#she refused to acknowledge that code

[acourtofquestions]

Kingdom of Ash pt.1 in summary:

Aelin: I’m fine

Fenrys *voice-over*: she was not fine.

[sercphs]

I am once again thinking about Summertime Odyssey from Genshin and my infinite suffering at my Daughter being permanently locked behind event-only stories makes me suffer

[phoenix-is-the-hottest-thing]

Some people need to understand queer coding opens character identities and relationships up to a solid queer interpretation, but that doesn’t equal “this character 100% fits my headcanon and if you disagree you’re a [REDACTED]”

From a literary analysis perspective, as long as your interpretation is reasonably evidence-based it’s valid. As this is fandom, I’d add “sincere” to that since unlike an academic setting we get bad faith actors but that’s it.

So, to have a valid “interpretation” you have to do the work in good faith, and you have to be able point at the text to support your interpretation. If you can’t, or don’t want to, that’s a headcanon, and it’s totally fine.

“But this character is a lesbian she likes a girl!” There’s more to queerness than straight and gay. You could reasonably interpret a girl who likes another girl as plenty of different things:

Lesbian

Bi

Ace/aro and something else

Straight and closeted trans

Straight and lover is closeted trans

And so on.

So when you have an interpretation, someone might tell you, “I think this other thing.” The polite way to handle this if you don’t like it is to say “that’s so cool we can see different things in the ambiguity of art”. Maybe blocking each other if you dislike their interpretation that much.

That’s of course unless you both want a debate to further refine your understanding of the text or just like to argue or whatever. Which is fine! As long as it’s not overly bitter or whatever, it’s fun to discuss.

“So how do I know which interpretation is more canon than another?”

See, that’s the thing, you can’t. Canon is kind of shaky in the first place. The canon is just what’s written that’s recognized as true/correct text, not the way to understand it (and not what the author says is true, some people take Word of God as canon because it allows the following of one concrete interpretation instead of acknowledging multiple, but strictly speaking it is not). You can only interpret the canon.

For example, 4-komas bonuses of serialized manga are usually non-canon because they are jokes and not meant to be taken seriously as a part of the story’s text. That’s what canon actually is for, originally it’s to talk about which books are genuinely part of the Bible and which are to be deemed offshoots that shouldn’t be taken as a Catholic Church-endorsed religious text.

I guess that’s what gets people confused? That there’s no actual truth to imagined worlds, only what happens in the eyes of the beholder when they interact with art?

Because that’s what it means, canon often has nothing to do with who’s “actually a lesbian” short of them saying it directly. An onscreen wedding is said to “make a couple canon” precisely because there’s only so many ways you can interpret a wedding, but all that means is that the text says they’re together at a point in time. One way I can think of having a canon sexuality would be a canonical character sheet, or an omniscient narrator saying so, but everything less is basically an interpretation.

Note that interpretation obviousness can go from “that’s a stretch but I like it”, to “you only need eyes to see it”, they’re both still interpreting. Even a character talking sexuality technically only makes canon that they’re willing to say so, but that’s when critical thinking comes in.

If you hear a character say “I’m a married lesbian” and think “they’re just confused” with no evidence, you look like an idiot. You absolutely can argue which interpretation is more valid or likely by pointing out inconsistencies, stretched evidence, or that one interpretation has a higher volume of evidence/etc. This is how you avoid relativism and “nothing the text says matters” trolls.

Occam’s Razor is another way you might be tempted to try and determine whose thesis is stronger. This technique works through figuring out which interpretation requires the least amount of assumptions (saying something arbitrary is true as a basis) but it doesn’t make anything canon, or more interesting, it’s not a concrete sign of superiority. Just means it has stronger fondations.

However… your interpretation being stronger, more popular, better worded etc. or you thinking someone else’s is immoral, stupid, etc. doesn’t give you license to be a bully, to call people names, to dox them, dig up dirt to make them look worse, and so on and so forth. Thinking you’re right and they’re wrong does not make you above basic respect, politeness, or consequences. You’re not better than everyone else.

As a child, I used to think I was always right because I was logical, and I clearly made logical sense so there was no way for there to be a logical reasoning that arrived at a different conclusion. (Newsflash: Child me was very wrong! Sometimes multiple things can be equally valid! And even if they were not equal, that didn’t give me license to deride people publicly!)

Queer coding is by its nature interpretative. Coding is the author leaving hints about their characters by using a “code”. Some hints, almost everyone in your section of fandom might have the exact same interpretation about. Some hints might be dead obvious. Some hints might leave you overjoyed. Some hints you might ignore because they make you uncomfortable.

Some people will disagree with you about how they interpret the coding, or might even just state that they believe people have a right to interpret the canon however they want, even in ways you don’t like. That is normal. That is not a threat to your interpretation.

Don’t be a petty cunt about it.

Essentially,

[mabaris]

another thing that i just noticed is that the dwarves have now had done to them by the elves what we’d thought the elves had done to them by humans, at least before inquisition. cut down in their peak and permanently ruined, left to scrabble for the broken pieces of their history

not to say it’s an inherently bad choice because oppression isn’t that straightforward, but it sure was an interesting choice to shift the “they destroyed our way of life and fractured our society and we ARE allowing ourselves to feel angry about it and reclaim our history and maybe use that to rebuild what we once had” narrative from the elves to the dwarves. like if that’s the story you really wanted to tell, you could have also given it to like. bellara

[nereidprinc3ss]

trolley problem

in which fem!reader has been gambling with her life and spencer reid is more than a little concerned

flangst, hurt/comfort warnings/tags: passive suicidal ideation from reader, she keeps risking her life, that really grinds Spencer’s gears, established relationship, existential dread, existential euphoria, lots of stuff about grief and death and self worth, not advocating for this, pretension from the author, blasphemy probably?, reader gets fuzzy from prescribed painkillers, arguing, hospital stuff, mention of sleep paralysis involving spiders, reader gets shot but she’s fineee, I pander to intro to philosophy takers, bau!reader, neurodivergent coded reader, if she’s not exactly like you I’m sorry, bean soup a/n: one day you’re in a writing slump literally the next you are in your notes app for six hours writing whatever the fuck this is but I think I love it even tho it’s weird and I hope u like it too!! btw this was gonna be called cotard's syndrome but then I never once talk abt cotard's but if u care that might be interesting context for the motif of not feeling human/alive, WC 3K

Spencer hasn’t spoken to you since the doctor left the room five minutes ago. 

The air is antiseptic as you take it deep into the hollows of your lungs and trap it there for a moment, trying to optimize oxygen intake without actually having to breathe very often. Hospital smell is as universal as it is suffocating. It reeks of everything but death—flowers, blood, bleach, vomit. A humiliating, desperate scramble to defy the very thing that defines mortality. It’s pathetic. It reminds you of the worst instances of failure and loss and denial in your life. It curdles your blood. Literally rots you from the inside out. 

You’ve had ample time to ponder that smell over the last few months because you keep ending up here, and some time ago you decided the institution of the hospital is inherently absurd. It’s stupid to think you could avoid the one absolute condition on your corporeal form: impermanence. It is the only thing that is promised, and people still waste their lives away running from it. It is the ultimate self-fulfilling prophecy. 

So around the time you acknowledged that hospitals are simply monuments to the self-importance of man, you gave up on trying too hard to preserve yourself. You’ve seen death too much and too often. You’ve tried staving it off with prayer and the miracles of modern medicine, and it never matters in the end because it’s all magical thinking anyway. All the wallowing and the bargaining and pleading never got you anywhere. 

You’ve accepted that from the moment you were born, you were marked for death. 

But you’re not a complete nihilist. You’re not even totally resigned to the abject certainty of death—because you’ve found a loophole.

Everyone has as many chances at escaping death as other people are willing to offer them at the cost of their own lives. Not many people are willing to make that trade—someone else’s life for their own—but you’ve decided you are. Because if not you, then who?

It’s not that you don’t see the value in your own life, as Spencer keeps making it sound. It’s just the opposite. You understand that you’ve got an extremely valuable resource, and you don’t just have to sit on it. There are things you can do. Choices you can make. Ways to defy death. 

Just… not yours. 

Or maybe you’re just in deep denial. 

Either way—this is a philosophy your boyfriend intentionally refuses to understand. He gets mad, or some kind of upset, every time you try to explain it. Usually he ends up leaving the room close to tears. You never feel good about it.

Right now he’s presumably trying to give you the silent treatment and not doing a very good job. 

“Stop holding your breath. Why are you—stop that.”

Spencer’s frowning, skin sallow and milk-blue under fluorescent lighting. Purple seeps from around his eyes like spilled wine on a white table cloth. Your stomach turns. 

“Sorry.”

He doesn’t tell you not to apologize. You don’t expect him to. 

“Why are you doing that? Does something hurt?”

Other than your entire bicep being on fire due to the 9 millimeter Luger it recently came into contact with?

