway through. The possibility of coming before he’s even inside you crosses his mind, and he knows he needs to fuck you as soon as possible. He helps you manoeuvre until you’re beneath him, hands shaking with desperation as he fiddles with the button on your shorts, tugging the zip down and sliding his hand beneath the shorts, the tights, taking a minute to slide his fingers across your cunt through your pants, dragging his gaze back to yours with a grin.

“All this, already?” He mocks, tilting his head to the side as you break eye contact and squirm from the pressure of his fingers.

He knows he’s in no position to talk, and he knows the risk of blowing his load in his jeans is getting more and more realistic, so he wastes no time in pushing your clothing down to your mid thighs and nudging a finger into your heat whilst his thumb circles lightly around your clit, painfully teasing. You throw your head back, whining, and he uses his other hand to stroke your cheek, grinning like a kid in a candy store. “Need you to be quiet, yeah? Don’t want anyone hearing, need this all for me,” the possessiveness mixed with his thumb pressing firmly on your clit and the addition of a second finger has you clenching around him, teeth digging into your bottom lip as you try to muffle any noise that might slip out. You know you’re close, your fingers scrabble for purchase on Sid’s back, one hand pulling his beanie off and allowing you to reach your hand into his hair.

He knows you’re close, attentive to the way your legs start trembling and you tense up, and he withdraws any contact before you do. Any complaints you make he hushes, murmuring into your ear as he frees himself of his own jeans, pulling a condom from his pocket in the process.

“You’re so mean,” You whine, hands reaching to help roll the condom onto his cock, tip red and already leaking precum.

“Yeah, m’sorry, sorry for being mean,” he whispers, lips brushing the shell of your ear as he moves back over you. “Let me…need to make it up to you now, right?” He asks, aligning his cock with your entrance. He kisses you as he pushes inside, any noises either of you would make muffled into each other’s mouths. He rambles as he fucks into you, chests almost pressed together, as physically close to you as possible.

“So good. So gorgeous. Been missing doing this, y’know? Made me wait so long to have you, got me going crazy,” he nips at the juncture of your jaw and neck between sentences, each word punctuated with the type of slow stroke that has you arching your back into him, and you find yourself pulling his t-shirt off and running your hands over his skin as if it’s the last time you’ll ever feel it, smiling as you watch the muscles in his abdomen tense and relax as your fingertips brush against his hips. He picks up the pace ever so slightly, moving one of your legs so it presses against his waist and your heel digs into his back, and you mirror it with the other. He kisses you again as he watches you try to stifle a moan from the new angle, nails raking up and down the pale, smooth expanse of his back. Neither of you last much longer, and he has to leave within the hour. You’re left with a dull ache between your legs, a chest tingling from where his lips attacked it, and heart pounding with adrenaline. Oh, and a text. One that comes precisely seven minutes after he leaves.

sid: u free same time next wk?

Then next week, you’re left waiting. Five minutes turns into fifteen. Fifteen into thirty. Thirty into an hour. You check your phone.

You have zero new messages!

You: nvr heard of warning sum1 when ur busy, sidney?

You don’t receive a response. He’s not in second period psychology on Monday, and you catch Michelle as you leave class.

“D’y’know where Sid is? He just aired me on Friday,” you say, lugging your bag onto your shoulder. Michelle shrugs.

“Probably on a comedown. You should’ve been there Friday, everything was going pretty hard, you’d have loved it. Last saw him then,” she shrugs, and your heart sinks. Oh. For a moment, your chest falls. Why would he do that? Shag you and ghost you? Why didn’t he do that in the summer, if he wanted to? The hurt quickly shifts into rage, a furious red feeling that seems to engulf you. If he wanted to play it that way, play the ghosting game, you’d let him. Fine. You didn’t need him. You resolved not to message him, going as far as to change his name in your contacts, but the texts you received that evening made it hard to stick to.

do not answer: (y/n)?

do not answer: im sorry, yeah?

do not answer: i need 2 talk 2 u

do not answer: coming ovr

You don’t say no. You should’ve said no, you know it’s better if you say no, you know you’re supposed to want to say no. But you don’t. When the knock comes on the door fifteen minutes later, you’re hoping it’s him. September weather has settled over Bristol, and it’s pouring with rain, so you end up opening the door to a particularly rain-drenched Sid Jenkins. He makes no effort to come inside, though.

“I’m sorry,” he says it before you’ve even fully opened the door.

