#powerpoint full course

[nach0]

hosting powerpoint night in a month and my ass has Not started whoops so i need some motivation

all of these are based on essays i'd been planning on writing at one point but never got around to, elaborations under the cut

Hero, Villain, Vigilante: This one is about Vulpec on the surface but can be applied to a lot of superhero media more generally. Where is the line drawn between criminal and villain? What separates a hero and a vigilante? Is there a difference between a goon and a hench? Answering every question you never had on the terminology of a powered world.

Powers and Perception: I think about different representations of powers a lot and how different medias handle them. Shapeshifters are one of the most diverse imo just because of the sheer amount of variations, even within the same setting. I also really like the role personal perception plays into it more than a majority of other powers. Whether I do it for this or not I might do the series with other powers later down the track.

Minecraft as a Storytelling Medium: I'll be so real this was 100% inspired when i watched Snifferish's hundred days as a farmer way back at the start of the year. (cannot recommend watching it enough omG) It wouldn't only cover that though, also diving into other projects with different levels of scripting like the traffic series, parkour civilization, and probably lifesteal if i can get my mate to infodump about people other than minutech (jokes bestie ily). It's such an interesting format for stories and there's so much freedom with it, genuinely so interesting

Other: idk man i've got so much shit going around in my head that these cannot possibly be the only things i could make a pwp on

[chaoticfandomthot]

my fuckass literature teacher copywrited his class powerpoints???????????? Like... idk how to tell you we're supposed to have those to learn my guy

[kontentedgee]

Maximize Your Efficiency with our Productivity Tools Online Course

Our thorough Productivity Tools Online Course will help you maximize your efficiency and improve your workflow. Whether you're a professional trying to increase productivity or a student looking to improve your study habits, our course is designed to provide you with the necessary skills and approaches. Learn how to manage activities efficiently, maximize time management, and use the best productivity apps available today. Kontentedge specializes in providing the best Productivity Tools Online Course that equips students with practical knowledge and hands-on experience. From job prioritization to integrating modern productivity technologies, our course equips you with the tools you need to excel in today's fast-paced world. Join us and learn how to work smarter, not harder, through our expert-led online training. Begin your journey to increased productivity.

[sixeyesonathiel]

part 2 of male manipulator satoru and girl failure reader, part 1 here.

satoru gojo is currently praying his atheist ass away—eyes squeezed shut like a little victorian child begging god for one good thing. just one. he didn’t ask for much. okay, he did, but this was different. this was righteous. this was divine intervention-worthy.

he peeked at the professor like someone peeking at lottery numbers.

please. please.

“alright,” the professor said, eyes scanning the roster. then they pointed, once at him, once at you. “gojo and… you—you’ll be in charge of the final presentation.”

and that’s the exact moment satoru decided life was beautiful. no—radiant. no—divine. like maybe, just maybe, the universe finally realized he was long overdue for a reward. the heavens cracked open and dropped a sliver of grace into his tragic academic life. him. you. a shared task. fate?

he didn’t even hear the rest of the professor’s words. everything around him muffled, cinematic, like one of those indie films with vintage filters and gentle piano playing in the background. his brain replaced reality with a movie trailer: you, laughing in a library corner with a sticky note on your nose; him, sliding his favorite pen your way (the smoothest gel ink, obviously); your fingers brushing; eye contact lingering; maybe you’ll say something soft like, “you’re not as unbearable as i thought.”

full delulu hour. male manipulator 2025 core. capital "m" Manifestation. someone get this man a tiktok edit.

and to be fair, it wasn’t entirely his fault. you had the sleeves he liked—oversized and always tugged over your hands, especially when you were anxious. you had the habit of barely looking at people when you spoke, except him. sometimes. maybe. he was 98% sure. 87% on bad days. but still. it counted.

he’d already picked out the hoodie to lend you when the aircon got too cold (dark gray, faint scent of fresh laundry and whatever cologne he'd overused during orientation week). he imagined the part where you fall asleep beside him while he heroically carried the emotional weight of the powerpoint. he’d nudge you awake with a smug grin and say something dumb like, “hey, sleeping beauty, we still gotta format this.”

except.

six hours later, he got a text:

hey! sorry, i think i’m gonna do the project solo if that’s ok? i work better alone :P

:P??!

satoru stared at the message like it had just called him ugly and then kicked him in the shins. he clutched his phone like it had personally betrayed him. his glasses slid slightly down the bridge of his nose, but he didn’t push them back up. not out of drama. just despair.

he immediately spiraled. went through the five stages of grief before his bubble tea turned room temperature and his straw grew tragically limp.

denial: “she’s joking. this is banter. our bit. classic.”

anger: “i am so fun to work with. i carry projects. she’s clearly ungrateful. possibly allergic to joy.”

bargaining: “what if i just do the citations? and she does, like, literally everything else? teamwork!”

depression: curled up in bed, chewing on stale pocky, dramatic sighs included. spotify playing nothing but sad lo-fi and a taylor swift playlist he pretended wasn’t his.

acceptance: (just kidding he never got to that part).

he begged the professor. like, begged.

he showed up during office hours, dropped the charm like a molotov cocktail, and spun the tale with wide eyes and practiced sincerity. “professor,” he said solemnly, leaning forward like a man on a mission, “she’s brilliant, sure, but she’s an island. she needs a partner. for balance. i’m the balance.”

(he was not the balance. he was delusional. dangerously.)

and of course, you found out.

“are you serious?” you hissed the next day, cornering him by the vending machines like a feral academic ghost. arms crossed so tightly he could see the tension bunching in your hoodie sleeves. your brows were knit hard enough to form permanent creases. your lips were tight. your jaw? locked like you were prepping for combat.

satoru blinked, startled. you were close. too close. his glasses fogged slightly. he fidgeted, fingers brushing over the strap of his bag. “what? i—i thought we were vibing?”

“we weren’t.”

a gut punch. no, a tactical missile to the ego. his smile faltered, slumped. “but you borrowed my pen last week,” he said, voice cracking around the edges of his carefully curated confidence.

“i was desperate,” you muttered flatly, but your eyes flicked away. just for a second.

he noticed. of course he noticed. he noticed everything.

your thumbs rubbed the inside of your sleeves—nervous. your gaze didn’t meet his. your weight shifted to one leg, like you were bracing for something. your lip twitched, barely, like you wanted to say more but bit it back.

“i just don’t like people relying on me, okay?” you added after a beat, voice quieter, more brittle, barely above the hum of the vending machine. the softness caught him off guard.

his panic reflex activated.

with no grace whatsoever, he dug into his bag and pulled out the sacred emergency mochi pack—strawberry, matcha, red bean. the good ones. he held them out like an offering. a truce. a pathetic, sugar-filled truce.

“uh. peace offering?”

you stared at him like he’d grown a second head.

then you sniffled.

then, with the weary gravitas of someone reluctantly forgiving an idiot, you took the strawberry one.

satoru let out a breath like he’d just disarmed a nuclear warhead. slowly—so slowly he looked like a sim glitching—he reached out and patted your head. the motion was awkward. stiff. his fingers hovered too long, then retracted like he’d touched a stove.

“you’re not mad?” he tried, voice hopeful. tentative.

“i still think you’re annoying,” you muttered, eyes pointedly focused on the mochi, not him. your face was slightly pink now. not that he was staring. (he was definitely staring.)

he grinned. a real, full grin. teeth and everything. his hand hovered at the back of his neck, scratching sheepishly.

his heart was doing cartwheels. backflips. olympic-level gymnastics. the kind of acrobatics that spelled disaster.

because here’s the thing: for someone who supposedly didn’t care, you always sat near him when the seat was free. you always looked down when you laughed too hard. your legs bounced when he was too close. your voice dipped when you were embarrassed, and you never interrupted him, even when he rambled. you blinked more when he complimented you, tugged at your sleeves when you felt too exposed.

and maybe you weren’t fooling anyone. maybe satoru saw through all of it. maybe he wasn’t just being delusional. maybe.

he watched you walk away again—slower this time, shoulders looser, fingers still curled tight around the mochi—and whispered to no one:

“i don’t like her. i just… find her interesting.”

(ten minutes later, he’s already googling "cute cafes with study-friendly outlets" and watching three different youtube videos on how to make the perfect iced matcha latte at home. like the absolute clown he was. complete with subtitles. and timestamps. and saved recipes.)

[unadulteratedsoulsweets]

A DC X DP IDEA #48

Grandpa

Imagine dis…

This inspired my fridge being full again, here’s a flash back

Me: Thanks for treating me at my favorite restaurant, Grandpa, but you really don't have to do this every time I visit your house.

Grandpa: Don't worry about it, kid.

Me: I'm *realage*, definitely not a kid, Grandpa...

Grandpa: As long as you're not in your 30s yet, you're still a kid. Come on, pick whatever dessert you want, it's on me.

Me: No thanks, I'm saving up for a special treat.

Grandpa: Didn't you hear me, brat? (fondly) I said it's on me. And what treat are you saving up for? Did my daughter didn’t gave you enough pocket money again?

Me: No, it's not like that, Grandpa. You and Mom give me plenty. It's just that there's this *brand* I've been dying to get ever since I first tried it, so I'm saving up to buy it.

*a few months later*

Me: MAAAAAA!

Mom: What's wrong, honey?

Me: Why is there a bunch of *brand* in the fridgeeee? These are expensive!

*I said as I look at the prices on my phone, fearing I missed some sort of discount for buying in bulk.*

Mom: Dad apparently wanted to try some ever since he saw it in a commercial and bought too many. He sent some extras here...

Me: *Takes a long inhale* AHHHHHHHHHHHHH!

….…..

We all have that grandfather. The one who insists he doesn’t play favorites but then turns around and gives one grandchild a thousand dollars for Christmas, claiming it’s because, “Well, I can’t take it with me when I’m dead, might as well spend it on something cute now.” It’s a universal experience. And apparently, not even death—or undeath—exempts you from it.

For the past month, Danny's friends had been roasting him relentlessly over one singular fact: Clockwork spoils him rotten.

Danny, of course, denies it. Danny, ever the tired, oblivious little disaster of a ghost prince, insists Clockwork treats him like any other unfortunate intern-slash-trainee. If anything, he argues, Clockwork enjoys his suffering. After all, no spoiled child would be forced to sit through two-hour lectures on the political structure of the Realm of Screeching Mirrors or solve time-based equations that make mortal physics cry. And yet, somehow, every time he finishes school and is already dead tired—pun intended—he gets yeeted straight into another lesson about interdimensional algebra that makes even Jazz’s nerdy heart weep.

Sam, Tucker, and Jazz just sit there and stare at him like he’s trying to convince them the sky isn’t blue. Even Dan, actual chaotic/ genocidal menace of the Ghost Zone, released on royal bail with a community service contract (a.k.a. babysitting duty), had the gall to grimace at the blatant favoritism. Ellie just nodded and made snide bets on how long it would take before Danny noticed Clockwork had been rigging his ghost-life like a doting stage mom.

It didn’t stop there either. Apparently, somewhere along the line, Pandora decided to become the wine aunt—but instead of wine and passive-aggressive casserole recipes, she sent weaponized care packages. Need a broadsword that sings show tunes when swung? Pandora’s got it. She once gave Danny a dagger made from the crystallized screams of vanquished tyrants. When asked why, she simply said, “To keep your mortals on their toes.”

Then there was Frostbite. Calm, collected, soothing Frostbite… who also happened to be the kind of uncle who would knit you a blanket and throw a car at anyone who made you cry. He’d once paused a global summit in the Far Frozen to deliver Danny a scarf because he “looked a bit chilly” during said meeting. The scarf was bulletproof. And sentient.

Everyone saw it. Everyone. The entire inner circle of Danny's life treated it like the worst-kept secret in all of ghostdom. Sam tried reasoning with him. Tucker built a PowerPoint. Jazz made pie charts, actual pie charts, trying to explain the psychological indicators of excessive grandparental attachment. Danny? Still blissfully in denial.

Which was funny, considering Clockwork literally paused time every night so Danny could get his eight hours. And occasionally twelve. Or fourteen. There were also the little notes left in Danny’s backpack: “Don’t forget your lunch, also destroy that wraith behind locker 307, it’s giving off bad vibes. Love, C.W.” Or, you know, when certain bullies AHEM GIW agents that are more on the violent and competent side AHEM mysteriously disappeared from time itself. Not dead, not missing, just never existed in the first place. Suspiciously convenient.

Still, Danny remained oblivious. Ranting about how Clockwork just gave him more work while his friends sat in the background, watching the temporal equivalent of a dad saying “I’m not mad, just disappointed” and rewriting history to give his grandson fewer childhood traumas.

Things only got worse when Phantom officially joined the Justice League Dark. The invitation had been pending for months. After all, there was only so long the League could ignore the literal child-shaped ghost who kept single-handedly neutralizing League-level threats in a small Midwest town like it was his weekend hobby. The Dark team, especially Constantine and Zatanna, had begrudgingly accepted him after witnessing him pull obscure banishment spells from memory, casually referencing ancient ghost kings as if he had lunch with them last week. (He probably did.)

Thanks to Phantom, the League Dark's solved-case rate skyrocketed. Not that Danny bragged about it. No, he just muttered quiet “thank-yous” to Clockwork for teaching him spells like “Ecto-Spatial Reversal via Reverse-Entropy” and “Don’t Touch That You Idiot, It Bites.”

Things were going smoothly—until a group of Green Lanterns arrived with bad news: a planet eater had been spotted in their quadrant. Immediate panic, of course. Superman went into overdrive, Batman did his usual dramatic scowl, and Phantom… winced.

Hard.

He doubled over slightly, one hand pressed to his core, face pale and wide-eyed. The room turned quiet as Danny muttered something garbled, a soft, vibrating cry that made Constantine drop his cigarette and Doctor Fate slowly turn his helmeted head.

What most of the League didn’t know—what even Danny barely acknowledged—was that as a newly ascended Ancient of Space (thanks, Ghost Zone promotions), he could feel his creations. And he had just started experimenting with creating baby planets for fun. Tiny, floating ball worlds full of pink sand, purple skies, and slow-beeping space whales. He’d named one of them “Steve.”

And now? Steve was gone.

That warbled noise he let out? Not pain. Not warning.

It was a cosmic tantrum.

And the moment he wailed, the pen sitting at the edge of the conference table froze in mid-air. Time literally stuttered. The League stood frozen. Until a massive, glowing portal sliced open behind Danny with the sound of a very irritated and blood thirsty grandfather clock chiming, who knew a grandfather clock can make such ominous chime.

Out came a giant ghost cloaked in deep violet robes, staff glowing ominously, red eyes glaring holes through the League. Every hero present snapped into defense mode—Superman rose into the air, Wonder Woman readied her lasso, Batman reached for seventeen gadgets at once.

And Phantom?

Phantom flung himself at the terrifying ghost like a toddler reunited with their favorite plushie after a week of laundry day. The tears started flowing as he began incoherently babbling about Steve and planet goo and how he worked really hard on making the gravity work this time, and now it’s gone, Grandpa, it’s gone!

Clockwork, for his part, gently patted Danny on the head and offered a soft “There, there. Let’s go home. I have cookies. And cocoa. With extra marshmallows.”

Danny nodded miserably, clutching his mentor like the universe had wronged him personally—which, in fairness, it kind of had. The two vanished into the portal, and just like that, time resumed. The pen hit the floor with a sharp clack.

The Justice League stared in stunned silence.

And then, just a beat too late, the Flash burst in with a stack of nachos, four Slurpees, and a hot dog sticking out of his hair.

Flash blinked at the scattered papers, frazzled League members, and the faint, lingering smell of cinnamon cookies. Batman said nothing. Constantine just lit another cigarette.

…..

 PS: If someone out there wants to continue or make a fic about this you are free to do so, don’t forget to tag me though.

[romerona]

The Cook and The Teacher!