“Not really. I just don’t like the smell of hospitals.”

At that, he gets stony again. Like, Medusa stony. You feel a tightening in your chest that has nothing to do with a lack of air. His arms are crossed. A silk lined blazer drapes over your lap, and you wonder if he’s cold in just that white button up. It’s translucent in this light, like onion skin, or maybe something less organic—the folds and wrinkles look like fabric, but lots of things look like something they aren’t. In the Pietá, Jesus lounges dead on his mother’s lap, his cheek pressed to her arm like either of them have warm flesh, and her skirts drape from her knees and fall to the ground in delicate folds just like Spencer’s jacket and looking at pictures of it you swear you could find comfort there too—but if you wanted to make space for yourself next to Jesus you’d have to do it with a chisel and mallet. You’re starting to think that’s what it’s going to take with Spencer, as well. 

“So stop walking into active gunfire. You’ll spend a lot less time here.”

Every deep sigh (of which there have been several) calcifies you further. Ironically, you never feel less alive than you do in a hospital. 

“I didn’t walk into active g—”

“I’m not debating it with you. It’s not a discussion.”

“So you’re just going to be pissed at me for the rest of forever? I mean, if it’s not a discussion—what are you gonna do? Break up with me?”

You feel yourself dripping poison in the well. Even as you say it. As his head tilts toward you slowly and intently from his spot against the wall, and his warning gaze is cold and unforgiving and weighs 3.35 tons.

“Don’t.”

“Don’t what? Talk?”

“Don’t try and manipulate me by implying that there are no options between permissiveness and dumping you!”

“I’m not manipulating you. And I don’t need your permission to do anything.” 

The first part is an incredulous scoff as well as a blatant lie. You are manipulating him. Chisel and all. At least, you were trying to. It clearly doesn’t work very well. His jaw clenches.  

“Is this worth it to you? Fighting with me like we’re children solely so you don’t have to take accountability?”

“Accountability for what? I made a choice. I don’t regret it. You’re upset because I did my job.”

A beat. 

Silence always makes you feel the gravity of your words. 

“Do you believe that?”

His voice softens so much, so quickly, it splinters down the middle. 

You’ve never been known for your light touch. For someone who sees eviscerated bodies nearly every day, and prides herself on her evolved understanding of mortality, you often forget other people are not, in fact, impenetrable marble—they are flesh and blood and bone, and you’ve splattered yourself in the evidence of that. 

“What?” You murmur. You easily turn timid, when you’re afraid you’ve been too heavy-handed. Spencer’s seen you sob over the birds who hit the windowpane and never reappeared from the shrubbery—their delicate wings, their little beaks—he didn’t mean to, Spencer, and now he’s dead! He’s seen you spend forty minutes catching a spider with a cup and an envelope rather than smush it, even though you have reoccurring episodes of sleep paralysis wherein a giant arachnid is sitting on your chest, hissing and clacking its pincers. He knows you are, at your core, kind and good. 

It’s a little scary for someone to know that about you. It’s a little scary when you see your own vulnerability reflected in their eyes and the way they speak to you, the way you see it in him now. 

“Do you believe that the choices you make regarding your safety don’t concern me at all?”

“They’re… my choices to make,” you whisper, but you’re less sure than you were a minute ago. 

“I’m not talking about that—I’m talking about how it feels like you are trying to kill yourself every time we’re in the field.” His voice shakes. You swallow. “You have been hospitalized for four serious injuries sustained on the job in the past five months. Every time I bring it up, you—you talk about life like it’s optional for you. Like you’re not only willing to give it up but are actively looking to throw yourself in harm’s way every chance you get. You think that doesn’t terrify me?”

There’s a small chip in the paint on the wall next to him roughly the shape of Africa. 

“It’s not like that. I’m… I’m just having an unlucky streak.”

He snaps. 

“Luck isn’t going to get between you and a bullet. Ever.”

“It’s my job, Spencer.”

“No. It is a risk of the job. Not a defining feature or requirement. But you keep running toward gunfire like you have a quota to meet.”

“Spencer, I’m not doing it at you. I’m not trying to get myself hurt.”

“Well it doesn’t really feel like you’re trying to avoid it, either,” he shoots back immediately, and you feel the anguish radiating from him until it lodges in your own chest, like it was always yours. Maybe it was. 

You want to make it better, but you don’t know how, and even if you did, he’s pushing off the wall and crossing the room toward the door. 

“Where are you going?” You call, a little too desperately for your liking. 

“You need to eat something.”

Which translates roughly to he’s pissed and upset and he needs to leave the room. You’ve done this song and dance before. 

However, food and an absence of him are contenders for the absolute last two things you want right now. 

“Spencer, please don’t—”

But the door is already whooshing closed. 

You stare at the grey and white checkered floor. Light bounces off the waxen reflection—some sort of parallel universe you can’t reach, perhaps. The whole room is desaturated. A mechanical humming threatens to drive you insane. It doesn’t feel like a place for living humans. You’re not convinced you are one. 

When he comes back, maybe ten minutes later, nothing’s moved at all. In fact you’re not even sure you’ve been breathing. 

The door closes as quietly as it opens. 

This time, wordlessly, Spencer comes to you. You see his shoes first—his serious adult shoes. You wish he was wearing his Converse. 

Then you see the bottle of apple juice he’s cracking open for you. Blue lid. Same kind you always get. 

“You didn’t bring food.”

“You wouldn’t have eaten it.”

Fair enough. 

You take the bottle with your good arm and sip shallowly—all that adrenaline and the subsequent interpersonal strife has left you nauseous. The drink is too sweet. It clashes with the tang of metal in your mouth. 

Still, you drink enough to satisfy him, and then you’re tossing his jacket aside before balancing the bottle between your thighs so you can screw the lid back on. He doesn’t go back to the couch or his spot on the wall. 

Spencer doesn’t pull away when you lean into him, but it does take him a moment to reciprocate. You’re still grateful all the same when he cradles the back of your head to his stomach like you’re made of porcelain. 

“I don’t think you understand how upset I am,” he says quietly. 

Only Spencer Reid could be furious with you and still hold you like this. 

“I’m sorry,” you murmur. 

“That’s not good enough. You need to stop risking your life like that.”

He doesn’t get it. Your brows flutter as they try to furrow but even holding that expression saps you. Maybe the pain meds are finally kicking in. 

“I just wanna help people.”

“That doesn’t explain to me or justify your urge to do it at the cost of your own life. We all want to help people, angel. The whole team. That’s why we do what we do. But we don’t run into shootouts. We don’t split off and provoke people with guns when we’re unarmed and unprepared.”

“But it worked. She got away.” You feel a spark of fulfillment at the memory of Gloria Sanchez in JJ’s arms just before the ambulance doors had slammed you into your first cage of the night. 

“We don’t know if he was going to kill her. He might not’ve fired at all if you didn’t go running toward him. That wasn’t strategic, it was reckless and irresponsible and you know that. I know you do. So something else is going on.”

The pressure in your nose that usually precipitates tears comes as a surprise. 

“I just—if that’s how I can save someone, why shouldn’t I, you know? Why do they have less of a right to live than I do just because they’ve been deprived of the choice? If I have a choice, and they don’t, I should choose to… to help them. That’s my job.”

For a long moment, you listen to your own breath, muffled by Spencer’s shirt, and the mechanical humming, and something dripping, and the low, buzzy chatter of nurses far down the hallway.

When Spencer next speaks you get the sense he’s holding a lot back. His voice is taut enough it wavers slightly. Taut enough that if he weren’t speaking so quietly he might be yelling. It’s like pinpricks all over your body—not enough to hurt, but enough to make sure you’re paying attention. 

“You can’t help anyone if you’re dead. Do you understand me?”

And yes, in theory, you do. But that doesn’t negate your original point. It only takes one life or death moment for you to utilize the most valuable resource you have. What happens after is no longer your concern. 

“On the psych evals you helped develop it asks if you think it’s appropriate to sacrifice the one to save the many. The answer is supposed to be no. If you say yes you get flagged. The FBI frowns upon… lever-pullers. And that’s exactly what I’m doing if I let one person die when I could’ve potentially saved them.”

“Protecting your own life is not pulling the lever. What you’re doing isn’t smart or morally righteous. You’re just throwing yourself across the tracks, too. If you were to fail a psych eval right now it would be because you’re passively suicidal. And you know what? The FBI also tends to frown upon self-immolative delusions of grandeur and girls who like to play sacrificial lamb.”

“’M not a… sacrificial lamb…”

“No,” Spencer agrees quietly, stroking your hair. “You’re not.”

And you can’t react to the fragility in his voice, or the content of his words, and the fact that when he says it he means something different—you can’t do anything about it. You can only catalogue it. You can only know that he loves you, and feel a little guilty about it.