“It’s fine, I don’t care, but, like, don’t expect any more tutoring, yeah?” you shrug, hoping your lie that you don’t care is more believable than it seems. He lurches forward and kisses you, a hand firmly on either side of your face, and when he pulls away you drag him inside and slam the door, staring at him with a sort of offended disbelief.

“I was gonna message, alright?! But then this girl kissed me at Tony’s for pres, and…I don’t know, I called her your name, and I just freaked out. I’m sorry for shagging and ghosting you, but it’s just…I can’t not date you, y’know? You’re just so nice and smart, and you actually listen to what I say. I’ve never had that before, I got scared. Tell me to leave, I will, I just needed to…I needed to tell you.” Sid rambles, and he could not be any more shocked when you kiss him. His arms wrap around your waist, and you don’t even care that he reeks of leftover sweat, booze, and weed from the weekend, or that his clothes are soaking yours. He’s yours, he thinks you’re nice, and smart, and pretty, and he wants to date you. You smile as you pull away, pushing his glasses back up his nose from where they’ve slipped and thumbing a section of wet hair off his forehead.

“So, dating, yeah?” You grin, still holding each other.

“I don’t know, I-do you want to?”

“Yes, Sid, I want to,” you giggle, and you’ve barely finished speaking before you’re kissing again. “Y’know, Freud would have said that calling another girl my name was an example of parapraxis”

“Are you really mentioning Freud right now?”

[clioerato]

Music AU (Alternative History)

Steddie Edition

Somewhere in the late 80s, in two entirely different corners of the cultural battlefield, two musical “phenomena” (depending on who you ask) rise simultaneously: Dio and Djo.

Dio is the latest gift to the hard rock and heavy metal scene — loud, unapologetic, and alarmingly poetic. Their lyrics are stuffed with lore, social rebellion, and just enough angst to make a Catholic schoolboy question his life choices. Their newest album, a concept record about a hero breaking free from norms and stigma (subtle, right?), launches them straight into counterculture stardom. Their fans? Unhinged in the most theatrical way. They grow their hair out to match frontman Eddie Munson, wear seventeen rings on one hand, and insist that fantasy is political, man.

Meanwhile, in an aggressively more radio-friendly realm, we meet Djo — the darlings of synth-pop and soft-boy serenades. Teen girls paper their bedrooms with posters of Steve Harrington, Djo’s dreamy lead, and teen boys try to replicate his gravity-defying hair with a can of hairspray that now sells out faster than concert tickets. Video stores can't keep Risky Business in stock (Tom Cruise walked so Steve could saunter), and their latest single — a tender ode to a long-haired brunette with Bambi eyes — plays non-stop on the radio. You hear it at the grocery store. You hear it in your dreams. There is no escape.

Eventually, the media catches wind of the uncanny similarity in band names and popularity arcs. A journalist, clearly drunk on snark, pens a piece joking, “Which came first — the Djo or the Dio?” The fanbase takes this as an act of war.

What follows can only be described as mutually assured destruction.

The internet (well, 1989’s version of it) implodes. There are message board meltdowns. School lockers are graffitied with “Dio Rules” or “Djo 4ever.” Vinyls are burned. Hairspray is weaponized. It’s like the Cold War but with more eyeliner and guitar solos.

Steve and Eddie, meanwhile, have never actually met. Their musical paths are too different to cross naturally. But, of course, they’ve heard of each other before. How could they not? The names were too similar to ignore. At first, they both snorted and rolled their eyes. Then, curiosity hit. They listened. And — disastrously — they liked what they heard. And then — even more disastrously — they caught feelings.

No one knows that Eddie once snuck into a Djo concert wearing a hoodie like a criminal. Or that Steve’s infamous Bambi ballad was, in a moment of weakness and too many late-night thoughts, written for the very much long-haired lead singer of Dio.

(That song now haunts Steve’s life. It’s everywhere. Elevators. Drive-thrus. Dentist waiting rooms. Hell.)

Things escalate to the point where both bands’ managers — Robin for Djo, and Chrissy for Dio (girl power, obviously) — realize the fans will burn civilization to the ground unless the boys talk. So, they arrange a meeting.

Neither Steve nor Eddie knows if the other one’s going to be a complete asshole. But both show up dressed like it’s a first date. You know. Just in case.

One week later, the world gasps in collective confusion as it's announced: Djo and Dio are recording a joint album.

Some call it the collaboration of the decade.

Others call it blasphemy.

But Steve and Eddie?

They call it love at first sight.