Let's pretend The Bear and Abbot Elementary are in the same city.

Another cute interaction between Carmen (Carmy) Berzatto x Abbot Teacher Femreader! Sunshinereader!

Warnings: None

You glanced at the clock again, sighing like it had personally offended you. Your fingers tugged at the edge of your sleeve, mostly for dramatic flair at this point. The hands hadn’t moved much since the last time you looked—which was approximately forty-seven seconds ago, but who’s counting?

Not that you were nervous. No, no. Nervous is for people who don’t have an emergency backup plan involving a pigeon wearing a tiny tie and a PowerPoint presentation about apples.

You were just… mildly concerned.

Okay, maybe “low-key spiraling” was a more accurate term.

He said he’d come. Offered, even. You hadn’t begged, bribed, or emotionally blackmailed him (which you were fully capable of, for the record). He’d volunteered. That was important. Crucial, even.

It had all started with your now-iconic meltdown earlier in the week—Career Day Eve, if you will—when the zookeeper cancelled via email and emoji. An elephant emoji, to be exact and you, of course, had reacted in a calm, measured way.

By ranting to your handsome neighbour while pacing your living room in mismatched socks and clutching a mug of tea that had gone cold hours ago.

“I told them they were gonna see someone who works with LIONS, Carmy. Actual, roar-in-your-face, majestic-ass lions.” You groaned, flopping onto the couch like your spirit had physically left your body. “Ugh, I knew it. You can never trust someone with an exotic job and a man bun. That’s, like, a statistically proven red flag.”

From his seat at the far end of the couch, Carmy raised an eyebrow, expression maddeningly calm as he absently played with one of your throw pillows—the one you embroidered with little sunflowers during your short-lived cottage-core phase. He didn’t say anything. He just let you spiral.

You shot up, posture suddenly straight, eyes wild with new inspiration. “It’s fine. It’s fine. It’s all fine. I’ll just… bring in Gus. Yeah. Kids love Gus. Boom. Problem solved.”

Carmy blinked. “You’re not seriously—”

“Oh, I’m dead serious,” you interrupted one hand over your heart. “I’ll dress him up. Tiny tie, maybe a little badge. ‘Hello, my name is Gus. I’m a bird with a superiority complex and a cracker addiction.’ They’ll eat it up.”

That was when he said it, without looking up, like he was offering to pass the salt instead of volunteering for chaos. “I could come.”

You paused mid-rant, mouth half-open. “Come where? The pity party? Too late, I already RSVP’d with tears and dramatic flopping.”

“Career Day,” he said, glancing over at you finally. “I could do it. Talk to the kids. If you want.”

You blinked. Then blinked again, slower this time, like your brain needed an extra second to process the words.

“Carmy. Be serious. You run a whole kitchen. You work, like, twenty hours a day and sleep in four-minute intervals. I’m not about to let you donate one of your free mornings to a classroom of sugar-high fourth graders who will, at some point, absolutely ask if you ever had a rat under your hat."

He shrugged, unfazed. “I don’t mind.”

You opened your mouth to respond, but he cut in before you could unleash another dramatic protest.

“If it helps you,” he said, his tone easy but sincere, “I can handle being asked about Ratatouille.”

You gawked at him. “You're serious?”

He nodded, resting his arm along the back of the couch like this was a totally normal Tuesday. “Sure.”

“Carmy,” you said slowly, voice pitched somewhere between disbelief and exasperated fondness. “You do understand this is unpaid, right? Like, full-on volunteer mode. Zero dollars. No tips. Just you, a room of small humans, and probably a glitter explosion.”

He looked at you, completely unbothered. “Still don’t mind.”

You knew Carmy well enough by now to understand there were layers—deep, complicated, messy layers—hiding beneath that simple, “I could come.” Because yeah, sure, Carmy loved to cook, but he didn’t glamorize it. Not even a little. The passion was real, but so was the damage. Even though he hadn’t laid it all out for you—hadn’t sat you down and unpacked every scar—you could see it. You felt it.

You’d seen it.

In the way, his shoulders tensed at the mention of certain names, in the haunted, faraway look he got when he talked about past kitchens, the way his eyes darkened when work crept too far into the personal, the way silence filled in for stories he couldn’t bring himself to tell. The job had nearly eaten him alive more than once. You could tell. It had taken from him—family, sleep, health, peace. Years of his life he was still fighting to claw back, one broken, beautiful piece at a time.

So the idea of standing in front of a room full of wide-eyed, hopeful fourth graders and telling them, “Follow your passion!” like that passion hadn’t nearly swallowed him whole?

Yeah. That wasn’t a small ask.

And yet—he’d offered. Unprompted. Just a soft, casual, “I could come.”

For you.

And god, wasn’t that the part that ruined you a little?

Still, you'd waited a full twenty-four hours before giving him the green light. For his sake. For yours. For that part of you—the newer, softer, protective part—that had started to believe in shielding him from things, even when he didn’t ask to be shielded.

Because Carmy Berzatto may have survived a thousand kitchens, but that didn’t mean he needed to walk into this one unless he truly, truly wanted to.

And the crazy thing was? He did.

Now here you were, pacing between tiny desks like a caffeinated motivational speaker who didn’t have a Plan B involving a pigeon. You were totally calm. Totally fine. Totally not spiralling internally while your brain whispered charming thoughts like, 'he’s not coming', and 'Congrats, you’re about to host a cooking segment with no chef, no plan, and possibly a breakdown'.

“Miss!” one of your students called out, yanking you out of your mental spiral like a life preserver made of glitter glue. “When’s the chef getting here?”

You spun on your heel, smile locked in place like the unbothered queen you absolutely were not.

“Soon!” you beamed, while glancing at the cameras. “He’s probably just fighting with a soufflé or locked in a passionate debate with a garlic clove. You know—chef stuff.”

They laughed. You did too, though yours was the manic sort that said everything’s on fire, but at least we’re warm.

You had told them a real chef was coming. A famous one, even. But you’d kept that part tucked away. Just in case. You didn’t want them disappointed if he didn’t show.

You didn’t want to be disappointed if he didn’t show.

Because while you were currently dazzling these kids with your best “unbothered teacher queen” routine, inside? Yeah, your soul had filed an early resignation.

You glanced at the clock again.

Cool cool cool.

It was fine. Everything was fine. You were totally not about to fake a PowerPoint on “Why apples are the real MVP of fruits” while sobbing internally.

You gave your class a cheerful clap of your hands, channeling the kind of positivity that could sell overpriced candles on Etsy. “Alright! While we wait, why don’t we write down what questions we might want to ask our guest, hmm? Think big. Think bold. Think ‘What’s your favorite sauce?’ but, like, deeper.”

"Writting?" A collective groan rose from the class, dramatic and loud, as if you’d just asked them to handwrite the Constitution.

You raised your eyebrows, completely unfazed. “Yes, writing. The horror. Grab your pencils, Hemingways.”

And just as a few reluctant pens started to scratch against paper, the door swung open—abrupt, theatrical.

You were just about to exhale a tiny breath of relief when the classroom door swung open—and not in the chef arrives like a movie moment with the wind blowing his coat kind of way.

Nope.

It was Ava.

Your best friend. Your favorite menace. And the one person on Earth with zero chill.

Ava stepped in like she owned the place—which, to be fair, she kind of did, at least spiritually with phone in hand, eyes scanning the room like she was about to announce lottery numbers.

You blinked at her. “Principal Coleman?”

She ignored you completely and addressed your students with dramatic flair. “Excuse me, tiny scholars. I have a very important update.”

You narrowed your eyes. “Ava.”

She turned to you, positively glowing with mischief. “Your hansome chef is here.”

You blinked. “My—what?”

“Girl,” she said, one eyebrow raised. “The one you told me about. With the tattoed arms and the trauma. He’s here. And I gotta say, you undersold it.”

The class erupted into giggles. You blinked harder.

You blinked, stunned, brain buffering like a broken Wi-Fi signal. “Ava, this is a classroom. A learning environment.”

“I learned something,” she said with a wink. “I learned you have a taste for emotionally complex kitchen men with cheekbones so sharp they could dice an onion.”

“Can you just send him in, please?” you asked, voice sweet but strained, like you were one Ava comment away from evaporating into glitter.

Ava raised her brows like okay, ma’am, then dramatically pivoted on one heel, mumbling something under her breath that sounded suspiciously like, “Don’t say I never brought you anything good.”

The door closed behind her with a dramatic little click, and you turned back to your students, who were all openly staring at you like you were the lead in a very juicy reality show.

“Miss,” one of them stage-whispered, eyes wide with scandal, “are you dating the chef?”

You blinked. “Excuse me—what? No. Absolutely not. We are just… two humans who happen to know each other and occasionally share oxygen in the same room.”

And with a dramatic little head shake and the world's weakest scoff, you muttered, “Kids and their imaginations.”

A second student raised an eyebrow, clearly unconvinced. “But Miss… your face is doing the same thing it did when that one dad brought you cupcakes for Valentine’s Day.”

You opened your mouth. Closed it. Blinked. Then pointed at the worksheet pile like it held the answers to life itself.

“Okay—first of all, pencils up, Cupid Patrol. Second, that wasn’t a dad, it was the very kind district representative who happened to believe in seasonal baked goods and workplace appreciation.”

The kids oooh’d like you’d just admitted to a full-blown scandal.

“And for the record,” you muttered, loud enough for the mic to catch, "Nothing happened. It was one cupcake. Vanilla. Calm down.”

The camera lingered.

You blinked. “Cut somewhere else.”

You were still glaring at the camera crew when the door creaked open again—this time quieter, less dramatic, almost hesitant.

You turned, mid-eye-roll, fully expecting Ava to have come back for one final round of public humiliation.

But it wasn’t Ava.

It was him.

Carmy stepped into the room, somehow looking both like a Michelin-starred chef and a man who was deeply unsure if he’d accidentally walked into a daycare. His white tee was freshly pressed, chef’s coat folded neatly over his arm, hair was slightly messy like he’d fought with it in the car, lost, and decided to just let fate take the wheel, carrying a large bag.

He stood there for a second, blinking at the sea of tiny faces—and you.

“Uh… hi,” Carmy said, voice low and hesitant.

Your brain, which had been barely clinging to function, promptly short-circuited.

“Hi,” you echoed, way too breathy for someone in charge of young minds, smiling like a fourth grader yourself.

“Miss! Is that him?” one student asked, already halfway out of their chair like they were witnessing a celebrity walk-in.

You blinked back into Teacher Modetm with the grace of someone internally screaming. “Yes. Yes, that’s him. Everyone—uh—remain seated.”

You gestured toward Carmy. “This is Chef Carmy, our very special guest for Career Day!”

The kids leaned forward like a chorus of curious meerkats, eyes wide, pencils ready.

“Can we all say, ‘Hi, Chef Carmy’?” you asked.

“Hiiii, Chef Carmyyyyy!” the room chorused in chaos, overlapping voices.

Carmy raised a hand in a small wave, his lips pulling into a sheepish smile. “Hey. Uh… thanks for having me.”

Then—of course—he glanced over at the camera crew like he just now realized they existed, eyes slightly wide before blinking quickly back to you. He stepped closer, leaning in just a bit, voice soft—just for you.

“Sorry I’m late,” he murmured. “Traffic was… hell.”

You grinned, shaking your head. “You’re fine. You made it. That’s what matters.”

He nodded, almost imperceptibly, still looking at you like you’d somehow made this less terrifying just by standing there.

And then, because this day was determined to destroy you emotionally, one of your students blurted out, “Miss, your face is doing the thing again!”

You didn’t even flinch as you turned to the children. “Okay! We are officially in session. Chef Carmy is here, so I hope you have your questions ready—and no, none of them can be about Ratatouille, or I will confiscate your recess.”

A hand shot up immediately. “Is it true chefs yell a lot?”

Carmy blinked, caught between answering and short-circuiting.

You sighed dramatically, shooting him a look. “And here we go.”

To his credit, Carmy recovered quickly. “Uh… yeah,” he said honestly, scratching the back of his neck. “Sometimes. But mostly just when things are on fire or… slicing off a thumb.”

A collective gasp filled the room.

“Wait, did you really cut your thumb off?” one kid asked, absolutely horrified and delighted.

Carmy hesitated. “No, but… close enough.”

“Cool,” the kid breathed.

You gave Carmy a look like sir, but he just gave you a little shrug back that said I’m trying here.

Still, you beamed. Progress. He was finding his rhythm.

And then, the spaghetti.

You’d cleared a small table for him earlier, just in case he brought something. But you had not expected him to go full cooking show.

With sleeves rolled, Carmy walked the kids through how to make fresh spaghetti from scratch.

“Alright, so—flour,” he said, pouring it out onto the surface. “Then you make a little well, like this.”

“Ooooh,” the kids chorused, some of them leaning forward like they were witnessing magic.

You stood off to the side, arms crossed, trying very hard to look composed and not like you were watching a rom-com scene play out in real time. Because Carmy? Flour dust on his hands, explaining things so gently, so patiently, even when the questions made zero sense? It was unfairly attractive.

“So the eggs go in the middle, and you start mixing with a fork—”

“What if you used a spoon?”

“Would it still work if it was peanut butter instead of eggs?”

“Could you make the dough into, like… animal shapes?”

“Do you have beef with Gordon Ramsay?”

Carmy was trying his best. “Okay, uh—no spoons, no peanut butter, yes to animal shapes, and… no comment on Gordon Ramsay.”

He cracked eggs into flour, mixed dough by hand, and passed around little pinches so the kids could feel it for themselves. He used terms like “emulsify” and “al dente,” then immediately explained them in fourth-grade-speak. He asked for volunteers to help him roll the dough out with a tiny pin you’d borrowed from the kithcen. He let one kid sprinkle flour on the surface with a flair that could only be described as “chef-in-training chaos.” Another student tried to twirl the noodles like he was doing a magic trick.

He was awkward, yes—but also patient, funny in that deadpan way that made the kids hang onto every word.

Somewhere around the rolling-out portion of the lesson, the door creaked open again—and in walked the kitchen staff from the cafeteria. Hairnets. Aprons. Pens and little spiral notebooks in hand.

“We heard there was a Michelin star in the building,” Shanae announced from the doorway, arms crossed over her cafeteria apron, clearly enjoying the scene unfolding. “We just wanted to, you know… take a peek.”

“If you need to boil it, Chef Carmy, you can use my pot,” Devin offered, already scribbling something in a little notepad like he was about to text his group chat immediately.

"Thank you, Chef," Carmy nodded at him with a polite smile, a little bashful now, and returned to cutting his dough.

As if that wasn’t enough, Mr. Johnson sauntered in not five minutes later, leaned against the back wall like he was in a speakeasy, and said, “You know, back in ‘92 I made lasagna so good the mayor cried. Just sayin’.”

He then turned and disappeared down the hall like a wizard of chaos, muttering something about gluten conspiracies.

You didn’t even blink. “Thank you, Mr. Johnson.”

Then, Melissa strolls in, coffee in hand and eyebrows already at maximum scepticism.

She paused in the doorway, scanning the flour-dusted counter, the students gathered around like Carmy was performing miracles, and Carmy himself—elbows deep in pasta dough.

She sipped her coffee as she stared at the pasta. “Wait, so… what’s your last name?”

Carmy glanced up, blinking like he’d been pulled out of a trance. He looked at Melissa, then at you, like he was checking to see if this was a trick question. “Uh… Berzatto.”

Melissa squinted. A beat passed.

“Huh,” she said, in a tone that somehow contained five different layers of meaning: vague suspicion, mild approval, distant familiarity, one raised red flag, and a complete personality assessment. “Makes sense.”

And just like that, she turned and walked off, heels clicking, coffee still steaming, not another word spoken.

Carmy blinked after her, then looked at you, deadpan. “Was that a threat?”

You shrugged. “Honestly? It’s better not to ask.”