Some time passes. You don’t know how long he remains standing so you can doze against him. He does not smell like the hospital. He’s the antidote for whatever grief they distill from widows and orphans before aerosolizing it through the whole place. 

“Baby?” He asks eventually. You know the lilt of it. He’s been thinking. 

“Hm?”

He hesitates. 

“Can we talk about you maybe taking some time off of work?”

“You heard the boss,” you mumble. “I can’t come in for at least a week.”

“I mean beyond that.”

You intend to respond, but by the time you open your mouth you’ve lost the prompt in all the brain fog. 

“You’re so comfy,” you murmur dreamily. “Thank you for being mad at me.”

If he responds, you miss it. 

You’re imagining the bed waiting for you at home, once the doctor is done observing you—warm, neatly made. Blankets woven with soft fibers. A mattress that will sink under your weight. You think of Spencer, who’s shaping himself to you, Spencer, who intentionally inhales when you exhale at night to make room for the rise and fall of your chest against his. You think of the imprint of his buttons on your cheek. You are both flesh and blood and bone. 

Strange, pill-induced half dreams and visions and memories take over. You’re in that alleyway again. That man fires. You don’t blink or scream or feel. 

Just before the bullet makes contact you’re standing in front of the Pietá. It’s massive. Spencer is there, too, holding your hand. 

You can’t actually see him, only, you know he’s there. You feel his warmth, his presence, when he leans over to whisper in your ear. The way you know him goes beyond sight. 

The Pietá—meaning the pity, in English—is 6’7” and six feet wide. It weighs 6,700 pounds. Michelangelo had to quarry the block of marble himself. He was only 25 when he finished. The Basilica keeps it behind bulletproof glass. 

Jesus and Mary behind bullet proof glass. 

God. Who’d try to kill Jesus a third time? He’s already dead. 

Besides—they’re both made of stone. Bullets would probably just ping right off of them. Or maybe they’d shatter just like you did. 

Probably not though. You’re not actually made of marble. You’ve no idea what it feels like to be a statue and get shot at. You sure know how it feels as a human, though—and it feels like shit. You don’t really know why you keep doing it. None of your reasons are good enough for Spencer, and he’s, generally speaking, pretty smart about some things. 

Maybe you’re tired of being human.

Maybe you’re tired of sleeping on your arm funny and waking up to a hand in your bed that doesn’t feel like yours and remembering all the hands you’ve held moments before they couldn’t hold yours back. Or tired of those moments where you are being held and it’s so unbelievably perfect and then someone has to let go, or when someone you love hugs you goodbye and you realize that there will always be a final I love you, or simply getting older and watching potential life paths fall away like rotten fruit to the ground. Maybe life is sometimes so good it hurts and you can’t bear it. So you tempt fate. You walk a tightrope because even if you fall and it can’t ever feel good again—at least it can’t hurt either. At least you won’t lose anymore. 

And yet. 

It does feel good, sometimes. Sort of often, actually. Even when it’s awful. 

Dead Jesus and Mary, with their marble skin and their bulletproof glass and their holiness and their virginity and all the other things they have that you don’t. Nobody can hurt them anymore. Not ever. 

Maybe that’s something you envy.

But you doubt they’ve ever been so terribly, wonderfully alive as you’ve been, or as comfortable as you are like this, leaning into Spencer’s warmth and his softness, in the hospital, or the Vatican, or your dreams. Your bicep was ruined but it’s healing. You are capable of ruin and rebirth in the same lifetime. In the same day, in the same hour. 

You doubt that in 520 years, behind bulletproof glass and unyielding, eternally flawless skin, they’ve ever felt as invincible as you do now. 

You doubt they ever could. 

[phoenixrisingastro]

You Were Never Crazy, You Were Just Psychic

A post for every woman who was gaslit, dismissed, and told she was ‘too sensitive’ for knowing what they knew before it happened.

They called you dramatic when your soul was just screaming through your skin.

You dreamt the breakup before it happened.

You felt your lover’s betrayal the moment he touched you differently.

You knew the house was haunted because it whispered your name when no one else was home.

You said, “I don’t like her,” before your best friend told you about the betrayal.

And they called you paranoid. Delusional. Possessive.

But the truth is—you’re psychic.

You were born with antennae that pick up the frequencies no one else dares to acknowledge.

You hear what they hide.

You feel what they refuse to admit.

You sense who they really are beneath the mask they wear for everyone else.

You weren’t cursed.

You were coded.

Pisces Moons who cry without a reason.

Scorpio Venuses who know the lie before it's spoken.

Pluto in the 1st house women who trigger confessions with just their eyes.

Cancer risings who carry generational grief in their gut.

Neptune-heavy charts who walk between this world and the next.

You were never meant to be understood. You were meant to see.

You don’t need proof.

You are the proof.

Tag the psychic. Tag the girl who always knew. Reblog if they ever called you crazy, and you found out you were right all along..

[witherby]

punchline, she can’t feel pain or something happens like she breaks an arm or something yet has no reaction or they do a health scan of her and she has some wounds.

-📝

Ok listen. It didn't feel like it was 3600 words when I was writing it. It just happened. Enjoy the feast though.

⚠️ Content Warnings: Broken bones, starvation/malnourishment, flashbacks, description of injuries, the Batfamily accidentally hurts you ⚠️

Punchline: Analgesia

Masterlist is Here!

You got out of the cell.

With no real place to put you, Bruce initiated a round-the-clock watch, both to monitor your health and make sure you didn't try anything dangerous. "Brucie Wayne" decided to go on a last-minute tour of Asia for a month so that he could take more shifts, allowing his sons time to rest and maintain their own lives without needing to stress as much over...

Well. You.

You, who spent the entire first day staring up at the ceiling and clicking your feet together, refusing to respond anymore to Dick or anybody else after telling them your name. You, who ignored your bed long after the time came where most people should be sleeping, then ignored any food and water delivered to you long after most people should be eating and drinking.

You just smile and click your feet. Click. Click. Click. Waiting. Lying still. Staring.

Except now you aren't. Bruce comes back from upstairs with another tray of food for you to find an empty monitor feed on the batcomputer. The bed is too low to the ground for you to hide under, and the privacy curtain isn't drawn to take cover behind. The pressure sensors on the floor don't indicate any signs of life, either — you aren't in there anymore.

He sets the tray down and starts rewinding the footage, panicking, when you click your heels behind him.

"Boo."

Bruce jumps. Honest-to-god flinches. His body moves automatically, leg kicking out and connecting center-mass with a heavy thunk. You go flying across the main area of the cave with a yelp, hitting the ground and rolling a few feet. The sound of your body colliding against smooth stone echoes in a way that it shouldn't, and you don't try to pick yourself up afterwards.

"Shhhit shit shit," he gasps, running over to your limp body and carefully cradling you. He triggers the scanner in his cowl, checking you over for injuries, and gingerly props you up against his chest. "Kid! Are you —"

You snort, shoulders shaking, then build up into a breathtaking cackle. Literally breathtaking — Bruce presses his fingers into your ribs and feels breakage on at least two of them. His lenses find fractures on three more. He needs to get you to the medbay.

"Kid," he says again, urgently, nauseous with guilt. God, you're just a little girl, heartbreakingly small in his arms. "Punchline —"

"I spooked the Bat!" You gasp, eyes welling with tears. Twin lines cut through your face paint, smearing some of the blue under your eyes with the white. It's haunting. You just continue wheeze and gently clap him on the shoulder, genuinely mirthful. "Fear was made fearful! Ohohoho, that's... that's priceless!!"

"I didn't mean to hurt you," Bruce says. You just laugh even harder at that, sharp, short gasps that only exacerbate your wounds and bounce off the cave walls around you in sickening stereo. He wraps one arm around your back and the other behind your knees, lifting you.

"Let's get you cleaned up, kid...you shouldn't be out here."

"I got you gooood, Batsy!" You grin. "Got you! Got you!"

Click. Click. Click. You knock your feet together again, wrapping your arms around his neck with glee.

"Spooked you baaad!"

His grip on you tightens slightly, then relaxes again. Anything he would've wanted to say to you gets trapped behind grit teeth.

--

Dick knocks gently on the door before he types in the code to your cell and watches it slide open. You chuckle, but don't otherwise acknowledge him as he steps inside with another tray of food.

"Yeah. I guess it would seem silly to knock on a see-through door," he says, sitting on the floor next to you. He sits the tray down and presses his back against the wall, lacing his fingers together. "Just trying to be polite, in light of..."

He glances around your bland accommodations and clears his throat.

"Anyway! You were so kind to tell us your name and we didn't even return the favor. I'm Nightwing."

"Wing-a-ding," you murmur, smiling at the ceiling. Click. Click. Click.

"Sure, you can call me that if you want." He uses his foot to gently nudge the tray closer to your supine form, then lowers his voice conspiratorially. "I'll even let you call me a bad word if you eat."

Your smile grows. "Silly Wing-a-ding. It's not mealtime."

"When's Mealtime?" Dick asks you. "Because, you've been with us for two days, kiddo, and you haven't eaten a bite. If you've got a specific diet, it's no trouble. You just have to tell us what you like. We don't want to hurt you."

You snort at that, lifting a hand to pat your stomach. Underneath your lime green shirt are thick bandages compressing your broken ribs. Your gasping giggles ring like broken chimes in the small space you're sharing with him.

Dick frowns. "I'm being honest. B didn't mean to do that to you, I promise. I'm really sorry it happened."

"Sorry? It was hilarious!" You chirp. "Shoulda seen his face. Popsy would have cracked up. Heehee!"

"Yeah..." Dick sighs quietly. "Can we circle back, kiddo? When's your meal time? If you don't try to eat or drink anything soon, we might have to give you some fluids. And I dunno about you, but I'm not a huge fan of needles."

The hand on your stomach drums the same pattern you knock your feet together with. Pat. Pat. Pat. Click. Click. Click.

"It's soon," you tell him simply. "Popsy says to eat when the world turns into a merry-go-round."

The knot of dread sitting in Dick's stomach tightens. He clenches his hands into fists in his lap and keeps his tone light and curious.

"What's the world look like now?"

You laugh. "Fun house mirrors."

"And...when do you get to drink?"

"When the lights start dancing."

Dick doesn't stay in your cell with you much longer, parting with a half-mumbled excuse of needing to go work on something. He hurries down the hallway and tries not to feel like a failure in his suit.

--

Damian wasn't factored in to the rotation, on account of being the youngest and needing to get up for school, but that doesn't stop him from sneaking through the cave to observe you anyway. Years of training in the League keep his steps light and his presence undetectable, until he's standing just out of sight to the door to your cell and able to watch you at an angle.

Your eyes are closed, your body having finally succumbed to exhaustion, and your breathing is slightly wheezy from your injuries. The bits of your arms poking out of your shirt sleeves are mottled black and blue from hitting the floor so hard.

Damian creeps in a tad closer to get a better look at you. Even unconscious, your resting face is a small smile. No doubt a conditioned behavior from your time under the Joker, he thinks.

There's no tension in your body, which is the most interesting thing. Even the severity of the bruises should be enough to cause a twitch or two as you shift on the floor, much less the broken bones, but it's like —

Oh. He needs to make a note in your file and alert the others promptly. As he draws a pad and pen from his pocket, his eyes glance over the simple observations he's already made of you, and stalls.

You're so small. It doesn't hit him until now just how tiny you are, even for your age. You've got the stature of a five or six year old, and there's clear signs of malnourishment in your body. It's hard to look at you and not feel pity.

It's hard to look at you in general. The face paint is slowly wearing away, revealing your natural skin color underneath, but enough of it remains that you look absolutely haunting. Like something designed for a horror movie.

You've refused to clean your face or change into the clothes others have brought you, clinging to the garish getup he and Bruce found you in. The vivid green of your shirt screams of where you came from, an unavoidable beacon that refuses to allow anyone to forget your legacy.

Damian realizes belatedly that that's the point. You aren't looking to separate your identity from your father. You likely can't.

He clenches his hands into fists and takes his leave. He returns to your cell once more that night, dropping his gifts off with reluctance, and sees his effort pay off almost immediately. The next time he catches a glimpse of you, you've freshened up the face paint with a slightly altered design and are wearing a bright green dress, with your typical bowtie and black shoes.

You, awake this time, catch his gaze and beam knowingly.

Damian looks away. Your genuine happiness twists his chest something fierce.

--

You're out of your cell again when it's Jason's turn to monitor you.

"I don't have the patience to deal with your escape artist bullshit," he calls, twirling a baseball bat in his hand as he walks along the caves corridors. "You can either go back to your cage and behave, or get dragged back kicking and screaming."

You giggle. Jason clocks it coming from his right. The bat switches hands and he walks towards the noise.

"This ain't a goddamn game," he says, "so don't get cute with me, kid, or I'll put the Punch in Punchline."

"That's a good one!"

Jason whips around, finding you sitting on the floor with your legs crossed. Today you're wearing a bright green blouse with suspenders and black shorts, always with the bowtie around your neck. You're holding a batarang in your hands, tracing idly over the shape of it with your fingers.

"Wordplay is my favorite! I'll put the Punch in Punchline. Heheha, classic! Now I know why Popsy liked you so much!"

You tilt your head back and cackle. It comes out in sharp, short bursts. It's so bone-chillingly similar to your dad's that it affects him immediately.

Jason blinks. Suddenly he's fifteen and cuffed, cowering before the Joker as he winds his leg back to start kicking him.

Jason blinks again. His arms and legs ache so badly from the repeated bashing of the crowbar. He's been screaming for Bruce for ages and he hasn't come for him yet, why hasn't he come for him, he promised he would always come and get him —

Jason blinks again. He's clawing at the door handle and trying not to cry as the timer counts down behind him, ticking closer and closer and closer to his death, inescapable. He wishes he'd never adopted the mantle. He wants his mom. He wants his dad. He doesn't want to die. He's too young to die. He's so fucking tired.

Jason blinks again. The bat is missing from his hands and his throat feels like it's on fire. Tim is crouched next to you and assessing the new break in your arm courtesy of the Red Hood. The bat is lying broken in half on the floor.

"Go," Tim says, voice flat with barely suppressed rage. He won't turn his head away from you. "Go home, Hood."

"Bye-bye, Birdy," you mutter, smiling at the ceiling, and knock your feet together. Click. Click. Click.

Bye-bye, Birdy!

Jason feels like he can't breathe. The swelling in your skin is already so bad. What has he done? He wasn't actually gonna hurt you, he just wanted to get you back in your cell where you were supposed to be. He has a code against hurting children, he would never do that on purpose no matter whose kid it was. He didn't mean it.

Jesus, fuck, he didn't mean it.

"I-I'm —" he chokes, warped and crackly through the helmet's modulator.

"GO!" Tim shouts.

Jason turns and walks away. After a tense conversation with Bruce, it ends up being his last time monitoring you alone. He doesn't get the chance to do it again for a month, but your serene smile is never far from his mind.

--

Tim takes over Jason's observation duty immediately. He moves you into the med bay again to set and cast your broken arm. You're quiet the entire time, save the clicking of your feet, and refuse to look at him.

He works quickly and efficiently, wrapping you up without issue, and you don't fight him. He comes to the same conclusion Damian did, when he accidentally brushes against another bruise but you don't so much as flex a muscle.

How entertaining it must be for the Joker, to have a child with congenital insensitivity to pain. How simultaneously infuriating, that one of his favorite methods of submission is unavailable.

Tim wants to throw up.

"There," he says. "I'm sorry, Punchline. Hood shouldn't have been left alone to watch you. It won't happen again."

You don't respond. Click. Click. Click.

"Why don't we get you back to your room? I'll find something for you to do so you're not as bored in there. I'm sure Agent A can get you coloring books, or some crafts..."

Again, you're quiet. Tim breathes in slowly, deeply, then lets it back out. He gently takes your hands and coaxes you to stand up, and you go without complaint as he starts walking you back to the containment cells.

Two sets of footsteps fill the silence of the cave's passageways. One set of lungs struggles to match pace. Tim slows down for you, and the wheezing quiets immediately.

"Do you need or want anything?" He asks. The same, easy smile on your face doesn't change. You walk beside him like he isn't even there. He has to try exceptionally hard not to take it personally, even though it is and he knows it. He knows what you've endured. He knows what you've gone through. He can make a damn good guess as to what you're thinking right now.

And he doesn't have the faintest clue where to start fixing it.

Tim was only under the Joker's clutches for a couple days, at most, and the brainwashing he underwent to become Joker Junior still haunts his nightmares to this day. The conditioning, the bargaining, learning the boundaries, the underlying fear of having to say the right thing, do the right thing, the obsessive need to earn his favor, he remembers it all. Even years later, seeing the Joker makes that sickly itch start up under his skin.

Maybe he's wrong. Maybe he doesn't know how you feel, because he only got the tip of the iceberg. Maybe your experiences are better. Or worse. Most certainly different. He doesn't know, and he hates not knowing things.

When you make it back to the cell, you walk in without complaint. Tim closes the door and keys in a new code to lock it, though he suspects you'll be able to crack it again soon enough. You've got nothing but time on your hands to play with the access pad.

He drops his hand when he's done, staring at you. You're back to lying on the floor in your original position, arms splayed and feet clicking together as you admire the ceiling. He opens his mouth, then closes it. Hesitates. Does it again. You just click your feet.

"Punchline. I'm sorry."

You blink slowly, mouth twitching like you've heard something funny but don't quite wanna laugh.