“Right,” Carmy mumbled, brushing a bit of flour from his fingers before continuing like he hadn’t just been hit with a drive-by personality analysis from a woman with mob energy and perfect eyeliner.

He rolled back into the lesson with ease, walking the kids through shaping the dough into spaghetti strands.

“You want it thin, but not too thin,” he was saying, hands moving with a kind of gentle confidence that made even flour seem like it was cooperating out of respect. “If you can see through it, you’ve gone too far. Unless you’re making ravioli. But that’s… a whole different story.”

Meanwhile, you?

You couldn’t take your eyes off him.

Every time he explained something—how the gluten develops, why olive oil matters, the difference between done and perfect—you leaned in without realizing. Just a little. Drawn in, like the words were for you and only you.

And the worst part?

Sometimes he looked at you while he talked. Just little glances. Barely-there flickers. But each one lit you up like someone had turned on all the fairy lights inside your chest.

Your heart fluttered. Your cheeks hurt from smiling. Your brain? Fully composing a sonnet titled To the Man Making Spaghetti in My Classroom.

You were so, so doomed and just when your face was halfway to full heart-eyes emoji status, you remembered—

The cameras.

You blinked, snapped your head toward them, and straightened up like you hadn’t just been silently daydreaming about holding Carmy’s tattooed hand while wandering through a farmer’s market in the fall or about his hands elsewhere...

One cameraman raised an eyebrow.

You cleared your throat. Smiled. Gave a stiff little nod like everything is normal and fine and I am a professional adult woman.

The rest passed too quickly for your liking.

One second, he was explaining how flour and eggs became pasta, and the next he was handing off the fresh noodles to Devin who looked so starstruck you half-expected him to ask for an autograph, but instead, he just took the dough reverently, muttering, “I got you, Chef,”

While Devin handled the boiling, Carmy fielded more questions, bouncing between wide-eyed children and genuinely curious adults.

One kid asked if he ever cried over burnt toast.

“Only once,” Carmy replied. “It was a really good piece of bread.”

Another asked if he’d ever cooked for a king.

“Not officially,” he said, glancing at you with a quick smirk that made your heart do a cartwheel. “But I’ve cooked for people who matter.”

The kitchen staff and at least one substitute from down the hall— all threw out questions about risotto techniques, braising, and how he gets his red sauce just right.

He pulled out a small pan he’d brought, explaining how to build a sauce from scratch—olive oil, garlic, a little tomato, basil. Simple, but the room smelled like heaven. The adults were wide-eyed. The kids were openly drooling. You might’ve been, too.

He offered tiny sample spoons as he stirred, like it was the most natural thing in the world to casually do a cooking demo in a public school classroom. And when Devin returned with the perfectly cooked pasta—because of course it was perfect—Carmy tossed it with the sauce and started plating like it was no big deal.

Little paper bowls. Plastic forks. A sprinkle of cheese. And just like that, he was handing out servings of handmade pasta to a group of nine-year-olds and the adults like they were at some five-star tasting event.

You got a plate, too and the second you took a bite, you nearly sat down.

It was so good—like warm, rich, made-with-love kind of good. Like maybe he put his entire soul into the sauce and also possibly his feelings for you kind of good. You blinked up at him, genuinely speechless for the first time all day.

He raised an eyebrow. “Okay?”

You nodded, slow. “I hate you a little bit.”

He chuckled. “I’ll take that.”

And yeah, you were so, so gone.

The kids were still buzzing as they lined up to leave, chattering about pasta like it was the greatest invention since slime. A few waved wildly at Carmy on their way out, and others whispered to each other like they’d just met a celebrity—which, honestly, they kind of had to and Carmy gave them a small, slightly awkward wave back.

“Miss,” one whispered as they passed you, eyes wide with hope, “can Chef Carmy come back next week?”

You smiled, warm and fond. “We’ll see.”

When the last of them filed out and the door finally clicked shut, the room fell into a warm, quiet hum—sunlight filtering through the windows, flour still dusted on the counter, the lingering scent of garlic and tomato hanging in the air like some kind of cozy spell.

You turned, and there he was.

Carmy stood at the table he’d used, wiping it down with a damp towel, sleeves still rolled to his forearms, curls a little wild after an hour of navigating the adorable storm that was your classroom. He looked… calm. Settled.

“Hey,” you said, a little sing-songy as you stopped beside him. “Chef of the Year. You did it.”

He glanced up, met your eyes with a crooked smile. “Hey.”

“I just wanted to say thank you,” you said, lowering your voice just a bit. “Like, really—you didn’t just show up, you… you were brilliant, Carmy.”

He let out a breath that was half-laugh, half something more complicated. “I was wingin’ it the whole time.”

“Well,” you said with a smile, “you wing things very charmingly.”

His eyes lingered on you for a beat longer than strictly necessary. “You made it easier.”

The words landed between you like something delicate and important. You swallowed, heart doing that tight, fluttery thing again—the one that always showed up whenever he looked at you like that.

You tried to recover, tossing the moment a wink and a grin just to keep yourself grounded. “So does that mean you’re open to a regular Thursday guest chef gig?”

He smirked, low and lopsided. Shook his head like he couldn’t believe you—but not in a bad way. “I don’t know if I’m built for the fourth grade attention span.”

“They were obsessed with you,” you said matter-of-factly, crossing your arms and stepping just a little closer.

“They were obsessed with the pasta.”

You tilted your head, eyes twinkling. “It wouldn’t be hard for it to be both.”

That made him pause. Just long enough for the tension to hum again, low and warm.

That made him pause. Just long enough for the tension to hum again, low and warm.

He looked at you like he was trying to read between your words. Like he wasn’t quite sure if you meant it the way it sounded—but hoping you did.

A beat passed. You held his gaze, smile softening just slightly. Just enough.

And then he looked down—at your shoes, the floor, literally anything else that wasn’t your face—and cleared his throat. “I should… probably get going.”

“Right. Yeah.” You brushed past him to grab a tray, your shoulder just barely bumping his as you passed. “See you around, Carmy Next Door.”

If he froze for half a second—well, that was between him and the classroom air that had suddenly grown suspiciously warmer.

You kept your back to him, pretending to busy yourself with stacking paper plates while absolutely listening for every move behind you.

A minute later, he was at the door, bag slung over one shoulder, hand on the knob.

“Yeah, see you around,” he said, almost too casually.

You turned toward him, giving him a smile that was part “Thank you, again.”

He nodded but didn’t move. Just stood there and after a pause he cleared his throat, glanced down, then back up at you—like he was in the middle of a conversation with himself and currently losing.

“Hey—” he started, then stopped, his jaw clenching just slightly. “Would it be weird if I…”

You raised your brows, trying not to let the hope leak into your smile. “If you what?”

He shifted his weight, ran a hand through his curls. “If I asked you to dinner.”

You tilted your head, giving him your best faux-casual sass. “Like a date?”

“Yeah. Like a date.” He gave the tiniest nod, just enough

You didn’t even hesitate. “Took you long enough.”

His mouth curved into the softest smile you’d seen from him all day—like it caught him off guard like it made something inside him loosen.

“So that’s a yes?” he asked, voice quiet.

“It’s a yes,” you said, and damn, you didn’t even try to hide your smile this time.

He opened the door, then turned back one last time. “I’ll text you.”

“You better,” you said. “You owe me pasta without a classroom audience.”

He laughed under his breath, then stepped out, the door clicking softly behind him.

You stood there for a moment, alone in the quiet hum of the classroom, heart fluttering like you were seventeen and just got asked to prom. Which, honestly… wasn’t that far off.

You let out a breath, tried to pull yourself together, and failed—because your face still hurt from smiling and your brain was very much replaying every single second in high-definition slow motion.

Then, out of the corner of your eye, you spotted it, the cameras.

Still rolling.

“Told you it was a matter of time,” you said, voice smug and giddy. Then you added, dead serious: “Also—if you zoomed in on me blushing again, we’re fighting.”

Cut to black.

A/N: Helloooooo. How is everyone!?? Okay first I want to apolagize that it took me so long to publish this part, lots going on rn, second, I thank you all for the support, for those likes, commentsss and shares ❤️ Like its crazyyyy.

Be safe out there 🫶 Tell me if you would like to get tagged.

Tags:

@hiitsmebbygrl16 @urthem00n @svzwriting29 @tyferbebe @akornsworld @khxna @ruthyalva96 @beingalive1 @darkestbeforethedawn16 @turtle-cant-communicate spideybv28 veryberryjelly @daisy-the-quake leilanixx softpia cosmix-stxrs the-disaster-in-waiting memoriesat30 emerald-jade1 sabrina-carpenter-stan-account ateliefloresdaprimavera theflowerswillbloom blairfox04 nicksolemnlyswears stardream14 notme22sblog mattm1964 maddeningmentalmess isla-finke-blog literature-nerd-blossom starberryhorse hipsternerd9 landpiranha-blog miarabanana everywherenothere just-soft-things1 blue-4-raven rockyeatrock this--is--music lettucel0ver chayceschultz silas-aeiou alexxavicry

[akindaflora]

The Barter System

Bangchan (Idol) x Reader

Genre: Crack, Fluff

Warning: I did hop around from full names and nick names but I tried to stick to a few. But I think this is an overall SFW. pretty light hearted.

Description: You got tried of the other members of Stray Kids coming and stealing your man so you came up with a system to enjoy more time with him.

AN: A somewhat short post but I genuinely do love the barter system. Fun fact its how I've gotten most of my tattoos. I don't know how funny this will be but I had fun writing it so ITS FUNNY TO ME!

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“Okay Y/N I’ve got a chocolate bar and a Mogu Mogu drink. How many hours will that get me?” Han said after emptying out his bag. The value of the items was definitely appealing but not worth the price of what you have to offer. And Han knew better, his eyes grew big with hope you would catch him a break from your intense inspection. But you were trained for this wanting nothing but the best and this just didn't seem worthy of the price.

You raise your eyebrow, inspecting the brand of chocolate and flavor of drink but only sigh in distress. “At best this gets you 30 minutes of my time, your better than this Jisung you know what i have on the market is very valuable to me,” you said crossing your arms and leaning on the door of Chan's room. Jisung's eyes fell snapping at the truth your words brought.

Hearing a deep laughter in the room Chan only shook his head. Ever since you both got together you had always been slightly annoyed at the guys stealing Chan away especially when it was his off day. And you having a strong hardworking man of a boyfriend who always treated his members and you, of course, as his high priority. And you cherished his care for his career and his friends but was it a crime to not feel a bit annoyed when he never seemed to have a day off. Was it so wrong to want a monopoly on your hot boyfriend time? After mulling it over you could only come up with a no, so you came up with a system where they would have to barter something valuable for Chan's time.

Chan thought it was cute, he secretly loved how you wanted to cling to him a bit on his off days and he knew it had to be hard on you with his work. So he let you bring it up to the members and after some serious convincing and a PowerPoint, the boys were game. After each relationship milestone, the price for his time grew more and even if he found it ridiculous he’d allow it since it gave him more time to himself and you.

This time Han had come knocking after you two were cuddling and watching a movie. Saying he needed Chan for a few hours for some help with a track he was producing for his solo. But if he thought a simple chocolate bar and a fruity Mogu drink was enough. He was incredibly mistaken. At first, you were lenient on the offers wanting to get the boys excited but after the first love-yous and meeting the parents you grew more serious as the relationship grew. And things like this weren't gonna cut it.

“You drive a hard bargain Y/N,” he stood for a minute thinking what he could get that would be valuable enough.

“How about this, throw in the chocolate bar and the drink and and I’ll get you the Bang Chan accordion from ATE,” he said with a hopeful smirk.

You only laughed briefly, “I already have the Bang Chan accordion this ain’t my first rodeo quokka. Besides no product no Channie,” You said with a smirk crossing your arms. A slight thick New York accent peaking threw you've been practicing for these moments.

He only sighed in defeat, “I’ll be back L/N” he said walking away and pointing in your direction, “Just you wait I’ll have the deal of lifetime,” he said slowly creeping into the hallway before his back bumped into the wall. Maybe you all had watched wayyy too many Mafia movies, Chan thought to himself. But only laughed at your back and forth.

You laughed quickly before asking if he was alright to which he gave a thumbs up not before pointing again as you closed the door.

Turning around you jumped back on the bed to a laughing chan as you snuggled in close again. Him riddled with laughter.

“Baby I can’t with you,” he said still laughing at your antics. Before you could reply another knock came by. You only grumbled as you walked to the door this time A bald Kiwi holding a painting of Chan and you with a bag of Rose Tteokbokki. Your favorite, if anyone was really asking. Hyunjin seemed to always know what would pique your interest, this was a man who knew how to bargain.

You raised your eyebrows at the offer, “How long” you simply said not giving away your interest in what he had to offer. But at the sound of a simple phrase Jinnie knew he had you.

“Only two hours, I would like Channie to advise on a personal problem I’m having.” Your heart softens a little at the words. Granted, this would have definitely bought Hyunjin at least five hours, but he didn’t need to know that, did he?

Wanting to drag this deal out a little you asked about the goods, "When did you paint this?" you asked truly curious.

"I've got a few things in stock for moments like these." Is all he said hands in pockets rocking back and forth as you held the items. After looking closely you nodded at his preparation and skills.

You looked back at Chan who only nodded at the decent offer before looking at a hopeful ferret.

“Okay you have until,” looking at your watch “8:22,” you said grabbing the items. “If he not back by then I will be coming to repossess what’s mine,” You said. He only quickly nodded shaking your hand at the deal being sealed as you motioned Channie to follow Hyunjin.

Grabbing the items you lay the painting on Chan's bed and carefully took the takeout out of the bag as you ate at his desk. Grinning big at your treasures. Chan only shook his head and giggled before kissing your head and following Hyunjin out of the room.

As you settled into eating another knock came. You opened the door to a desperate Han with a stuffed animal in one hand and Doonie, one of the three Lee Knows cats in hand.

“Okay so how about this stuffed animal, Lee Know cat and the chocolate and the drink,” he said with hopeful eyes.

You only sighed, “One this would have bought you three hours at the most. Two does Minho, know you have his cat, and three you're too late Jinne already traded me two hours for takeout and this hand-painted photo of us.” you said showing him the painting with pride.

Han only cursed but before he could reply a loud Ya was heard. You peeked your head out to see an angry Lee Know with a wooden spoon rushing towards Han. You quickly ducked back into the room closing the door. To only hear a loud meow and a scream from Han as he was trying to run away. Key word tried.

TWO HOURS LATER

You had been lying on Chan's bed as you went to find another show to watch. The door opened to a smiling Chan as he saw you tucked into his bed. He only ran to jump in and cuddle you close. He nuzzled his head into your neck taking a whiff of your scent and sighing as you giggle at his antics.

“Is Jinne alright?” you asked after finishing laughing, “yeah he was just stressed about some work things.” He said after a few minutes of hiding into your neck. He finally got changed as he slipped under the covers pulling you close. His strong arm secures you in his warmth. You sighed in bliss at the sound of his heart close to your ear and the soft circles he rubbed into your back. Your version of Heaven already manifested before your eyes.

“Oh yeah by the way what was that screaming I heard earlier,” he asked curiously probably too focused on helping Jinne he didn’t even care to check.

You giggled at the memory, “Han tried to trade you for one of Lee Know's cats and I guess he didn’t ask because Lee Know came running down the hall with a wooden spoon. I closed the door before he could so I don’t really know if Han ever made it to safety,” you said looking off into the distance as if still questioning Han safety.

He leaned back to look at you for a hot second even blinking trying to see if you were lying but when he only found the truth, he bubbled over with laughter. You could fill the ripples of his joy that shook his body. His laugh was so contagious you laughed with him thinking of the sight you saw.