"If I knew, back then," he says, words stilted and strained. Tim nearly stops there, but he feels compelled to let you know. "If I knew that leaving him would've ended in him doing this to another child...I wouldn't have gone anywhere."

You stop clicking your feet. Your mouth curls into a grin, then thins out, then gets stuck in this uncomfortable half-smirk.

"Popsy misses JJ," you mutter, so quiet Tim only catches it because he's right next to the cell door. There's something sharp in your tone. "He was almost perfect. His first favorite toy."

Tim feels like he's been dunked in a tub of ice. The tips of his fingers go numb and he has to press a hand to his mouth while suppressing a gag. His eyes are stinging behind the domino mask.

"JJ ran away. JJ is a traitor. Popsy has a new favorite, now," you whisper. Click. Click. Click. "Wonder how long that will last." Click. Click. Click. "Wonder how long I'll be his favorite Punchline." Click. Click. Click.

"I'm gonna go talk to A, now," Tim says, stumbling away from you. The both of you feel more relieved the farther away he gets.

Click. Click. Click.

--

Alfred takes shifts for you when no one else is available. He doesn't do it at the computer, though; the screens are too bright for his aging eyes, and the chair isn't ergonomic enough for him.

So he watches you from within the cell.

"Good afternoon, Lady Punchline, my name is Alfred Pennyworth," he greets politely, setting a tray of soup and saltines next to your head. He steps carefully over your body on the floor and perches on the edge of your unused bed, crossing one leg over the other. "The time is just after one o'clock. Today I've prepared a simple miso soup, something light for your decidedly neglected stomach, and brought with me several activities we could partake in, either together or separate. The choice is yours."

He eases the tote bag he brought in off his shoulder and pulls out a series of items: A stuffed bear, which he perches on top of the pillow. A coloring book and a pack of crayons. A jigsaw puzzle. And several books.

"Might any of these appeal to the lady?" He asks.

Click. Click. Click.

"That's alright," he says, as though you gave him any kind of acknowledgement. "I will leave them here for you to explore at your leisure, and come back with more options the next we meet."

He pulls a novel for himself out of the bottom of the bag, gently flipping its weathered pages open, and settles it in his lap.

"Would it bother you too terribly if I read this aloud? You may stop me anytime, of course." You make no expression and take no action against him, so he looks down at the book. "Very well. This story is one of my favorites, so I'm interested to see if you find any enjoyment in it, too.

"When Mary Lennox was sent to Misselthwaite Manor to live with her uncle everybody said she was the most disagreeable-looking child ever seen. It was true, too. She had a little thin face and a little thin body, thin light hair and a sour expression..."

Alfred keeps his voice calm, clear, and steady. There are mild changes in intonation when he speaks for the characters in the book, but other than that, he lets the words wash over the room peacefully. He stays with you and reads for several hours, until he reluctantly excuses himself to tend to his other duties for the manor.

"I shall mark our place in the book and bring it back if you'd like to hear more," he says, stepping past you again. "If you've any other requests, please let myself or the others know. We shall be happy to accommodate you, Lady Punchline."

When he closes and locks the cell door, he almost startles at your soft voice.

"Mistress Mary, quite contrary, how does your garden grow?" You mumble. The smile on your face seems a touch more genuine than before he entered.

Alfred dismisses himself with a final, quick bow, then walks down the halls as Bruce comes back to relieve him. Before the man even gets the chance to speak, Alfred holds a palm up to quiet him.

"I should like to have you place me in regular rotations with our guest," he says. "We have a lot of work to do if we're to rehabilitate the poor girl, and we'll get nowhere if everyone chooses to observe her like an animal in the zoo."

"That's fine, but —" Bruce says, watching almost helplessly as Alfred walks right past him. "Agent A —"

"I shall also request a home visit with Doctor Thompkins to sort out a proper treatment plan for her Analgesia, malnutrition, and very likely no vaccinations. Afterwards, we'll need to start considering educational deficits and behavioral therapy. There's much to do, master Bruce, so pick your jaw up off the floor and go spend time with your newest ward."

Bruce watches him disappear with fond irritation. He pulls the cowl off, understanding there's likely no need to maintain secrecy anyway, if you're going to be here for the long haul.

[yandereunsolved]

✐ᝰ Yandere Clark Kent 'Superman' ᝰ.ᐟ

Alien, farmer, reporter, superhero, and Justice League member are all titles Clark has collected over the years. They stretch from the most mundane to the ones that are given the highest respect. All of these titles pale in comparison to the one he yearns for the most: to be your husband. Every one of his positive traits seemed to disintegrate when it came to you, his accomplishments and status along with them. He was simply Clark to you, not Superman or Kal-El.

He was nothing but a love-sick maniac at your feet. His obsession threatens to break the moral code he is so devoted to. He understands that his attraction to you is something unhealthy and taboo. He is a beacon of light in the darkness of the world. Yet he'd be willing to blind the entire world with light just to be acknowledged by you. He'd cut out his own heart and present it in a gift box with a red bow if it'd please you.

You—just a human reporter who works at the Daily Planet. You who lives in a small studio apartment. You who has aspirations of doing something greater than just writing opinion pieces. You who has captured the noble hero's heart. 

You, you, you, you, you, you, you.

He can't get enough.

He doesn't get enough of you. You seem to actively avoid him. You interact with Lois so cordially; you two are close friends. He works with Lois. Why are you giving him the cold shoulder?

He knows everything about you. He knows your favorite restaurant, where you go to de-stress, your schedule, your hobbies, and your fantasies. He's spent so much time learning about you. You've learned nothing about him except for the fact that he's your dorky, sweet co-worker.

"Are you staring at them again? How long have you been staring at them? Why do you keep staring at them? Do you have a crush on them!?" Lois interrogates him with that same curiosity kindling in the back of her violet eyes.

He could demolish buildings in an instant, but he couldn't control his pale complexion from being invaded by a red hue. He had to think for a moment. His words had become lost in his mind, like they had been dispersed among the cosmos. He stuttered at first. It felt so out of character for him. He always, well, almost always, knew what to say. 

He had to be careful around her. He's lucky that he has been clever enough to keep his obsessive tendencies under wraps until Lois leaves his side.

"I just want to know why they refuse to talk to me." His words were laced with truth. Still, he was dodging her questions, as always.

Lois huffs in irritation, like he just said the most asinine thing one could ever utter.

"They obviously like you. They just think you're way out of their league."

"What?" He deadpans.

"I never give you the inside scoop about your darling little crush, but this one time I may." She teases him. "Clark, they like you. The googly eyes you two make at each other are such an obvious indication that you both are totally whipped for each other."

"You're serious?" His pupils dilate to such an extensive degree that you would have thought he was getting them checked by an optometrist. A lump forms in this throat, twice the size of his Adam's apple. "They like me?"

"They more than like you. They are interested in you, and you should totally ask them out on a date. I have to help a friend out, y'know? You two would make such a cute couple." Lois's pitch in her voice had become so much higher; even with her evident giddiness, there was an undertone of sulleness.

"Hey!" Lois calls you over. She waves her arm around and points towards Clark.

You scurry over in your flattering work outfit. It wouldn't be appropriate for him to eye you like a forbidden sweet. Still, he could feel his clothes grow tighter and his palms become sweaty. You couldn't even look him in the eyes. He wanted to gently tilt your chin up so your eyes would meet his. He'd eat a lump of kryptonite just for you to glance at him with that love-lorn expression. If only you knew, he could show; no, he has to show—

"You and him are going to go undercover in a local cafe a few blocks from here." He's snapped from his never-ending supply of thoughts about you. "It's supposedly a cover for a notorious drug cartel. Your cover story will be that you're a young couple going out on a date."  

You glance at Lois and eagerly nod. His words don't register your reply, but from Lois's grin, you obviously said something along the lines of yes. You walk off once again, your eyes sweeping across the aged carpet covering the office floor. Once out of hearing distance, Lois turns back to him.

"You're welcome. You owe me one." Lois nudges him in the side.

He could die a happy man now.

[corroded-hellfire]

I am humbly requesting Eddie wearing a shirt that says “nerds make the best lovers” and then proving it to bookworm!Reader.

Your request is my command. I hope I have done your idea justice!

Warnings: smut, p in v, unprotected (wrap it up), oral f!receiving, slight choking, soft dom!eddie, public sex (kinda?)

Words: 2.2k

Eddie struts into your first period English class with Ms. O’Donell, late as usual, and she doesn’t even glance away from the chalkboard she’s scribbling vocabulary words on to acknowledge his tardiness. On instinct, you smile at your boyfriend as he makes his way to his seat near you, but as your eyes scan over his shirt, heat blooms in your cheeks.