Man did you love the barter system. And you loved Chan truly the best of both worlds.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

After writing notes : Hope this was enough Crack for you! I truly wonder if Han actually made it to safety? I couldn't help but think what would I do if I had a busy bee of a boyfriend like Chan, who was needed by literally everyone and I think if he was truly game maybe this would work. What do you think?

-Yaya

[zingaplanet]

Absolutely hilarious to me that Tom Hiddleston, realising Owen Wilson knew zit nada bout the MCU, gave him a full community college crash course on the entire universe's storyline complete with flashcards, powerpoints, videos, and visual effects.

Then when he started to lose Owen to afternoon naps, literally started crashing into his hotel room for revision time, bringing the 'Loki notes' he made him do, and basically denying him sleep for weeks??

[sunshineyuyu]

chained (c. jh)

★ summary: jongho wears a silver chain that you’re obsessed with, and you finally get his attention after some calculated flirting with yunho and some beer pong. ★ pairing: jongho x f!reader (ft. yunho) ★ genre: friends to lovers, college, smut (mdni!) ★ word count: 5.4k ★ tags/warnings: alcohol consumption, vaginal fingering, jongho calls reader babygirl and yunho calls reader princess, features friend!san and previous hookup!yunho, some jealousy/tension, reader also kinda uses yunho… but he’s okay with it, lowercase ★ notes: beta’d by the bestie @starhwas-bunny. there may or may not be a yunho prequel coming soon hehehehe. also please let me know if i’ve missed any warnings! ★ masterlist | read on ao3 | part 2

you feel your eyelids droop, heavy from the burden of attempting to stay away in this godforsaken class. it doesn’t help that the seats in this lecture hall are so damn comfortable: plush and tall enough for full back and neck support and a slight give that lets you lean back. you’re one lecture slide away from calling it a day—even though class started just ten minutes ago—when you feel something at your left shoulder.

it’s choi jongho, leaning closer towards you over the armrest dividing your seats. 

hot, attractive choi jongho, with broad shoulders and strong arms and thick thighs. 

you stare adamantly at your laptop screen, at the blank google doc open, at the blinking cursor teasing you for almost falling asleep. you focus on literally anything except jongho’s overwhelming presence at your side–the subtle scent of his musky shampoo, his hot breath fanning over your shoulder.

 the silver chain that he normally hides behind the collar of his shirt hangs out, dangling in a way that has you imagining a different scenario: your string lights illuminating the outline of his body while he presses you into the mattress with his weight, one hand gripping your waist and the other on the headboard, that goddamn silver chain swinging above you while he—

“late night last night?” jongho says, voice low because you’re in class, and deliciously deep. it’s unintentionally sultry, and you find yourself squeezing your thighs together.

“shut up,” you say. “i was finishing an essay.”

jongho hums, and you start to aimlessly copy down the words of the lecture slide. you know that jongho sees right through you; the slides will be posted online later, so there’s no point regurgitating the content.

but you cannot let yourself look at jongho, because you’d probably try to kiss him right then and there.

“weren’t you with yunho?” he says.

“not like that,” you grit out. “we’re just in the same class so he was helping me.”

jongho hums, and he finally returns to the confines of his own seat. you let out a breath of relief. you continue copying down words from the powerpoint, even letting yourself tune into the professor’s voice; at least you’re wide awake now, a nagging feeling of want coursing through you.

you feel a nudge at your other elbow. this presence is comfortable, familiar. it’s san, your first friend at university who is conveniently the same major as you. even though he’s just as big and built as jongho, he’s less intimidating. he’s soft and nice, and he’s showing you a topical meme on his phone from  some computer science joke twitter account.

unfortunately, jongho notices san’s phone turned towards you and leans over again, except this time he’s closer, his shoulder brushing against yours as he tries to make sure he’s also included in the joke.

“i don’t get it,” he says.

“it’s because you’re not actually a computer science major,” you say, rolling your eyes and pushing jongho back into his seat—you exert more effort than you anticipated because of how solid jongho is.

“tsk,” jongho says. “at least i actually understand what’s going on in this class.”

this shuts you up, and you go back to glaring at your laptop and reformatting your bullets because you’ve already lost track of the lecture.

you last another fifteen minutes of attempting to pay attention, before you resign yourself to scrolling through instagram and mentally planning how you can coerce jongho into sharing his immaculately organized notes.

in the final minute of class, the whole class begins unceremoniously packing up, even though the professor is still droning on about greedy algorithms. everyone shuffles out of their row and through the doors at the back of the lecture hall, and jongho falls into step with san, talking about working on the homework tonight. you walk a step behind them, because your legs are shorter and because you want plausible deniability while admiring the shear breadth of jongho’s shoulders.

you leave the lecture hall, and san heads to the academic quad for his next class.

“see you later,” you say to him and jongho, who usually has to work at the library after class, but you notice him following you to the coffeehouse.

“don’t you have work?” you say.

“i changed my schedule,” jongho says. “are you gonna go work at the cafe?”

you nod, and he follows you to the campus coffeehouse where you stand in a fifteen minute line. jongho only gets drip coffee, so you end up ordering something frivolous to make the wait worth it. the two of you squeeze into a small table in the corner, your knees constantly brushing against each other as you read over the essay you wrote last night in a red bull induced haze.

most of it is thankfully salvageable, and the hit of caffeine helps you.

every once in a while, you find yourself glancing over the top of your laptop at jongho. at the lines of concentration etched into his handsome, tanned face. how his hair is getting scruffy and how he pouts when he’s deep in thought.

you’re so hopelessly in love with choi jongho.

at some point, he gets up to get a napkin, and when he returns, he doesn’t sit back down in his own seat. no—instead he hovers behind you, invading your space with one hand on the back of your chair and the other stretched onto the table to keep himself stable.

and that chain—that goddamn silver chain dances over your shoulder again.

“what do you want?” you mumble, skin prickling at the sensation of his proximity.

“this is not bad,” jongho says, eyes skimming over your essay.

“what’s with the tone of surprise?” you retort.

jongho shrugs. “just thought you would’ve been distracted last night.”

you finally chance a look at him, if only to stare at him puzzled until it finally clicks. you shove him off—subconsciously admiring, once again, just how solid he feels.

“for the last time,” you say. “it’s not like that. yunho’s just a friend.”

jongho sits back down, patting the napkin on a part of his laptop.

“good.”

you stop typing and gape at jongho, who’s returned to focusing on his own work. did he- did he just—? your brain works at miles a minute, offering bold assumptions and then instantly refuting them and then rebutting those and then raising new anxieties and then being hopeful and then—

you spend the rest of the time at the coffeehouse overanalyzing one word you’re not even sure you heard.

⋆⋆⋆

the three of you are sat around the coffee table in the living room of jongho and san’s apartment on the west side of campus. their apartment has become the haven for your discrete math class, where jongho blesses you and san with his knowledge in a class he’s taking pass/fail that isn’t even a major requirement for him. their apartment also has plenty of alcohol for when the nights get particularly rough and a good stash of unhealthy stacks.

it’s 1 am now, and the three of you have finished three out of five of the homework questions, eaten five packets of ramen, two sleeves of strawberry pocky, downed six bottles of yakult, and watched an eighteen minute youtube video theorizing that bakugou might become the second user of one for all.

you’d consider this a productive night.

now, you’re perched on the couch, san leaning against your legs while you play with his hair. it’s softer than yours, which frustrates you to no end because you know for a fact that he uses 5-in-1—how are there even five things to incorporate into one bottle?

jongho’s in the kitchen, contemplating a late night—or early morning—beer.

“seonghwa’s throwing a party this weekend,” jongho says, when he returns with another bottle of yakult instead of the beer. the bottle is already small, but it’s positively dwarfed by the size of his hands.

“if seonghwa’s hosting, then yunho will be there,” jongho continues. he looks pointedly at you.

“i thought,” you say, tugging a little on san’s hair and earning a sharp shout of pain, “we established that i don’t. like. yunho.””

“but didn’t you hook up with him?” san says, removing himself from your vindictive fingers and rubbing his scalp. as he sits up to look at you, he instantly regrets bringing up this point as you glare daggers at him. he’s not wrong; you and yunho had hooked up once, at the birthday party of an acquaintance, after seeing jongho chatting up some other pretty girl.

“you guys hooked up?” jongho says, breaking the stare-off you’re having with san for betraying your trust like that.

“it didn’t mean anything,” you say quickly, glancing up at jongho and double-taking at the shadow that’s fallen over his expression. how his jaw looks tensed and his eyes narrowed.

“but you guys hooked up,” he repeats.

“just the one time,” you say, not quite understanding why it feels like you’re being accused of something far worse than a hookup between two consenting and single adults. “we were high and he was just there and it happened.”

“when?” jongho says, continuing the interrogation and maintaining eye contact with you while san switches his attention between the two of you, the instigator but certainly not the mediator of this conversation.

“at yeji’s birthday party,” you say. 

“so that’s why we had to pick you up from the burger place on 8th,” jongho says. “because you were at his place.”

“yeah,” you say. “but it literally does not matter because i don’t like him. we’re just friends, and i’m not gonna hook up with him again.”

jongho stares at you.

“good.”

there it is again. that word, said under his breath. barely there, but enough that you feel a mix of doubt and hope.

you hate it.

“hey!” san says, forcefully cheerful in a way that means he’s trying to change the subject to diffuse the situation. “i found another my hero theory video. the one has 100k views!”

you drop jongho’s gaze first, letting your attention shift to the video san has pulled up on his laptop. “i just don’t think my hero is that deep,” you sigh, trying to ignore the way you can still feel jongho’s eyes on you.

“well, 100 thousand people do,” san sniffs. “including me.”

finally, jongho takes the bait. “how long is it?” he asks.

“thirty minutes!” san says cheerfully.

you and jongho both groan, but dutifully allow san to press play.

over the next thirty minutes, you tune in and out of the overdramatic video as you turn over the previous conversation in your head. you can’t help but read into the situation: clearly jongho is bothered that you’re close with yunho and hooked up with him once. in fact, he’s so bothered that you could even interpret it as being… jealous. 

but if he is, why doesn’t he do anything about it?

you’re half asleep by the time the video ends. san nudges you and gives you an sheepish, apologetic smile.

“it’s late,” he says. “do you want us to drive you home?”

“nah,” you say. “can i just stay over? i’m too tired to move.”

it’s not your first time staying over. your apartment is on the other side of campus, so after most long nights of working you sleep on the couch. san lets you borrow the same old high school volleyball shirt every time, and you slip into it and pull off your jeans. the shirt is thankfully long enough to cover your butt, and the no-pants thing has never been a problem.

until now, when you step out of the bathroom, and jongho’s just entering his bedroom, and he looks at you. you clearly see his eyes roam down your legs before springing back up to meet yours.

“let me get you a pillow and blanket,” he says, voice gruff and deep.

“san’s getting—”

“let me get you a pillow and blanket,” he repeats.

it feels like an olive branch, and you fall asleep surrounded by jongho’s scent. distinctly masculine and musky and oddly soothing.

⋆⋆⋆

when you wake up the next morning, it’s to the sound of whirring from the kitchen. from your spot on the couch, you can vaguely make out the blurry shape of someone in the kitchen. your hand flails around the coffee table, blindly slapping until you find your glasses and shove them onto your face.

it’s jongho, wearing gray sweats and no shirt, leaning against the counter while making coffee. you take the time to admire his back, feeling your cheeks warm as you do. in all honesty, you’re surprised that this is the first time you’ve ever seen him shirtless, and you’d be dumb not to take advantage of it.

you run your eyes over the contours of the muscles in his back, the way they flex and ripple as he crosses and uncrosses his arms.

you yawn and wipe at the sleep still in your eyes. this noise gets to jongho, and he turns around. this action draws a sound out of you, something that comes from the back of your throat, somewhere between a gasp and a groan. because jongho—

jongho’s shirtless, and he’s facing you, his naked torso completely exposed to you. you stare at that goddamn silver chain, nestled against his substantial chest. at the miles and miles of smooth, tanned skin and his fucking arms.

you clap a hand over your mouth and pretend to yawn again.

“you want coffee?” jongho calls.

“yeah,” you manage to say, while laying back onto your back and averting your eyes to the ceiling.

a little while later, you hear jongho pad towards you and you sit back up again. he gives you a mug of coffee and sits down at the opposite end of the couch, leaning back and stretching out his offensively nice upper body. the light from outside peeks in from the blinds of the large balcony windows and bathes his skin in golden stripes.

“is san—?”

“he’s at his 8 am,” jongho says. “when’s your first class again?”

“not until 10:45,” you say. “i’m gonna go home and shower and stuff first.”

“i’ll give you a ride,” jongho says.

you protest politely, mostly because you don’t know if you’ll be able to stand being in such a small space with him, especially when he drives a sleek black mercedes with silky black leather that’s just begging for someone to ruin with some steamy car sex.

but jongho manages to convince you that he needs to drop by the convenience store on the east side of campus anyway, so you find yourself following him down to the apartment parking lot, wearing yesterday’s clothes and hair tied up in a bun to disguise how oily it is.

when he backs out of his spot, he does that thing: wraps his arm around the back of your seat and backs out with one hand. it’s disgustingly attractive.

you sink lower into the heated seat, staring out the window to avoid daydreaming about car sex with jongho.

⋆⋆⋆

you do end up going to seonghwa’s party that friday, after your girlfriends unceremoniously invite themselves into your apartment carrying a huge case of peach soju and a twelve pack of beer.

after a beer and two shots of soju, you’ve changed into a crop top, a silky leopard print skirt, and cute black boots. 

thankfully, seonghwa’s place is only a block away from your apartment, but you and your friends still find a way to get lost on the way there. it takes ten minutes longer than necessary, but you’re finally crashing into the living room of seonghwa’s townhouse.

it’s already packed, but roomy enough that you can move freely without having to slide against other sweaty and drunk people. you break off from your friends to seek out san (and jongho). as you pass the kitchen, you swipe a red solo and a meager amount of whatever mixed drink atrocity they’ve made for the night that you immediately water down. you’re man enough to acknowledge that you’re a lightweight, and you’ll be damned if you end the night puking into a toilet rather than flirting with jongho.

you find san first. he’s lurking near the beer pong table, leaning against the wall and talking to wooyoung. you sneak up on him and he jumps when you give his side a big poke.

“san!” you say, wrapping him a big hug. you’re known to be more affectionate with alcohol in your system. after san clumsily returns your hug to avoid spilling his drink on you, you release him and give wooyoung a similar hug.

“where’s jongho?” you ask, standing on your toes to speak directly into san’s ear.

san points to the other side of the pong table, where you see jongho huddled in a corner with some blonde girl who looks suspiciously like the one from yeji’s birthday party. your reaction is immediate, something joining the alcohol to course through your veins—something fiery and prickling. jealousy, you think numbly.

“we’re playing next,” san says. “me and jongho. you should stay to watch.”

you hum noncommittally, peering at the ids lined up on the pong table and seeing only jongho’s. an idea strikes you, and you give san a peck on the cheek and some excuse about using the bathroom.

you wander back through the crowd of people, occasionally saying hi to people you know as you seek out one individual in particular. you find him on the couch, arm hung lazily on the back, hovering behind some girl. he’s clearly chatting her up, leaning close to her ear and hooded eyes making generous peeks at her cleavage.

you down the rest of your diluted mixed drink and throw yourself at him.

“yunho!” you cry, squeezing into the small space between him and the arm of the couch, meaning you’re basically sitting on him. “thank you so much for helping me with the essay! i definitely would’ve failed without you.” you flutter your eyelashes at him and simper.

the girl scowls visibly, crossing her arms in a way that makes her tits swell, but yunho barely notices—you know he has a sweet spot for you ever since that one night stand, and besides, he could get any girl he wants.

“y/n,” yunho says, shifting his body so that his back is to the girl now. she scoffs and leaves. “you good?”

“i’m great,” you giggle.

“you look good,” yunho says, shamelessly running his eyes over your figure.

“let’s play beer pong,” you say, wrapping your arms around his neck.

“you think you’re good for pong?” he says, a little dubiously as you let out a hiccup.

“yeah, because i know you’ll carry,” you say.

“alright, princess,” he says. “let’s go.”

you tumble off of him and pretend to be wobbly on your feet to let him steady you as you walk towards the beer pong table. yunho slips his wallet out of his pocket and slides his id onto the table to get in line to play the winner.

when he notices jongho, yunho lets out a chuckle.

“ah, y/n,” he says, catching your wrist and pulling you into him. “i see what’s happening.”

your cheeks heat up at being caught so quickly. “i’m sorry,” you say sincerely. “he keeps bringing you up and being weird, but now, he’s got that girl with him…”

“don’t worry, princess,” yunho says. “i know how to put on a show.”

jongho and san are playing now, and it looks like they’re winning. that same chick from before is hanging off of his arm, acting like a cheerleader. you catch jongho’s gaze, and the cheery smile he’s wearing slips off immediately when he notices yunho behind you, hands on either side of your waist.

you shiver as jongho gives you a salacious up-down that has you convinced you’ve pressed the right buttons to make something happen tonight. you giggle, tugging your lower lip in between your teeth and leaning a little closer to yunho.

something must snap inside jongho, because he and san end the game with three cups in quick succession. the losers slink off, as you and yunho take their place. yunho reracks the cups and refills them with a thin layer of beer. jongho rolls a ping pong ball towards you. 

“eyes,” he says.

when yours lock onto his, you smirk. he grimaces.

to decide who gets to start, you have to hold eye contact with each other and try to make a cup. whoever makes one first gets to start the actual game. jongho misses, but you don’t, so you and yunho get to go first.

you and yunho go toe to toe with jongho and san, which is surprising considering how little beer pong you play. by the fourth turn, the blonde girl has left, unsatisfied with the lack of attention she’s received from jongho. by the seventh turn, you and yunho have two cups left, and jongho and san have three.

yunho goes, and makes the first. you cheer and jump up to plant a wet kiss on his cheek. he steps behind you, massaging your shoulders theatrically. you close your left eye, lining up your shot. just as you’re about to let go of the ball, you turn around and pull yunho down to your height.

“give me a good luck kiss!”

he smiles into the kiss, which turns out to have a lot more tongue than you’d expected, but yunho is a good kisser so you don’t mind.

“let’s go, princess,” yunho says, slapping your ass as you turn back to the pong table.

jongho’s positively glowering at this point, and you smirk at him as you map out your shot again.

you miss.

you’re not entirely surprised.

yunho’s not even mad, and begins grossly comforting you with arms wrapped around your shoulders and kisses to the crown of your head.

jongho and san make the last two cups easily.

“too bad, princess,” yunho says into your hair. “you were doing so well.”

you pull yourself out of his grasp. “bathroom,” you explain sheepishly. yunho gives you a knowing look and a wink.

you’ve been to seonghwa’s house enough to know about the secret bathroom on the second floor that he doesn’t allow partygoers to use, so you slink up the stairs when million dollar baby starts playing and the crowd swells with renewed enthusiasm.

just as you’re closing the door behind you, a shoe shoots out to stop the action. someone pushes the door back open, and who else but—

jongho.

“i thought you said you didn’t like yunho,” he hisses down at you.

“i need to pee,” you reply, cocking your head to one side and widening your eyes at him.

he considers you for a second before stepping inside the bathroom and locking the door behind him.

“alright,” he says. “pee.”

“i don’t- are you going to watch me?” you say.

“didn’t seem like you minded people seeing you and yunho all wrapped up downstairs,” jongho says, crossing his arms over his chest, and you hate the way his biceps bulge when he does.

“that’s different from- from peeing,” you mumble.

“fine,” jongho says, and he turns around to stare at the bathroom door.

you’re not entirely satisfied, but you really do need to pee, so you pull down your underwear and sit on the toilet.

it’s awkward, but at least the music and noise downstairs mask the sound. you end up peeing for a surprisingly long time, and even jongho feels the need to break the tension with a poorly timed,

“damn, you’re like a waterfall.”

“i’ve had a lot to drink tonight,” you snap.

“you’re that drunk?”

“no—i’m drinking water, too, you bastard,” you say, finally finished. “don’t want to be hungover tomorrow.”

you flush and wash your hands, and then you’re leaning against the sink and saying, “okay, you can turn around.”

he does. “so. yunho?” he prompts again.

“i told you,” you say, staring directly above jongho’s shoulder. “i don’t like him.”

“then why were you all over him?”

“why do you care?” you sneer.

“just answer the question, y/n,” jongho says.

“why are you so obsessed with yunho?” you say. “if you want to fuck him, be my guest! i won’t get in the way.”

this hits a sore spot, because jongho moves quickly, crowding you into the sink in one step.

“it’s not him i want to fuck,” he breathes.

your breath hitches in your throat. you feel your heartbeat in your mouth.

“what do you mean,” you say, mouth unbelievably dry.

“c’mon, y/n,” jongho says, voice husky. he’s looking at you, eyes darting to your lips. “you can figure this out.”

it’s the same phrase he always uses when you’re struggling through a discrete math problem that he’s already solved, but normally he’s nice, barely teasing.

right now, he sounds downright condescending.

so, you snap. you grab him by his chain and tug him down to your height, slot your lips over his and kiss him.

his lips are nice. soft. he tastes like minty chapstick and bitter beer. his tongue slips into your mouth, and suddenly the kiss takes a turn from intense to lewd.

his hands find your waist, his palms burning into the exposed skin between your crop top and your skirt. his thick thigh pushes apart your legs, and your skirt rucks up above your hips. you gasp and break away to tug at the hem, but jongho stops you.

“that’s counter productive,” he whispers.

“okay,” you say. “i’ll be productive then.” and you pull off your crop top to reveal a lacy black bra and pull up your skirt all the way to reveal a matching lacy black thong. you hear jongho inhale, and then a deep chuckle.

“fuck,” he says, drawing out the word. he meets your eyes again. “you’re so fucking hot.”

“that’s you,” you say.

he dives back in to mouth at your pulse point, as his hands slip down to your ass, palming the flesh and leading you to grind against his thigh. he’s flexing, and the fabric of your underwear is thin and you can already feel a wet patch spreading, and the combination along with the friction of the movement has you moaning.

“that’s what i like to hear.”

you hear the muted opening strums of mr.brightside just as jongho’s thumb begins circling your clit over your underwear. you moan into his shoulder and buck against his hand. he continues to work you until the crotch of your panties is practically soaked, and you’re a whining mess. 

“p- please,” you whisper, fingernails digging into his shoulders.

“since you asked so nicely,” he murmurs, and he’s drawing aside the lace and pushing two fingers into you. you throw your head back at the feeling of being filled and stretched; his fingers are long and thick, nothing like your own or any of your previous hook-ups.

“shit, you’re so wet,” he says, pulling back to watch his fingers fucking you. the sound it makes is positively vulgar, and you pant with every motion. at some point, he starts curling his fingers so that they hit that perfect spot in the back and rubbing his thumb across your clit, and you can feel your high building.

“fuck, jongho,” you whine. 

“shit, babygirl, you’re gonna make me cum in my pants if you keep talking like that,” jongho says, smiling into your neck.

“don’t,” you say. “you can- you can- please, fuck me. you can- cum in me.”

jongho stops, only the tips of his fingers teasing at your entrance, and you whimper as your pussy clenches around nothing.

“are you serious?” he asks, as you circle your hips in an attempt at some relief.

“yes,” you hiss.

“fuck, babygirl,” jongho says, taking a step back and a new glint in his eyes.

but just as he puts his hand on the button of his jeans, there’s a sharp rap on the door that makes both of you jump.

“oi! this bathroom is off-limits!” it’s seonghwa, and to be fair, he’s right. 

“give us a second!” jongho calls, wincing at the subtext. you jump off of the bathroom sink, swaying a little with how jittery your legs are. jongho stabilizes you with a hand on your hip and hands you your shirt.

“jongho? is that you?” seonghwa says. “little shit. this is the third time—”

your head snaps up to look at jongho, who’s unlocking the door and pushing it open, effectively interrupting seonghwa’s rant. he nudges you out first, standing behind you, and you suspect it’s to hide the very visible tent in his pants that’s currently pressed against your ass.

“oh,” seonghwa says, as his eyes fall onto you. he takes a second, glancing back and forth between the two of you, running over your mussed hair and flushed cheeks, jongho’s screwed up face and his right hand still grasping your hip, the wrinkles in your skirt and finally—

“oh,” seonghwa repeats. “oh, shit. okay, well congrats and all that—” and here he punches jongho in the shoulder “—but that doesn’t mean you can fuck in my bathroom!” he finishes cheerfully. he steps behind jongho and begins ushering the two of you back down the stairs and through the living room until you’re on his front porch.

“if you’re going to be doing the nasty, i’d rather you do that at home!” seonghwa says, wagging a finger in your face. “make sure you use protection! love you both!” and he shuts the door.

he leaves you and jongho in a stunned silence, both staring at the closed door.

“uh—” jongho tries.

“what did he mean third time?” you say.

“oh,” jongho says, and his big dick energy dissipates as a sheepish expression takes over. “well, i- i might’ve… y’know… a couple times in seonghwa’s bathroom.” he rubs the back of his neck and offers you an apologetic, gummy smile.

“and you got mad at me for fucking yunho once in his own apartment?” you demand, actually stopping your foot to emphasize the clear double standard at play. “while you were off playing merry-go-fuck-around in seonghwa’s private bathroom?”

“i wasn’t mad at you,” jongho says. “i was just—”

“just what?” you say. “slut-shaming me for having consensual sex?”

“no!” jongho says quickly. “i was jealous.”

“oh,” you say. so, you’d been right. he has been jealous of you and yunho. but somehow, you don’t feel vindicated in the slightest. “i mean—that doesn’t make it any better. i’m not some object—”

“i know that,” jongho says, exasperated. “but i just wanted to be… with you.”

“with me?” you say, wrinkling your nose. “you wanted to fuck me, too? like those other girls you had up in seonghwa’s bathroom?”

“no! with you, like—” jongho’s tongue darts out to wet his lower lip “—like as your boyfriend.”

oh.

well, you hadn’t been expecting that. you blink at him once, then twice. you open your mouth and close it again, gaping like a goldfish.

“do you- do you like me?” you ask, voice hoarse.

“well, yeah,” jongho says. “do… you like me?”

“yes!” you nearly shout the word. “yes—i’ve been in lo- i’ve liked you for at least a whole semester!”

“oh,” jongho says, looking as dumbfounded as you feel. “well, me too.”

you look at each other, and then start laughing. you hiccup, and jongho moves closer to you, wrapping his substantial arms around your shoulders and pulling you into his firm, warm chest. your cheek presses against that goddamn silver chain, but it’s no longer a source of stress for you. he peppers the crown of your forehead with kisses, until you finally look up at him and he kisses your lips softly.

“so,” he says, “can i?”

you raise your eyebrows. “can you what?”

“be your boyfriend?”

you pretend to contemplate the question, and when it takes you longer than a few seconds to respond, he knocks his chin against your temple affectionately.

“yeah,” you say, grinning. “yeah, you can be my boyfriend.”

“so then, what do you say about going back to my place and finishing what we started?” he asks.

“yes, please.”

continued in part 2!

[castillon02]

Tim reviews Jason's operations management and makes a suggestion.

"Your first move: hire a head of sanitation," Tim said.

"You think a janitor's gonna solve my suddenly-successful-startup problems? What, by sweeping them away?" Jason rolled his eyes.

Tim steepled his fingers. “The good news,” he said, “is that your drug distribution and community norms enforcement hierarchy is very clear. You also have people doing marketing, program management, HR, facilities, and admin. Your system of rotating duties when people get injured isn’t bad—people generally benefit from cross-training—but you should formalize the top positions and compensate your new leadership team. Including sanitation.” 

“Sure, sure, I'll just tell one of my guys their job is to be head shit-scrubber instead of a badass neighborhood protector!" Jason threw up his hands.

Tim raised his eyebrows.

“It’s bad enough getting them to clean up a crime scene when they’re on my literal shit list! A couple of them thought that lighting the building on fire was an easier way to get it to stop smelling bad and having DNA. Guess who had to add five new slides to his powerpoint about evidence disposal?" Jason glared.

Tim grimaced. "I had an intern in the office who thought that he could just throw trash off his desk for the cleaning staff to pick up."

He and Jason shared a commiserating look that silently said, We were both stupid enough to work with the League of Assassins, and even we wouldn't do that.

“Anyway," Tim continued, "since you're dealing with...that...you can just hire an outside party. Lots of people in Gotham know how to clean up dead bodies and keep their mouths shut. I can advertise the position and send you the likeliest candidates for an interview. I’ll have to incorporate you, of course, but I’ve had the paperwork ready since I got back from the Middle East.” 

“Incorporate me?” 

“Red Hood LLC, technically."

Jason's breathing became calculatedly even.

"Once you’re legit in the eyes of the law, we can work on squaring away everyone’s taxes and keep you from getting Capone’d.” 

“I’m as legit as one of Two-Face’s two-dollar bills!” 

“Yeah, but when you’re an LLC, all your crimes are white-collar crimes, and no one cares about those.” Tim shrugged.

“...Pretty sure that’s not how that works, bud.” 

“It’s how the court of public opinion works. And if anyone tries to say that Red Hood, CEO of Red Hood LLC, and Red Hood, notorious vigilante, are the same person? Tell them to prove it. So what if you have the same outfit? It’s a free country and people can wear what they want. And if they ever get your DNA results, Oracle says no they didn't.”

Jason tilted his head and started smiling. "You want Red Hood to be the Scarlet Pimpernel and Percy Blakeney. At the same time."

"The more blatant you are about it, the better. Rub elbows with Gotham's elite and tell them that you can't imagine why someone would let a Crime Alley vigilante ruin their ability to wear a red hood as a fashion statement, but in your company, people have spines. Especially when they're job creators. If you play your cards right, red headgear will be back in fashion."

"And then?"

"And then," Tim's eyes gleamed, "you start selling merch."

"Oh, shit." Jason's smile turned into a full-on smirk.

"On a sliding scale, of course."

"Those nepo babies are gonna pay me so much money to look cool."

Tim smiled. "And that's how hiring a head shit-scrubber is going to mitigate your high growth and cash flow problems."

[izzih22]

Chapter 3

The Grand Reveal

Note: there’s an Easter egg in here so if yall find it lemme know😂😂

If Paige bounced her leg one more time under the table, Azzi was going to step on it.

“Stop moving,” Azzi hissed under her breath.

“I can’t, Az. They’re all here. Both of our parents are literally ten feet from the baby.”

Azzi gave her a look. “The baby is still the size of a lime. They’re not gonna sense its presence.”

Paige dramatically placed a hand over Azzi’s stomach like she was protecting royalty. “Don’t listen to her, baby. Mama is here to defend your honor.”

Azzi laughed quietly, reaching over to rest her hand on top of Paige’s. Their fingers laced. Hearts calm, but barely.

Both families were gathered in their living room moms, brothers, even grandparents everyone chatting and passing around snacks like it was just another casual Sunday dinner.

It wasn’t.

Azzi had made lasagna. Paige had made a slideshow.

Yes, a literal slideshow.

And it was about to go down.

“All right,” Paige said, suddenly clapping her hands. “Can I get everyone’s attention? I have something to show you.”

Azzi covered her face with her hands. “Oh my god, this is actually happening.”

Paige was already plugging her laptop into the TV.

“I swear to God if there’s a sound effect—” Azzi began.

“Dun dun duuun!”

Paige added the sound effect manually. With her mouth. And a dramatic spin.

Azzi groaned.

Everyone else was clearly amused.