“Nerds Make the Best Lovers” his t-shirt claims in bold, gothic-style red lettering on the black tee. Eddie gives you a brazen wink and by the sound of all the snickering coming from students around you, you know other people have read the clothing’s pronouncement as well. Mortified, you bury your face in your hands, only peeking out to see if O’Donnell caught a glimpse of her least favorite student’s shirt. Luckily, O’Donnell gave up reading whatever shit his t-shirts said after her twentieth time or so sending Eddie to the front office for dress code violations. 

Eddie plops down in the seat next to yours and he shoots you another wink as if you hadn’t seen the first one he gave you when he walked in. Refusing to encourage any of this behavior, you don’t look your boyfriend’s way once the entirety of the class.

Once the period ends, however, Eddie won’t let you get away from him that easily. He jogs down the hallway to catch up with you and drapes a heavy arm over your shoulders.

“Where’s the fire, baby?” he asks. “Where ya headed in such a hurry?”

You shake your head in non-response and keep walking down the hallway, not sparing him a glance. Eventually, you come to a section of hallway that’s mostly emptied of people and you turn to face him, your shoes squeaking against the white linoleum floor beneath you at the tenacity of your spin.

“What is with that shirt, Eddie? Are you trying to embarrass me?”

“Embarrass you?” Eddie asks, raising his eyebrows. “Baby, I’m just stating a fact. Nerds do make the best lovers. And I’m more than happy to give you a reminder…”

He trails a finger up your arm, and it sends a thrilling shiver down your spine. Any irritation or annoyance instantly melts away at his touch. Your resistance was already futile but Eddie putting his hands on you always seems to shut off any coherent part of your brain.

“A reminder, huh?” you coo, ensnared by his flirtations. 

“That’s right. I’ll show just how good this nerd can make you feel.” 

You decide to hell with it; there’s nothing particularly important going on today. Nothing that you couldn’t afford to miss, anyway. And even if there was? Eddie’s body pressed up against yours is worth a detention or a missed test.

“Should we head out to your van for this demonstration?” you ask. The number of times his old, beat down van has been out in the school parking lot, rocking back and forth from the two of you, is too high to count. Most of the times being while school is still in session.

“No, I’ve got somewhere better in mind.” Eddie tugs you by the wrist, leading you down the hall in the opposite direction. He comes to a halt in front of a familiar door and pulls you into the drama room. It’s abandoned and quiet as Eddie locks the door behind you. There’s some D&D paraphernalia scattered around the room, a few D20s that were left out on the table.

“Hmm, so the ultimate symbolism of your nerdiness, huh?” You tease as you sit yourself down on his throne at the head of the table. The seat is cold beneath you, but you refuse to let it show. 

Eddie stalks over to stand before you and rests a hand on either arm rest of the throne. He lowers his head to meet your gaze with his own challenging one.

“I suppose you think I’m going to kick you out,” he says, referring to the seat. “Not today, my lady. Today…” he lowers himself down to his knees. “Today you just sit back and enjoy my throne while I make you feel good.”

He makes quick work of yanking your jeans and panties off and tosses them somewhere behind him. A strong hand grips each of your calves and spreads your legs wide open, Eddie wasting no time before he’s licking a stripe up your folds.

“Oh, fuck,” you whine, fingers digging into the sturdy arm rests at your sides. 

Eddie smirks against your pussy as he begins to flick his tongue against your clit. He knows every one of your little tells and knows just the right speeds and pressures to apply to your bundle of nerves to get you just where he wants you to go.

Your fingers scramble to find purchase on the chair as pleasure floods your body, so Eddie laces one of his hands with yours to ground you. His mouth keeps working against your pussy and you do your best not to grind your hips up to meet his tongue. It’s so tempting but you know it will only draw out Eddie’s teasing in the long run. 

With his free hand, Eddie delicately trails one ringed finger around your entrance, going round and round, never breaching it though. The delicious whines spilling from your lips only encourage him on.

“Shit, you taste so good, baby. God, I love your pussy,” he murmurs from between your legs.

“Eddie,” you whimper desperately, eager for him to use his fingers already. Being a nerd might not necessarily make him the best lover, but being a guitar player does make for a magical experience when he fingers you.

“Mm?” he hums against your core.

“N-Need your f-fing—holy shit, yes.”

Eddie knew what you needed before you even said it. The two of you work so well together, both mind and body, that you’re like separate pieces of the same machine, headed towards the same goal.

Two thick fingers stretch you out, at your request, as Eddie raises his head slightly to suck on your clit. He curls his fingers up and gently brushes over the spot that he knows makes you see stars. Your own fingers tighten on the arms of the throne and your legs tense around Eddie’s head.

“Shit! Fuck, fuck, I’m coming!”

Eddie smirks against your clit as he helps you ride it out, with both his fingers and mouth. He loves watching you as you come down from your high; all out of breath and dewy from a thin layer of sweat. 

The loss of his fingers as he slips them out of you is quickly made okay as you watch him pop them in his mouth as you try and catch your breath. His cocky facial expressions would annoy you if you weren’t feeling so amazing from his damn mouth.

Once he’s licked you from his fingers, he reaches down and fumbles with the handcuff buckle on his belt.

“Made you feel so good and didn’t even take my cock out yet.”

“Wipe that…smirk off your face.” You try to sound assertive, but it falls flat in your blissed out state.

Eddie chuckles and leans in, wrapping one hand around your throat; not tight enough to restrict air, just enough for you to feel the pressure.

“I don’t think you’re in a position to be making demands here, sweetheart,” he whispers in your ear. “Pretty sure you’d let me do whatever the hell I want to you right now, won’t you?” Both of you know the answer to that, but when you don’t give a verbal response, Eddie tightens his grip on your throat just slightly. “I said, won’t you?” he growls.

“Y-Yes,” you squeak out.

The sound pleases Eddie, and he smiles deviously as he releases your throat. He presses a sweet kiss to your cheek that’s a stark contrast to how he was just handling you.

“That’s what I thought,” he says, smugness clear in his tone.

He grabs your hands and yanks you up out of the throne. An involuntary yelp passes through your lips as he spins the two of you around and backs you up until your bare thighs bump into the table.

“Shirt off. Bra too,” Eddie orders.

You do as he says, Eddie’s eyes taking you in like the prey that you are to him with every move that you make.

Once you’re completely naked, Eddie presses his index finger right in the middle of your chest and gives just enough force for you to get the hint that he wants you to lie back.

The moment you get your ass on the table, large strong hands grab behind your knees and pull you towards the edge, so your back falls flat against the surface and your legs are able to wrap around your boyfriend’s lithe body. He pushes down his black jeans and boxers enough to line himself up with your entrance. But he doesn’t push in just yet.

“Say my fucking name, sweetheart,” he says as he leans over you.

“E-Eddie.”

“Louder. I want anyone walking by to know who’s in here making you feel so good.”

“Eddie!”

The man’s grip tightens on your legs and his cock just barely slips into you.

“I said louder. Are you going to be a good girl and listen to me or what?”

“Fuck, Eddie!”

He smirks in triumph at the way you scream his name.

“That’s my girl.”

He finally pushes inside of you, agonizingly slowly, his body towering over yours as he thrusts. Each time, he goes a little deeper, his eyes boring right into yours as he moves his hips. 

Your jaw drops open and small gasps escape your lips. You’re not sure what’s hotter: how Eddie’s pounding into you or how he’s staring into your eyes, not once breaking contact. 

Eddie groans as he finally bottoms out.

“Jesus Christ,” he swears. “Your pussy’s so fucking tight.”

No words whatsoever fill your mind as you lose yourself in the feeling of Eddie inside your walls. Your boyfriend notices this as well and another arrogant smirk grows on his lips while he stares down at you.

“Aw, already cock drunk, princess? Not a thought in that pretty little head of yours?”

You want so badly to refute it, but you don’t have the words to do so–only further proving his point.

The cool table feels nice against your back as your skin becomes sticky with sweat. Your hands slide from Eddie’s arms and your fingers grip the edge of the table.

Eddie notices the movement and doesn’t want you holding on to anything that isn’t him, though. His hands slide up your body and he grabs your wrists, pinning them above your head.

“Eddie,” you whine.

“Oh, she can speak,” Eddie coos.

“Eddie.”

“What is it, my love?”

“C-Close.”

Eddie holds both of your wrists in one hand while the other one snakes down and presses his thumb against your clit.

“Come on, baby,” Eddie goads. “Be my good girl and cum for me.”

“W-Want you to…with me,” you pant out between labored breaths. 

“Don’t worry,” Eddie says with a wry chuckle. “I’m right there with you.”

Eddie might be a complete menace sometimes, knowing exactly how to drive you crazy, but you know him just as well and know how to bring him to the brink. 

“I-Inside,” you pant. “Need you to cum inside me.”

“Jesus,” Eddie groans, squeezing his eyes closed and clenching his teeth as he tries to hold back.

“Please,” you beg.

“Well,” Eddie huffs with a laugh, “since you asked so nicely. Come on, princess. Let go.”

The twitch of Eddie inside of you and the feeling of him filling you up has you arching your back as sparks fly behind your eyelids and ecstasy radiates up your body.

“Eddie, yes.”

“Louder,” Eddie manages as he fucks his load into you.

“Eddie!”

The blissed out feeling from his orgasm and your shouting of his name puts a big, dopey grin on Eddie’s face.

“Shit, princess,” he says with a chuckle as he buries his head in your neck. You giggle as he presses kisses and nips at the skin there.

Eddie doesn’t make a move to get off of you, which you don’t mind one bit. You tangle your fingers in his frizzy locks and press kisses to the side of his head.

“So?” he eventually mumbles against your skin.

“So what?”

Eddie picks his head up and looks at you.

“Do nerds make the best lovers or what?” he asks, eyebrows waggling.

You can’t help but laugh as you nod your head in affirmation.

“Yes, Eddie. You have proven it to me.”

“Mmm, good,” he hums before he goes back to kissing your neck.

“What’re you doing?” you ask as the kisses become more and more intense.

He pulls back to look at you again.

“You really think the best lover is only going for one round?” He scoffs and goes back to kissing your neck.

“Thank God for nerds,” you mumble as your eyes slip closed.

[miumiaoomyzi]

GETTING SICK EQUALS no practice. and also equals to 13 of your members treating you like a total baby.

you had already told them 'oh its fine.' 'i'll get well in a flash.' but they refused to acknowledge your words. and here you are now, in your room with a bowl of soup in your hands as 13 men pamper you.

"do you want me to feed you? here comes the choo choo train!"

"are you feeling well? do you want me to turn down the ac?"

"nooo! my y/n! you've turned into a sneezing monster!"

"awh look at you! so red and puffy and cute.." seungkwan cooed, pinching your cheeks and pulling on them, earning a growl of protest from you.

and whenever you wanted to get out of your blankets and drink some water, the members insisted. especially mingyu.

he'd make a code for you whenever you were thirsty.

"mingyu.. code blue.." you looked to the side to see him already there with a bottle of water.

oh and he'd shove it down your throat alright. sometimes he even squeezes the bottle unconciously while you're drinking. you ended up choking for a straight minute.

and there was hoshi, who after every 10 minutes he goes into your room to check on you.

one time, he cheerily opened the door to your room, holding another bowl of soup. only to see you missing from your bed.

"y/n..? where is she?" hoshi looked around, panic rising in at the thoughts of you escaping the room and potentially harming yourself or worsening your fever.

"y/n! y/n!!" he called out your name only to receive no response.

he ended up gathering all the members to look for you.

"where is she? noooo she must've succumbed to the evil aura her fever is emitting!"

"now look at her.. she melted into a water puddle." dino pointed at a water spill, evidently caused by mingyu when he accidentally squeezed a water bottle while you were drinking from it.

dk let out a hearty laugh, "but seriously. we have to find her."

the members searched everywhere and couldn't find you. they even called your parents to see if you were there, but you weren't.

entering your room after a prolonged search for you, jeonghan plopped onto your bed, a relieved sigh escaping his lips. "finally.. i'm tired of running everywhere."

the members were clearly stressed out, they kept discussing where you could've been, an argument between seungkwan and hoshi almost became another incident.

until the bathroom door opened, revealing you with headphones draped over your neck and a toothbrush on your right hand.

there was a silence. "uhm. what's going on?—"

"y/n!!"

until you were tackled into the floor.

"where were you?? you idiot! i told you to stay in bed and sleep! we need you at 100% when you recover!" seungkwan scolded.

"..what?? i just brushed my teeth!!"

"who brushes their teeth for a total hour huh?!"

"me..?"

"get back in bed!" they all shouted in unison.

mingyu picked you up, earning a fist of protest from you. you lifted the hand holding your toothbrush up, "nooo.. i still have another episode to watch.."

"and you've been using your phone? tch. save it." mingyu threw you into your bed and rolled you into your blanket.

"awh look! y/n burrito!" dino took out his phone and immediately took pictures.

3 days passed and you were finally well. pretty much nothing changed. except the members were now overly guarding around you and always kept you away from things that could potentially cause sickness. including cats.

go stream beam rn its so good

[nessheartnat]

Lay me in the palm of your hand (2)

Natasha Romanoff x fem!reader, dom!natasha x sub!reader

words: 2.4K

warnings: mommy kink, possessive nat, legal age gap (reader is 22 and nat is 38), degrading, fingering (r receiving), dom/sub dynamics, violation of traffic codes but we’re gonna ignore that, panties as a gag

notes: this isn’t properly proofread yet and I wrote this instead of sleeping so yeah I am sorry… also please inform me if I missed any important warnings!

men & minors DNI

___

As soon as you both got into the car, Natasha put her hand behind your neck and pulled you in a rough kiss. Her right hand found its way to your thigh, squeezing the soft flesh. You let out a little hum into the kiss, leaning closer to the older woman, as you tried to deepen the kiss. You were almost getting a little desperate, despite the tough act you had put on before. Natasha’s lips curled into a small smirk against yours, as she became aware of your desperation.

She pulled away, leaving you slightly breathless. Her hand stroked your thigh in a possessive manner through the fabric of your jeans. “You’re just as good as I thought you’d be… We better get to my apartment then, unless you want to have a little fun in the car now,” she said with the same small smirk that was apparently permanent on her lips. You raised your eyebrow curiously.

“What do you have in mind then?” you questioned. In that moment you couldn’t possibly have had an idea what was about to come. 

“I think I might have the perfect little idea to keep us both occupied on the way to my apartment,” Natasha teased. You couldn’t help but roll your eyes a little. Of course she wasn’t going to tell you what she was planning…

“And you said I was the naughty one,” you pointed out, earning a small smack on your thigh.

“Hey, you’re the one who got me wet in the middle of a bar, teasing me with your dirty little words,” she remarked and squeezed your thigh again. Your lips quirked into a small smirk.

“You can’t blame me though, it was way too fun,” you answered boldly. From the look on her face, you could see that you were in trouble now.

“I’m aware of that honey, and you definitely had your fun… But I think I’m gonna have to punish you for that, don’t you think?” she said, still stroking your thigh. Her hand moved further up and slid right on your inner thigh, really close to your crotch but not quite close enough.

“Yeah I.. I think I knew that the moment I said all those words,” you admitted. Your gaze shifted down to her hand, and you finally started to acknowledge just how much your pussy was throbbing already.

“That’s what I thought too, you just had to be a brat, didn’t you?” she smirked. “Now, be a good girl and let me start using you.”

Hearing those words, you felt heat pooling in your lower stomach, and you just knew that your cunt was leaking into your panties. The thought of her using you was just what you wanted - no, what you needed - and you couldn’t prevent yourself from letting out a shuddering breath.

Natasha clearly noticed the way you reacted to her words. She could see how much you enjoyed her slightly degrading words, and she enjoyed having that power over you. “You really just want to be used like a filthy little toy, don’t you? You crave it, you need to be used by someone,” she spoke and slid her hand closer to your aching cunt. 

You let out a small ‘fuck’, and closed your eyes for a moment, trying to gather yourself. However, she didn’t give you a chance for that, as she continued. “You’d let me do anything to you… Anything I wanted, as long as you could feel used… I bet you’d even thank me for that.”

You bit your lip, refusing to let out a pathetic whimper. Natasha could see how you just melted with a few right words, the bold and bratty attitude replaced by sweet submission.

Natasha gripped your jaw gently, and turned your head to face her properly, demanding your attention. “Now honey, if you need a break, if you need to stop, at any moment, your safeword is red. If I hear you saying that word, I’ll stop immediately, no questions asked, am I understood?” she asked, looking at you with a serious expression.

You gave her a little nod, but her hand didn’t move from under your chin. Her eyebrow rose up a little. “Words baby, I need to hear you say it,” she demanded.

“Yes,” you quickly corrected yourself, but it wasn’t enough for her.

“Not quite right yet baby. Yes what?” she tapped your chin lightly, waiting for the correct answer.

“Yes mommy,” you said with a small blush. She really wasn’t going to let anything slide, but you could only blame yourself for that. After all, you had called her mommy before she even had the chance to demand that title.

“Good girl,” Natasha praised, stroking your cheek with her thumb. “Now, are you gonna listen to my instructions and do as I say?” she asked, her lips curling into a smug smile as you responded with a small ‘yes mommy’.

“Come on then, lift your pretty ass up from the seat and take off your jeans,” she instructed, making you look at her questioningly. 

“Wait what?” you asked, not having any idea of what she was thinking about. Natasha let out a small chuckle.

“You heard me, take them off,” she demanded. You didn’t dare to question her authority, so you got to work. Soon your shoes and jeans were on the car floor, and you looked at her, waiting for more instructions. 