“Okay, okay,” Paige said, bouncing on the balls of her feet. “So, as you all know, Azzi and I have been together for a while now. You’ve supported us through long-distance, college ball, WNBA stress, every major injury, and every insane road trip snack haul—”

“Where is this going?” Azzi’s mom asked, laughing.

“I’m getting there, Mama Fudd.” Paige clicked the remote. The first slide appeared on the screen:

“The Next Chapter: Building a Legacy”

Complete with sparkles and a baby emoji.

“What the…” Azzi’s brother whispered.

Paige cleared her throat. “This isn’t about basketball. This is about something bigger.”

Azzi leaned in. “You’re such a drama queen.”

“I’m a showman, baby.” Paige clicked to the next slide:

“Azzi and I are…”

Another click.

“Expecting a new teammate.”

Then, finally—she clicked to the final slide.

A picture of their sonogram. Front and center. With a tiny UConn onesie below it and the words:

“Baby Bueckers arriving April sixth!”

Silence.

And then—

Absolute chaos.

Azzi’s mom gasped so loud it echoed. Paige’s mom screamed and ran over, hugging them both at once, while tears started falling. Paige’s grandma shouted something about being the “youngest-looking great-grandmother ever,” while Azzi’s brother immediately looked mildly traumatized and confused.

“YOU’RE PREGNANT?” her mom cried, hands flying to her face.

Azzi nodded, suddenly tearful too. “Yeah. About ten weeks now.”

“I knew it!” her mom yelled again. “You’ve been glowing and emotional and eating popsicles at 9 a.m.!”

“That’s just who she is,” Paige said with a sniffle, wiping her eyes. “But yes. Also pregnant.”

Her mom hugged Paige tightly. “You’re gonna be such a good mom. I’m so proud of you.”

“I already have a baby name list,” Paige said through the hug. “Alphabetized. Categorized by theme.”

Azzi’s dad just blinked. “You… made a PowerPoint to tell us?”

“Obviously,” Paige said. “I wanted it to be memorable.”

“It’s that,” her mom said, still crying. “It’s so much that.”

⸻

Later, after the hugs and tears settled, everyone moved into the kitchen to eat while Azzi sat on the couch, finally taking a breath.

Paige joined her, sliding an arm around her shoulder. “You okay, mama?”

Azzi rested her head on Paige’s. “I’m good. You were… extra.”

“Of course. I only get to tell our families we’re having a baby once.” She kissed Azzi’s cheek, then her stomach. “I’m so in love with both of you it’s stupid.”

Azzi smiled. “You’re gonna be that parent with a fanny pack full of organic fruit snacks and a playlist for every errand.”

“Damn right I am.”

They sat there quietly, watching their families laugh and eat and buzz with excitement.

And for a moment, everything felt exactly how it was supposed to be.

⸻

The next afternoon, Azzi stood courtside, tying her shoes while glancing at Paige across the gym.

“You are not gonna make it through this,” she muttered under her breath.

Paige was on the opposite sideline with Nika and Caroline, trying to act normal. Trying being the key word but the way she kept glancing at Azzi every five seconds like she was made of glass?

Not subtle.

KK jogged over and looked at Azzi suspiciously. “Okay, not to be dramatic, but what’s with your girl today? She’s acting like you’re about to break.”

“She’s always dramatic,” Azzi said, brushing her off. “Maybe she’s just in love.”

“She pushed Ice out of the way earlier so she could bring you your water bottle.”

“She forgot it had my name on it.”

“It literally said ‘AZZI’ in huge letters—”

“Let it go.”

But KK wasn’t the only one noticing. Ice and Caroline had been whispering like middle schoolers by the bleachers for ten minutes.

“She’s glowing,” Ice said, eyes narrowed.

“She’s definitely glowing,” Caroline agreed. “And Paige is acting like she’s guarding a national treasure.”

“That’s because she is a national treasure,” Paige said, suddenly behind them like a ghost. “You talkin’ about my wife again?”

Ice crossed her arms. “You’re hiding something.”

“I hide a lot of things. Like my secret brownie stash and my fear of clowns. Try again.”

Caroline squinted. “Paige.”

“What?”

“Why are you holding her bag like it’s a newborn?”

Paige blinked. “…No reason.”

Azzi sighed from across the gym. “Paige.”

Paige whipped around. “What?”

Azzi gave her a look. The one that said: Either you tell them or I will, and I will not be using a PowerPoint.

Paige ran a hand through her hair, dramatic as ever. “Fine. Fine! Everyone, circle up!”

The girls groaned.

“Seriously?”

“We’re literally trying to stretch.”

“Circle. Up.”

Eventually, they all did. Even Nika sat down, eyebrows raised. “What’s this about? Are you retiring again for the third time this month?”

“Ha ha,” Paige deadpanned. Then, her face broke into the goofiest, biggest, softest grin they’d ever seen. She walked to Azzi, grabbed her hand, and said, “We wanted to tell our families first, but now it’s your turn.”

Azzi smiled, a little shy. “We weren’t sure when to tell you guys, but…”

“We’re having a baby!” Paige practically shouted.

There was a solid three seconds of stunned silence—

And then?

Screaming. Absolute. Chaos.

Caroline jumped up and tackled Paige in a hug, both of them laughing and crying.

KK spun Azzi in a circle, yelling, “YOU’RE KIDDING. YOU’RE KIDDING. I’M GONNA BE AN AUNTIE?!”

Ice collapsed onto the court like she had been personally attacked by joy. “I knew it. I KNEW IT. I SAID SHE WAS GLOWING. OH MY GOD.”

Nika wiped her eyes and stood. “This baby better have my passing skills or I’m disowning them.”

The whole gym turned into a mini celebration. Everyone hugging, laughing, asking a thousand questions at once.

“How far along are you?”

“Do you know the gender yet?”

“Wait, did you plan this?!”

“Can I be godparent? I’m amazing with kids. I taught my cousin how to shoot free throws at age two.”

“WE’RE GONNA THROW YOU THE MOST OBNOXIOUS BABY SHOWER.”

Amid the noise, Paige had her arms around Azzi again, forehead pressed to hers. “Told you they’d freak.”

“You live for the drama,” Azzi teased.

“I live for you. And now this baby. You’ve been promoted to number two.”

Azzi laughed. “That’s fair.”

As the team kept buzzing with excitement, Paige looked around the gym and saw it her family, their family, chosen and bonded through basketball and love and chaos. All surrounding the two people she loved more than anything.

It was perfect.

[heresmyfiddlestick]

The Story and the Engine. I'm so relieved I gave my friends a rundown via PowerPoint presentation of the Doctor Who Is a TV Show Theory before this season began because we just keep winning. when I saw it was Inua Ellams and a barbershop I knew what we were doing - it's about communal storytelling as a means of keeping a community and culture, specifically African and diaspora culture. if you don't know about Ellams' play Barber Shop Chronicles, read up about it

holy shit is it delightful to see 15 in Africa. he is chumming it up in the market, he has a secret handshake with Omo. the Blackness of this episode was refreshing and inspiring. Ellams specifically addresses the differences in attitude the Doctor has experienced having changed his skin tone-- which is a really nice mirror to last year's episode 5, which didn't say it outright but really made you feel it along with him.

i'm really amused by Belinda just hanging back in the TARDIS. what was she planning on doing? she doesn't have a bedroom, and this console room doesn't have chairs. love that the TARDIS is helpful to her, though. she probably has some sympathy for Belinda, and we know she had a thing for the previous nurse passenger...

then of course we've got the whole conceit of the barbershop. we're telling stories to power some nefarious machine. an enigmatic man with a goatee and a weird little handheld doohickey and a pseudonym is holding people hostage. he's the Master. an exceptionally gorgeous but nonetheless mysterious woman walks in and the Doctor can't quite place her... no wait, she's the Master. oh wait, they're talking about gods-- it's another Pantheon thing?

NOPE! and thank god for that, too. it was great that we were able to have so much talk about real-world gods and not get dragged into the multi-season Pantheon arc. good to have the distinction between Doctor Who gods (ineffable and terrifying) and real-world gods (MCU fans)

(speaking of: i watched on Disney+ and that Endgame namecheck really added another layer of meta)

to be honest, the ultimate explanation of what The Barber is up to left me a bit cold. i really love it with my {{esquivalience}} hat on: we are unraveling the relationship between stories and storytellers, between original creators and the work that exists separate from them, between what stories are valued more than others (The Barber doesn't stop Abby while she is braiding the Doctor's hair, even though she is telling a story about why he should). this is all great and juicy and full of the language of rope. but there was just something that felt a bit uneven about it. a bit abstract, maybe. part of why i'm thrown is that... The Barber is an immortal human? and this was not really touched further on. not that we need to stop and explain everything that happens in our sci-fi show...

back to the ramble

how did the Doctor know that story about Belinda? i don't think she will have had a moment to just stop and chat with him about this one shitty shift. maybe he spoke to the woman she saved while he was looking for her? good to see Mrs. Flood get a look-in. mighty sturdy fourth-wall on this show, with the amount of people trying to bust it down

i loved the Fugitive Doctor jumpscare. i love leaving her as unexplained as possible. i love her existing in the back of the Doctor's mind

The Barber's first little beginning of the Nexus... that's a loom, right? that's looms? #loomwatch

oh and one last thing. Nigeria in the real world is where several formerly-lost 60s episodes have been found, notably The Enemy of the World and most of The Web of Fear in 2013. nothing in the story about that, but it is another great echo in the echo chamber of the TV show theory, especially with the recent literal depiction of film being burned this season

great ep. great season.

[cottonlemonade]

Marriage Of Convenience [Part 4]

word count: 1569 || avg. reading time: 7 mins.

pairing: post-time skip!Kuroo x chubby!Reader

genre: fluff, friends to lovers, slow burn, slice of life

warnings: spoilers

synopsis: Marriage is not a big deal, right? Anyone can do it and it comes with a whole lot of benefits! That's why your friend proposes to you one morning with all the elegance and romance of an empty pudding cup.

[Part 1] [Part 2] [Part 3]

He knew it was only a matter of time until his wedded bliss would encounter its first stumbling block. And it would only take two months for it to return from a business trip. 

“Did you put sprinkles in your granola?”

“I’m an adult with free will, what are you gonna do about it?” “You know what, you’re so right. Can I have some?”

Tetsuro pushed his bowl closer to you so that you could, with a superior smile, add some of your advanced granola to the rest of his plain yogurt. 

Asana watched it all unfold, a knowing squint darting between the two of you over lunch at the office cafeteria, “You guys are cute together.”

You looked offended, but Tetsuro noted, “Honestly, I agree. We’re so good at marriage. I don’t understand why not more people do it.” 

“Lack of convincing PowerPoint presentations, probably.”, you said wisely, and Tetsuro shrugged in agreement, then finished his bowl and got up, “I gotta run. Meeting with Maeda.”

“Enjoy.”, you said unenthusiastically and Asana waved. 

“We should go by that Italian place tonight on the way home.”

“If you manage to get out of that meeting without another double date invite, I’ll even pay.”

“You’re on.”

As he walked away with his tray, he halted for a moment to talk to someone, greeting him happily, and then that someone came to your table. 

“Hey, long time no see.”, the newcomer said, brightly. 

“Oh! Welcome back!”

The young man took Tetsuro’s empty seat next to you and as he dug into his rice bowl, he asked, “Anything happen while I was gone?”

Asana exchanged a meaningful look with you that silently pleaded if she could be the one to tell him. You smiled and nodded, and your friend leaned casually back in her chair and announced, “Nothing much, just a whole wedding.”

“A wedding?”, the man asked, surprised, “Who?”

“Kuroo.”

“Kuroo? Wow, I didn’t even know he was seeing anyone.”

“And y/n.”, Asana added as if in afterthought. 

The man turned to you in disbelief. 

“You got married, too?”

With leisurely grace, Asana sat back up, elbows propped on the table and her chin resting on the back of her now entwined fingers, savoring the moment when she said, “To each other.”

You still chuckled to yourself at Hayato’s reaction. The shock and stuttering congratulations the news were usually met with, hadn’t gotten old so far. You were standing in the break room later that day, tapping around on the coffee machine for your afternoon special - hot chocolate with an espresso shot. 

“Hi again.”, Hayato said and joined you, grabbing an empty cup from the overhead cabinet, waiting for the machine to finish your drink. 

“Hi. I’m so glad you’re back, actually. I have a proposal I could use a second pair of eyes on, please?”

“Sure thing.”, he replied. 

“Thanks! I’ll wait at my desk.”

“Y/n.”

“Hm?”

You turned back around. The earthy smell of his freshly brewed coffee slowly streaming into his mug and the low hum of the machine filled the space between you. 

“You’re really married?”

Tilting your head a bit in surprise at the question, you confirmed. 

“You’re not wearing a ring. And I never knew you guys were… you always said you were just friends.” He didn’t sound accusatory, just confused, and you didn’t understand why until he said, “Guess I missed my chance with you, huh?”

“What?”

He took his full cup from the machine. 

“I even brought you something back from Italy. But with your husband… I don’t know now if it’s appropriate to give a gift to a married woman.”

He rubbed the back of his neck with his free hand while you were too stunned to speak. 

“Of course you can, I don’t mind. That’s super thoughtful of you, thanks, man.”

Tetsuro came up behind him and patted him on the shoulder. The impact or possibly the embarrassment of being overheard made Hayato startle. 

“Ain’t that nice, darling?”

Tetsuro looked from Hayato to you. He seemed and sounded relaxed so once you’ve gathered your thoughts into a neat little stack after it was pushed over like a wonky Jenga tower, you nodded and said, “Very nice. Thank you, Hayato.”

Tetsuro followed the two of you back to your desk where he busied himself with Asana, most likely pretending he was working, because Asana was clearly not paying attention to what he was saying, opting to eavesdrop instead on the conversation that now turned to the aforementioned gift. 

Hayato reached into his pocket and held out his closed fist to you. When he opened it, you noticed Tetsuro and Asana behind him craning their necks to see. 

It was a keychain. You figured it was supposed to be cute. It was a pink, round little piggy with rosy cheeks and a wide smile. 

“I saw it, and it reminded me of you.”, Hayato said, trying his hardest not to sound flirtatious - not that he needed to worry. You couldn’t suppress your frown completely and asked, only half jokingly, “I remind you of a pig?”

“No!”, he called out immediately, “That’s - I mean. No. I just… it looks so cute and happy and -“

Kuroo and Asana watched him fumble from one desk over, clearly giddy with barely contained laughter. 

“Hey, we have to go this way to the restaurant.”, you said, catching the strap of Tetsuro’s bag to halt him in his long steps. 

“I don’t really feel like Italian anymore.”

“Alright.”, you said slowly, letting go again, “What else are you in the mood for?” 

“How about some nice seared pork, hm?” With that he led you determinedly down a side street crammed with different BBQ places, walking straight into the next best one advertising pork, leaving you to follow with a shaking head. 

He didn’t say anything about the incident until the dessert came. You were just admiring the beautifully plated mochi and berries, when he muttered, “It’s odd, right?”

“What is?”

“He clearly knew you were married, and yet he still confessed to you. What’s that about?”

“I didn’t see it so much as a confession as more …”, you paused, looking for the right word.

“A sneaky seduction attempt.”

You snorted, “No. I think he was just trying to be nice while also sort of… clearing his conscience, I guess? Plus, what does it matter anyway? Before we got married, we agreed that if one of us finds the one, we’d just get divorced again, no hard feelings.”

“He is the one now, is he?”

“No, you know what I mean. I’m saying that we specifically agreed that dating isn’t prohibited.”

“You wanna date him? Pig guy?”

“Tetsuro.”

“Y/n.”

“It was just… nice to be wanted, that's all. It was nice to know someone liked me.”

“I like you.”

“You know that’s not the same.”

He sighed. “I just think it’s sleazy to hit on someone married.”

“And with that, you’d be very correct.”, you raised your glass to toast him, “Come on, Tetsu, let’s not fight. Please?”

“Fine.”, he clinked his sake to yours. 

“One more thing.”, Tetsuro came to lean in the open bathroom door while you brushed your teeth. You had made it all the way home, watched some TV for a while, then each of you took a shower, all the while being almost back to normal. You should have known it wasn’t over yet. Not stopping your brushing, you turned to him, arms crossed as much as possible, ready to spit your toothpaste at him if he was being an idiot again. 

“I don’t think you should date him. Think about it. At the office, we’re very clearly and indisputably married. It would look weird if either of us”, he made sure to highlight that part, “would date around within the company.”

He had a point, annoyingly, so you nodded. 

“Okay.”, you mumbled through a mouthful of foam. 

“Okay?”

“Yeah, okay.” 

“Alright then. Sorry about earlier. About my…”

“Temper tantrum?”

“Misplaced reaction.”, he preferred. 

“Uh-huh.”

“You know I just wanna look out for you, right?”

“Yeah, I know.” 

“Good. Hug?” He opened his arms questioningly, and you took your sweet time to rinse your mouth and toothbrush, putting it neatly into your cup and drying your face before you accepted. 

“Come on, I’ll walk you to your room.”, he said, and gently wrangled you a few steps down the hall before you managed to escape his bear hug. 

“Night.”

“Sleep tight.”

Tetsuro made to leave to go to his room, and his eyes fell on the key hooks by the door across from your room. 

“You should put the pig on your keys.”

“Nah.”

He turned around to look at you. You casually hung at the door, swinging it a little from side to side, not meeting his eyes but staring at the hooks instead. 

“I got my keys sorted just right, and I don’t want it too cluttered. And it’s such a pain to attach things to a key ring, you know. Just got my nails done and everything. Wouldn’t make sense.”

“Of course.”, he grinned, “By the way, be ready tomorrow at 9 am sharp. We have to go somewhere.”

And he walked off. 

“Go where?”, you asked, leaning out of your room to watch him. 

“Ring shopping!”, he announced before closing the door to his bedroom behind him.

art: @freaka_loonyz on Instagram, X, Pinterest and TikTok

taglist: @etsuniiru @nocaffeineallowedtome @princessshart @aldebrana @grassbutneo @melimelisworld @yatoatyourservice @ranscutedoll @remiratboi @armeenix

[part 5]

[retiredteabag]

Unknown Rivals

Pairing: Sukuna x Reader

Synopsis: There was only one thing worse than being paired with Sukuna for an important school project, and that was realizing the slacker somehow had a higher class standing than yourself.

Tags: Academic rivals, enemies to eventual lovers, type A reader, anxiety, college!au

pt. 1 - pt. 2 - pt. 3 - next part

One thing was for sure about the past weekend, and that was the fact that your advisor knew not to assign you any future classes with this monster of a man.

You had three finals coming up, one of which came in the form of a presentation. And you had yet to practice said presentation and your partner scheduled that particular event at the most inconvenient of times. The whole endeavor was drawing a lot of your current anxiety. Of course, you didn't ask to reschedule.

You had looked over the combination of slides in your PowerPoint, waiting by the day for Sukuna to finalize his speaker notes, and everyday your distress only grew.

It was not uncommon for the dunning kruger effect to take hold of the arrogant men in your lectures. He may have brought up concerns about your own public speaking ability, but you have yet to see the man speak in full sentences before anyone.

Over inflated head, self-important, Oscar Wilde level egomaniac-

The class's presentations were split into two groups; the first half of the class would present on Thursday, and the latter half, on Friday. You were one of the unfortunate teams that would go first.

The nerves were getting to the point of being sickening every time you passed the auditorium. The hollow heartbeat swelled in your chest and you felt nauseated. Too soon, you would be in there, on that stage, stood beside that arrogant prick.

Being one of the first groups to speak might be better than having to be last; just get it over with... still, it wasn't great for gauging the audience, competition, or topics.

You were to present before the faculty, classmates, and employers looking for interns.

Maybe Sukuna had been correct. Yes, you could be "anal about this stuff", sure, but you had put too much money into your education to not put in equal effort. Since when was it a crime to try?

For the fifth time that week, you looked over his slides...still, no speaker notes on the later half.

He did look like the type to wing it. Read the SparkNotes and assume he could sound intellectual with the insertion of pauses and emphasis on basic information. For a normal assignment, a professor might be non the wiser, but for something as important as this final? He needed to know his stuff.

And what then, if he was asked a question? What if he didn't prepare? What if he crashed and burned? The smoke would affect you too.

That's why you find yourself waiting inside a private study room in the library that Wednesday. You had arrived right on time to the room you had reserved and were unpacking the contents of your bag when a pack of giggling students retched the door open.

There was a moment of silence that passed between all before you cleared your throat, "Sorry...I reserved this room..." the group looked around at each other, making pouty faces.

Eventually one of them spoke up, "Do you really need it?" They all shared a pitiful look, "Theres a lot more of us, we really need the room..."

You stood there for a moment, expecting someone in their friend group to have a speck of sense. It quickly became clear that none of them did, "Right... well, I'm sorry but I need the room too."

"Every other room is reserved by a group, this room is just you." One of them pointed out, speaking far too loudly to have the door open to the library stacks.

"I'm here to work with my project partner." You huffed, as if that made a difference. The room was yours! There was no way you were going to back down. You would be presenting tomorrow and needed a space to practice. "That's why I reserved the space."

They make faces as if you have committed some kind of hate crime, throwing their arms in the air in offense. "Your partner isn't even here, can't we just use it? You could literally go anywhere else."

The group nods at the boy who spoke up, fully supporting his argument as if he just slam-dunked you with a killer 2AR. You sigh looking down to check the time on your phone. If Sukuna wasn't here, you might as well just leave. Who’s to say he’ll come anyway?

You weigh your options, he hadn’t responded to your email this time either.

"Pretty sure it's you who can go anywhere else."

He wasn't loud, but his voice rang with conviction. Speak of the devil. You look away from your watch and observe his effect on the group.

Sukuna pulled the door back wider, he stood at least a head taller than the largest among them, and while he was never found with a smile on his face anyway, he looked particularly harsh in this moment.

"Can't we just-" one of the girls leaned into Sukuna, grabbing his bicep, "take the room?" She smiled sweetly, tracing an index finger over his arm, "There's a lot of us, you know?"

Sukuna practically jolts off of her, tearing his arm out of her grasp, and making a twisted face in the group's direction. "Get offa me." He moves through the rest of the students, tossing his bag onto the table with a bang.

You make brief eye contact before he watches you turn to see the pack of freshmen resolutely standing in the doorway. He swings back, rolling his eyes, "Now get out."

There wasn't any room for argument in his tone. The lot of them huffed and griped but made no real fuss as they crossed their arms and whispered insults. The door slowly slid shut.

You plug your laptop into the adapter, muttering, "Good to see you've finally showed up."

"I didn't have an attitude when you were late to the library."

He just stands there. Unzipping his bag on the ovular table in front of the projector.

You look at him, recalling that day well, you want to snip at him again but you cant help the short, somewhat shocked, laugh you let out.

He walks to the other side of the room, pulls out his notebook and looks at the screen. "So are we practicing, or what?"

"Oh, we're practicing, all right." You mutter to yourself.

You bring out the sheet from the first week you met in the library. It outlined the topics that each of you would need to cover. You open up the PowerPoint and turn to look at him, comfortably sitting down.

"We should probably start with introductions."

"We roleplaying this?" He sat with his legs spread on the swivel chair, arms crossed.

"You were the one who asked to practice." You point out, motioning for him to get up. "At the presentation, the students will have nametags, but we should still open up with a greeting so they know who to call on for questions."

He sighs, lifting himself from his seat like it took a great effort, he stood beside you, looking to his mock audience, he points to himself,

"Sukuna, Ryomen." Then he turns to look at you, jutting out his thumb in your direction, and as if it is the most natural thing in the world, calls out your full name.

It was so strange, you got caught searching for words. You had no idea he knew your name. If there was one thing obvious about Sukuna, it was his blatant dislike of his peers. It wasn't uncommon to see him rolling his eyes, or avoiding the fellow students that followed him around all the time.

"Right, okay, we'll smooth out that part later, for now, lets focus on the first few slides." You lean down and point out the screen of your laptop, "I'll go first. I’ll give my thesis as a roadmap for my information, then you can do yours."

You turn your face to the side, expecting him to still be standing behind you, listening to your explanation, but pull back in alarm to find his face right beside yours, he was focused on what you were pointing out on the slide.

You jolt back, taking a moment to regain your thoughts, "…I’ll get into my half and allow for a segway into yours.” He follows your motion, standing straight. “We'll have clickers.” You continue, “Let's just say that whoever finishes explaining the slide will be responsible for clicking to the next one, okay?"

He was so watchful, it was unnerving. Had he always been like this? Seeming bored, he gives you a nod. "Sure."

The following two hours flew by. It was actually nice to not have to dance around issues, you could be confrontational and know he wouldn't get offended. He was well versed in his area of the presentation, easily paraphrasing what he wanted people to grasp from his slides. It wasn't until he sat down, asking you to present for him that you started having issues.

"What?" He leaned back in his chair, spinning slightly, "Give your speech, do it like I'm the audience."

"No." You huff, "not if you don't." You point at him.

"I'll do it, but you go first, you we're the one who wanted to start us off anyway." He’s brought this on you somewhat out of nowhere.

You look around the room, feeling suddenly anxious. You had practiced both you and Sukuna’s parts to the point of near memorization. You had recorded your speaker notes and listened to them before bed nightly. You knew what to say. But you were feeling suddenly…shy?

"Don't act like I've put you on the spot," He waves a hand, "We're here to practice."

"I know." You look at your shoes, feeling small, stupid. It was embarrassing to have him watch you. He just screamed judgment. You huff, "Fine. Turn around."

He looked almost insulted at the notion. "What? No."

"Would you just do it?"

Assuming he wouldn’t complain, you wait for him to turn. He just squints at you,"I knew you worried over nothing but do you have stage fright too or something?" Sukuna leans down, elbows on his knees.

You didn't really know what the issue was. Performing on stage, you could probably disassociate long enough to not feel so uncomfortable, but here, alone, with only his eyes to see you, it was different somehow. "No...maybe... I don't know."

"Well." He shrugs, "Now's a great time to shake off those nerves. Go on, I'm sure you have all your information down."

He motions your way, and you force yourself to go over your work, starting from the top. You try to focus on your cadence, intonation, and scripted pauses from your recording. You turn to look in the corner of the room, mimicking the intentional body language you had meticulously practiced in front of your bathroom mirror.

You spent the time expressing what you would say rather than pretending to teach him. Having already used the room for hours, you simply focused on the main points of contention, explaining your slides with practiced ease. Once you finished, you moved onto his starting slide and cantered passed him to one of the opposing chairs.

He did not take your cue, getting up to present, however, opting instead to open his body language, "I woulda thought you had a script in front of you."

"Like you said, I actually know my information." You snark, huffing out a breath you hadn’t known you’d been holding. Starting to become tired and stressed at the idea of the upcoming exams.

He simply rolled his eyes as the suggestion that he might not, "You can't make eye contact."

He was speaking as if stating a fact. Your brows furrow, having been doing exactly that what he said you apparently couldn’t do. "When you're presenting, you don’t look at me" He continues. "It's weird, you have no problem with watching people but when you know that someone is watching you, you can't seem to acknowledge it."

Your mouth twists into a mock smirk; he reminded you in that moment of your previous first-year psych student roommate, who genuinely believed themself a genius among feckless plebs.

"When we're on stage, we won't be making eye contact with anyone really-" You were about to defend yourself before being interrupted.

"See. You’re doing it again. You can't look at me." He narrows an accusing finger in your general direction. Moving to stand, he grabs the clicker off the table and shifts into a teasing tone. "Here's how it's done."

You were still somewhat reeling from him pointing out a habit you didn't even know you were taking part in. Wondering suddenly if others had noticed it and if so, why nobody had said anything.

You felt suddenly irked and wanted to prove to him that, no, you very well could make intentional eye contact with someone making a point to notice you.

It was a grueling task, and, as you would find out, your brain seemed to be sending every 'I am uncomfortable' signal to your body while attempting it. You couldn't seem to stop swallowing, voluntarily blinking, or forcefully making your hands stop moving.

All these small tasks took up some serious mental effort but despite that, you were still able to take in his oratory skills.

For a man so lacking in the interpersonal communication sphere, he presented with poise, confidence, and knowledge on his subject. He paced himself well and it almost seemed as though his speech was conducted in a way that made note-taking ideal. He seemed aware of his space and motioned accordingly.

When he wasn't gesturing or looking back at the slides, he was looking at you, as if he was lecturing you with the information you had tirelessly slaved over when studying his speaker notes.

And on the topic of speaker notes? He totally strayed from them! He didn't even follow the same roadmap that you had seen nights before. You hated it, but none could deny, he was still a compelling speaker. You couldn't make a sensible complaint because of how undeniably well he spoke.

Besides, what kind of anal, control-freak, dictator of a school partner memorized someone else's speaker notes?

The issue arose in you suddenly that Sukuna doesn't need to make an effort like you do. He doesn't care to, he simply has the confidence in himself. He seemed to hold no anxiety and no care for how he was perceived. The only issue was, these types often flunked out of school, and here he was thriving.

While he wrapped up his slides, he crossed his arms over his chest, pointedly looking your way.

You think back to your previous interactions, Sukuna must see himself as so terribly generous, allowing you the time of day to practice with him. He likely thought the concept stupid. And worse? His efforts didn't ease your nerves, and they did not qualm your worries.

Your thoughts are cut off by the brisk striking of his knuckles on the table. You look up at him, "Get out of your thoughts." He slides past you to his bookbag, putting away a notebook. "We're in good shape."

You aren't sure what to say. You don't feel like you're in good shape but you don't want to discourage him, not that you thought it possible for him.

Before he slips out of the door, you turn to him, "I'm going to send you a list of mock questions so you can prepare some answers." He wouldn’t look at the email, you were sure.

He snorted a laugh, "Good to know you were paying attention."

And he was gone.

--

Sukuna was not terribly fond of school, that is, in the typical sense. He did enjoy learning and was dedicated to his area of study, sure, but being around people? He found it exhausting.

You hadn't stuck out to him, but it was hard to not notice you. You sat in the front of every single lecture, pristinely on time. You were one of the students that the professor felt inclined to call on. And he saw you in the library, often.

It was not until he had been enlisted as your partner for the practicum that he started to see why you had taken his notice.

At first, he shook it off, thinking himself crazy, but after three sessions in the library, it was clear what it was. You reminded him of someone.

You were just like his nephew.

Wednesdays and Fridays in the library, you would be rambling on about something, going over the expectations for the project draft, explaining the sources you wanted him to utilize, and he would be listening, sure, but he would be seeing Yuuji.

The little boy was a little shit, and despite being wildly more extroverted that yourself, he too was nervous about everything.

Sukuna was like a second parent to the boy, and as much as he would complain, he wouldn't change it for a thing.

It was weird, to see the kid in you. At first he stocked you up as a try-hard, but in reality, he assumes you're just scared. You really are just like that little boy.

--

You did not sleep well last night. You got to bed early but you simply couldn't slip away. And when you finally did pass over into restless sleep, you were promptly woken up by your own hyperactive consciousness.

You checked the clock each time. Had you really set that alarm? You would go over your script and the more you did, the sicker you felt. You craved more time to practice, you craved for your body to stop jittering with nerves, you craved to just fall asleep damn it!

After a few more hours of waking only to have found rest in literal minute increments, you arose. Dressed yourself and began to get ready.

Everything around you spoke of a good day, the weather was perfect, you looked great, and you had all the rehearsed information at the ready.

Still, internally, you couldn't reach peace.

Once you arrived at the auditorium, you spotted your professor and retrieved your nametag from him. Sukuna was no where to be found which only added to your panic. You paced in the box, the private room for speakers, behind the theater, and repeatedly touched your hair.

Even with potential hours to go, you were feeling overwhelmed, you were at the point of wishing you could just go first and be done with it all.

You were squeezing water out of a thin paper towel and placing it on your neck when the door creaked open.

You flipped to him, "Where have you been?!" You hissed.

You had plenty of time before you would be introduced but you couldn't hide the frustration in your voice.

Sukuna was dressed in a Mandarin suit, he looked perfectly relaxed and the notion only fueled your anger. "I had a class..."

He comes forward and sets his (backup) flash drive on the circular table in the middle of the loge. "Well, why didn't you say that before?” You make an exasperated face and feel your heartbeat quicken, “And where is your nametage?"

Even you could hear the hysterical twinge in your voice, you took a deep breath and told yourself to relax. He didn't say anything, just raised his brows while reaching behind to retrieve the very thing from his back pocket.

Embarrassed, you tear the makeshift cloth from your neck and rush to sit on the couch. You scrap the towel to shreds before disposing of it.

"Everything's in order, we'll be alright." He didn't come to join you on the sofa but watched from the side of the box. He didn’t sound comfortable but he certainly seemed to believe his own words.

"It doesn't even really matter." You had been telling yourself this very thing for weeks when someone took notice of how concerned you were. Not a part of you believed it but you hoped the phrase would ease your mind anyway.

"Oh, it matters." Sukuna laughed.

You wanted to be mad, but in all reality, he was just saying what you knew, him lying would not have comforted you. He started to come over now.

"It just isn't so important that you need to kill yourself over it." You rolled your eyes, knowing what he was saying.

"If we bomb, then that's that, so what?" He tossed his hands up slightly.

You looked at him, and without even needed to study his face, you knew he meant it. He believed it. ‘So what?’ You roll the words around in your brain, shaking your head. You couldn't have stopped the words from escaping.

"I hate people like you." You mutter it, undertones of a laugh there, nothings amusing. "Seriously, I hate how you can just say that."

He isn't mad. The bastard grins, "Oh, trust me, I know."

And then he’s leaving the room. You don't have much time to wonder about what exactly he was doing. You hadn’t thought he would be upset at your declaration. Then again, you hadn’t exactly been thinking when you said it.

What had he meant, that he knew? I guess a guy like him just assumes everyone who isn’t perfectly relaxed at all times is a suck up.

When he returned, he was carrying water bottles and complimentary fruit from outside the auditorium doors. This time around he does come sit, right next to you.

"Have some."

You don't feel thirst but you still accept it when he cracks open the bottle for you. He places the fruit on the table before you both and takes a drink himself.

"I didn't really mean that, I'm just jealous of how you live." He's leaned back and his suit pants clung to his legs.

He purses his lips and shifts his head from side to side, smirking, Mmm, I don't know, I think you actually meant it."

You both chuckle, the nerves are still getting to you. "I still hate you for what you did earlier this semester." You lighten your voice but glance his way to show you do mean it.

He turns his head now, brow raised but still comfortably leaning against the back of the couch. "What did I do earlier this semester?"

You laugh, rolling your eyes. It takes him a moment before he sees you’re not gonna reply, "No, what did I do?"

"The whole beginning of this project." You muse. He still isn't catching what you're saying so you motion with your hands. "Our meetings, in the library? You never told me you were top of the class."

“Should I go out and advertise it?" He clearly isn't getting what you mean.

"No, Sukuna, it sucks because you never told me that you were well versed in the class material.” He still doesn’t seem to grasp the issue, “I’m saying, it made me feel stupid to find out that the guy I thought I was tutoring was actually competing with me."

"It made you feel stupid?"

"In a way. Like you were mocking me."

Sukuna frowns, he leans onto his knees. "I wasn't mocking you."

"You say that." You poke his shoulder and he looks at you quizzically.

In all actuality, it was nice to be able to tell him these things, you didn't feel that anger anymore. As of it had rolled off, only shame lingered.

"I never minded our sessions in the library. I guess it made things easier, you're so..." he reaches for the word,

“Anal?” You recount when he had called you that very thing.

He rolls his eyes, "Organized."

"Thanks." Your voice is low, sarcastic.

He shrugs. Some of the nerves have left you, but suddenly you're hearing voices in the auditorium, one specifically telling people to file in through the doors, and you know you'll be speaking soon.

He turns to look at you again, legs parallel to your own, his palms flat on his thighs, "You care too much about what others think."

He's doing that thing, that I'm-going-to-make-intentional-eye-contact-with-you-and-it-will-be-an-unspoken-comeptition-to-prove-you-can't-do-it thing.

"Maybe you're too carefree." You offer silently.

Soon, someone will come through the doors before you with mic packs and you'll have tape on your face. Your heart pounds. "You should feel okay without having to prove that you’re worthy of validation from others."

He reaches forward for his water bottle, voices can be heard above you, to your sides. People are taking their seats. "You're a smart girl."

And for the second time this week, he says your name and it feels just as strange as it had that first time. "And you didn't have to prove it for me to see it."

And with everything else occurring in this moment, you feel the most upset about the fact that the obnoxious Sukuna Ryomen might just bring unshed tears to your eyes.

You’re silent as you stand, brushing unseen dust off your clothing. Sukuna is stood there by the door that leads to the area behind the stage, his hand is outstretched.

You look around frantically, turning to find his clicker that he must have left on the table, but before you can start searching, he scoffs.

He leans forward and grabs your arm, spinning you gently. He robotically shows you his hand again and places your own in it.

Oh.

He tightens his encompassing palm around your own and makes a tugging sensation to pull you ahead of him through the door he held open.

People in the tech crew were setting everything up and called you each over to get your mics on.

When he lets you go, your hand twitches involuntarily.

You hadn’t realized how cold you were until you felt the warmth of his hand. And for some reason, you couldn’t think of much else as you got mic’d up, despite the ever growing voiced in the audience.

〰・♡・〰〰・♡・〰〰・♡・〰〰・♡・〰〰・♡・〰

Tags: @blueyesuguru @monimonster57 @p1nkfl0wers @giasssslife @csolya @esmedelacroix @sukubusss @v1sque @clp-84 @snowsilver2000 @blueemochii @bitchyfestivalbouquet @rodeorun @chosolovrrr @minethy

(if your name is here but you didn’t get tagged. I think it’s either because your blog is new/blank/empty where you need to check your privacy settings.) :[

[sweetheartsnips]

Daddy Cool - Chapter 1 : Jotaro Kujo

First of part of a small series I am working on! Tiny xReader one-shots for my favourite DILFS from JoJo's: - Jotaro Kujo - Diavolo - DIO - Norisuke Higashikata - Joseph Joestar

For other chapters in this series please see my JoJo masterlist

Chapter 1: Jotaro Kujo (Stone Ocean)

Summary: You are Jotaro's pretty co-worker and he gets off to the thought of you.

Tags: Masturbation, age difference (older man/younger woman), professor Jotaro, humiliation for him (kinda)

Words: 1.6k

Read on my ao3

Doctor Kujo had first met you in the faculty lounge. A pair of pretty eyes and a smiling face. But he had really noticed you in the lecture hall. It was supposed to be a simple guest lecture. You were a placeholder, filling in for him whilst he dealt with a timetable clash. The reproductive cycle of large cephalopods wasn’t exactly the most thrilling of topics, even for Marine Bio 121 students, but when he had snuck back into the theatre, you had them all wrapped around your finger.

You had stood at the front of the room, commanding attention with humble confidence and a friendly smile that he had never quite managed to master. There was no over-reliance on PowerPoint slides, no monotone, bland regurgitation of textbook chapters while students half-listened, fantasising about lunch. You had had them engaged– actually engaged. 

There was passion twinkling in your eyes, in the way your hands had moved as you explained the intricate biological details of how a squid reproduces. It should have been ridiculous, really: standing there in a room full of half-asleep undergrads, talking about spermatophores and chromatophores with that kind of fervour. Instead, you looked absolutely enthralled. Like this was the most interesting thing in the world to you. And you were pretty damn convincing.  

Maybe he should have been focused on that, on what he could learn from you as an academic, but his thoughts kept snagging on other details. The way your blazer fit just right, well-tailored and cinched at the waist, the fabric pulling ever so slightly across the front when you gestured wide. The smooth line of your legs in the dark pantyhose as you paced, small court heels clacking against the timber floor, seemingly effortlessly holding their attention. The way your eyes lit up with excitement when a student asked you a question.

Of course, he had never mentioned any of this to you. Doctor Kujo just thanked you for covering his ass, nodded along when students gushed about how good of a teacher you were. But after that, he found reasons to sit in on your lectures to your own classes. To watch the way you made even the driest topics feel vital. And if his gaze lingered on you a little too long when you turned to write on the board—well, maybe he just really liked your handwriting too. That was it. 

But in the quiet of the evening, when he stepped through his front door, body full of tension, what had been haphazardly brushed off as quiet admiration had  now become something that he was absolutely ashamed of. It was then, alone in the dim hush of his home, that Doctor Kujo lost his dignity.

His erection was already tenting in his pants, straining against the fabric, hot and insistent.

He couldn’t.

No.

Guilt curled tight in his stomach, shame clawing at the edges of his restraint. He shouldn’t be thinking about you like this, not here, not now, not behind your back like this. You were a colleague, a fellow educator. Beautiful, cute, younger than him.

But it seemed his body had already decided for him.

He couldn’t even wait until he was alone in bed.

The belt was off, buckle unfastening with a little clink. Pants shoved down to his knees, breath coming short and uneven as he braced himself against the bathroom sink. Knuckles paling as he held the crisp white porcelain hard enough to almost break. His reflection in the mirror was a disgrace—lips parted, brow furrowed, jaw clenched against the weight of something both desperate and humiliating. 

God, it had been so long.

Since his divorce, since he’d last felt anything close to this—want, need, something raw enough to hollow him out from the inside. To stir his insides and spoon them out like some sort of fucking fruit. 

Was he really this pathetic? Apparently so.

His grip tightened on the sink, his spare hand hastily scrambling to squirt some lotion on his hand with horny urgency. 

Your voice was still in his head—clear as it had been in the lecture hall, warm with enthusiasm, bright with something almost tender as you spoke about something as mundane as squid. You had been enthralled, and now—fuck, so was he.

Balling his hand into a fist, he pressed his thick, leaking tip into the slick vice, squeezing a little around the full girth of his shaft. He couldn’t help but hiss through his teeth at the relief. He had been to one of your lectures this afternoon, and he had been hard since. He needed this.  

He didn’t waste any time. He started fucking his fist with rough, urgent strokes, resting his forehead against the cool glass of the mirror, each ragged, shaky breath feeling like a confession, a betrayal. 

He clamped his eyes shut, as if that could stop the images flooding his brain. Jotaro imagined how your tight cunt would squeeze around his fingers–his cock. How messy your face would be if he took you in missionary: how your cute doe eyes would glaze over as he wrecked you, how your jaw would go slack, mouth hanging open in a lewd, breathless moan. How your boobs would bounce in time with his thrusts. He’d fuck you so hard. He wanted to ruin you. 

The guilt sat heavy in his chest, warring with his desire and a heady mix of forbidden need. His hips jerked forward into his own grasp, movements bordering on frantic now, shame and want now tangled too tight to separate. He was so lost.

He let go of the sink, bringing his hand to his mouth to shut himself up. His knuckles pressed against his teeth, biting down hard, a useless attempt to keep quiet.

Why?

There was no one home. Jolyne was at her mother’s. No one to hear him, no one to witness his descent into this mess of lust and shame. He could be as loud as he wanted. Let his moans spill out into the empty space of his house. Yell out your name if he damn well pleased.

But he didn’t.

The shame was too much. Instead, small whispers and moans of your name slipped from his lips like a quiet prayer. 

“Please, baby…..baby girl.” 

The vague images in his mind of you on your back morphed into him bending you over the mahogany of his desk. Your skirt hiked up the back of your thighs, scrunched up around your waist. Your tummy pressed against the wood, your perfect French tips scratching the varnish, how you would look at him if he grabbed a handful of your hair and forced your head back. His handprint on your ass.

Pathetic. He was absolutely pathetic . Here he was, rutting into his own hand like a desperate man at the thought of his cute co-worker that was far too young to ever be interested in him. He was jacking himself off like a teenage boy, like he hadn’t been touched in years—because he hadn’t. 

But he wasn’t stopping now. Hell, he was too far gone. 

Small Japanese curses left his lips as he felt himself get close. Moaning around his finger, husky and wanton. He bit down hard, hips snapping forward into his fist, chasing that inevitable, deliciously terrible release. 

Not bothering to breathe properly, just little strained exhales, and the squelch of the lotion that he imagined was coming from the wetness of your pussy were the only sounds that filled the room. His thighs trembled. His stomach tightened. The tension coiled so tight inside him that for a moment, he thought he might choke. 

He braced himself against the vanity, panting, head bowed. Breath fogging up the mirror. His skin felt too hot, flushed with something ugly and raw. Searing shame and embarrassment. 

Each glide of his palm over his knob, how the butt of his hand brushed up against his balls at the bottom of each stroke, your image behind his eyelids. Fuck, he was going to lose the plot. 

Your voice bounced around in his ears:

“Cum for me, Doctor Kujo…”

What? He tried to bury that thought under his lust, but it was far too late for that. 

He broke.

His whole body went tense and taut, pleasure crashing over him in thick, powerful waves. His hands trembled, and he moaned like he was a girl in a porn video, breathless, weak syllables of your name, over and over. Thick, viscous ropes of cum spurted and pulsed out of his cock and into his hand, all of the pent-up desire for you leaving his body as if it were his atonement. 

His sounds were hardly muffled by his attempts to do so. Embarrassing, needy whimpers escaping from around his finger. He sighed, as if that could rinse the shame from his soul.

For a long moment, all he could do was stand there, panting, his body spent and balls empty, his mind reeling. There was none of the clarity he usually got after getting off. Only heavy, gnawing, shame that scratched at his conscience. 

He forced his eyes open, met his own gaze in the mirror. And there it was again, the weight in his chest, the flush of heat that had cooled too fast. Warm, sticky semen dripped over his knuckles, stark and damning in the dim bathroom light. The undeniable proof of what he had just done. 

He let out a slow, uneven breath, dragging his clean hand down his face. 

He needed a cigarette.

[adreamfromnevermore]

DC head canons whil tipsy, Batcats love language is Bruce buying her increasingly expensive things, art, jewelry, you name it, she wants it? He'll buy it.

Except he knows that half the thrill for her is the B & E. Without a little breaking and entering how is she supposed to feel like she earned it???

So Bruce of course creates the solution, and sets it up where she gets to steal it instead. They're are always elaborate security systems, things he knows will test her. Sometimes in the less traveled wing of Wayne Manor itself, a show of trust. Leading her back to his home and waiting to see if he'll wake up to a ping on his security system and a note where a beautiful diamond necklace was. Other times he'll take over entire wings of the Gotham museums and galleries. Tailored specifically to Silena's tastes so that she'll have the pick of the litter and he can either keep the rest or auction them off for charity.

He narrowly avoids insurance scams half the time by playing up the Brucie act. People are horrified that he's just been robbed blind, there are art enthusiasts all across the globe trying to walk him through the insurance claims while he's just trying to to wave it off. The art galleries and museums are setting up full scale meetings, insurance people included with PowerPoint presentations of every step to filing the insurance claim and Bruce is sweating in his armani trying to laugh off how much work it is, and really he'll get to it eventually (read never)

There's a 50/50 chance it winds up in his own manor eventually, he's not getting arrested for Insurance Fraud. It'll interrupt the batmanning