“Panties too, love. I want your pretty ass bare,” she ordered with a smirk. Your cheeks turned crimson, but you obeyed her once again. As soon as your soaked panties were off, Natasha extended her hand out to you. “Give them to me,” she said with a smug smirk. Your needy cunt throbbed at that request, and you bit back a small whine as you handed the panties over to her. Natasha stuffed your underwear into her pocket, not commenting on how wet they were.

“Now, crawl over to my lap and sit down like a good girl,” she ordered, the smirk never leaving her face. Your face turned deep red, and your eyes widened slightly. 

“Wha- Right here, right now?” you questioned, trying to figure out if she was really serious. 

“You heard me, get your pretty ass over here before I get impatient,” she demanded. You turned to look around the parking lot, to see if there were any people. Natasha gripped your chin again, and turned your face towards her. “Oh so now you care about someone seeing? Didn’t seem to care that much when you said those filthy things to me in the bar…”

“That’s… You know that if anyone walks by they’ll get a great view of my bare ass when I crawl over to your lap..,” you whined quietly.

“None of that now. You caused this yourself baby, so get that ass here on my lap now. Unless you want me to spank you right here in the parking lot?” she said and patted her lap again. You knew better than to disobey now, so with a last glance around, you got up from your seat and crawled to her side awkwardly, seating yourself down on her lap and straddling her thighs. You lifted your hands up and placed them on her shoulders. Natasha placed both of her hands on your waist, holding you in place. “That’s a good girl. Now, are you ready to hear what I want you to do?” she questioned. You were about to answer with a nod, but then remembered that she wouldn’t accept that, so you once again muttered out a small ‘yes mommy’.

Natasha’s left hand shifted lower, and her thumb started to draw slow circles around your hip bone. “You’re gonna sit still right there and ride my fingers while I drive us to my place. And you better keep quiet, or I’m gonna find a way to silence that pretty mouth of yours,” she instructed. Your eyes grew even wider than they were before. 

“But what if someone sees, and- How can you even drive like that??” you questioned, even though the thought of that scenario was already making your pussy leak even more, forming a small wet spot on Natasha’s thigh.

Natasha let out a small, low chuckle. “Don’t you worry about that love… Tuck your head down on my shoulder and I’ll see the road just perfectly. Besides, luckily my car isn’t a manual, so I can easily drive and keep your needy cunt occupied.” 

You bit back a pathetic whimper and decided to accept your fate. “Fine..,” you answered, even though she wasn’t really asking. 

“Good girl… Now, keep that pretty mouth quiet,” she said and gave your cheek a quick kiss, and moved to start the engine. Then, she moved her attention back to you. “Head down, pretty girl.”

You obeyed, and rested your head against her shoulder. You could feel her left hand sliding to your inner thigh, making you jolt a little. Your pussy ached, needing her attention, and you had to bite your lip in order to keep quiet. 

Natasha slid her fingers over your needy cunt, slipping them between your folds and gathering up your slick. “Oh my, baby, you’re so wet already… God, you’re making a mess all over my thigh. Needy little slut,” she degraded, and you couldn’t hold back a small moan. Her right hand gave a sharp smack on your ass, making you whimper. 

“What did I say about being quiet, huh? Do I need to silence you now or will you shut your mouth yourself?” she asked, inching her fingers closer to your entrance. 

“No I’ll.. I’ll be quiet, I promise mommy,” you stuttered quickly, even though you knew it was going to be an impossible task. 

“You better keep that promise. But I know it’s hard for needy little things like you to keep quiet..,” she purred right into your ear, and with that, she slipped one slender finger inside your aching pussy, making you let out a shaky breath. You clenched your thighs, but they only quivered weakly, as your legs were being forced apart by her thighs. Natasha smirked, planting a few light kisses on your neck, as she moved her finger a bit. “Fuck baby, you’re soaking wet… Are you really this desperate for mommy?”

Before you could figure out a response, a second finger found its way inside you, making your thighs quiver more. You were struggling to keep quiet, but you wanted to be good for her, or more like didn’t want her to punish you more. Judging from this, you didn’t want to know what would be the worst thing she could do to you.

“You’re such a little slut for my fingers… Your pretty cunt is leaking all over my lap,” she degraded, shifting the gear to drive and placing her right hand on the steering wheel. She curled her fingers inside you, making you jolt and let out a shuddering breath. 

“You’re gonna have to keep yourself still, baby. Can’t have you disturbing mommy while she drives, right?” she said, while brushing your clenching walls with her fingers. You forced yourself to keep quiet, only nodding against her shoulder. Natasha let out a satisfied hum, and finally started driving. 

-

She had barely driven two miles, when you couldn’t take it anymore. She kept moving her fingers at a really slow pace, but pumping them deep with each thrust. Natasha kept curling her fingers occasionally, and by the fourth time she did that, you couldn’t help but let out a shameless moan. At first, she didn’t say anything, and you already thought that she’d let it slide. However, that wasn’t the case. 

Natasha pulled to the side of the road, stopping the car, and yanking your head up by your hair. You winced at the tug, knowing that you were in trouble now. 

“You really can’t listen to simple instructions, can you? Didn’t I tell you to keep that mouth shut?” she questioned. You opened your mouth to speak, but were interrupted by a harsh smack to your backside. You jolted, making her fingers go in deeper, and once again you failed to prevent a moan from slipping past your lips.

“I know you’re too desperate to obey, so mommy will have to keep you quiet,” she said, and slid her right hand to her pocket, pulling out your panties that she had stuffed there earlier. “Maybe these will do the trick.”

You opened your mouth to protest, but couldn’t let out a sound as she rolled up the damp panties and stuffed them inside your mouth. “Look at you now… Such a filthy whore,” she said with a mocking smile, and tapped your cheek. 

Without a warning, she thrusted her fingers deeper, making you moan around the makeshift gag. The panties in fact did their trick, reducing the sounds of your moans to small, muffled groans. 

“That’s better, isn’t it? You look so fucking pretty with those panties in your mouth..,” she said with a mocking smirk. Your pussy was clenching desperately around her fingers, her degrading words feeding your arousal more than you wanted to admit.

Without another word, she placed her hand back on the steering wheel and started driving. She kept pumping her fingers lazily, but due to your desperate state, you were close so soon that it was almost pathetic. Natasha could feel the trembling of your thighs, how your walls clenched around her fingers. She let out a small chuckle.

“Are you close already baby? Such a desperate little slut… Go on, I know you can’t hold it. You can cum for mommy,” she purred against your ear. You whimpered behind the panties in your mouth, and when she curled her fingers again, your orgasm washed over you. Your cunt throbbed and clenched around her fingers, pathetic little sounds leaving your mouth. Your thighs trembled, making you sink deeper down on her fingers. 

“Mhm, that’s it… I know you were too desperate, baby,” she said with a smug smirk. “But mommy is not gonna stop though.”

Her fingers continued pumping into your soaking pussy, but this time she only picked up the pace. You let out muffled whines, as you could already feel too sensitive. Your hands gripped her shoulders for support, and you pressed your face against her neck. Natasha let out a chuckle and curled her fingers, before she talked again. “Mommy’s not gonna stop, no matter how many times you cum… So you’re just gonna have to be a good little slut and take it.”

[polysucks]

Arya "I'm not a boy!!!!" Stark vs Brienne "doesn't correct a stranger who misgenders her" of Tarth. One of these characters is trans and gee whizz I wonder which it could be.

(Additionally jaime is a gay bottom who just wants to be tenderly pegged by Brienne)

Cw for a cis-woman talking about gender lol

I want to touch on the idea that Brienne might be an egg, but I have to disagree. I want to preface by saying don’t inherently oppose anyone who thinks otherwise. Art can be interpreted subjectively, especially in ASOIAF. Everyone can have their views, and I love that.

That being said, I'm approaching this discussion about Brienne and Arya and their gender identities from the perspective of a cis-woman, so trans and gender non-conforming people, feel free to weigh in! I just have one perspective, and how else do we learn about others' experiences if we don't make time and space for others to share theirs?

Also, this might sound a bit TERF-y on a surface level, so let me say upfront: TERFs, get lost. We can discuss femininity and gender without TERF opinions, because TERF opinions don’t matter. Trans women are real women. Trans men are real men.

It’s easy to understand why some might believe that their struggles are rooted in gender identity—but that doesn’t necessarily mean the argument holds water.

I personally feel like it's dismissive of exploring gender identity as a deeply personal experience and reductive to assume that anyone who doesn’t fit neatly into gender norms must actually be trans. gender-non-comforming cis people exist because gender is a social construct.

It makes total and complete sense why someone might perceive Brienne and Arya as struggling with their gender identity, and I am not here to deny that! They do not fit into traditional femininity, they are often mistaken for boys, and they are both deeply frustrated by the roles imposed on them.

But assigning transness or gender dysphoria to them without deeper critical thinking feels like a reach that flattens their very real struggles as cis-women in such a strict society. Their battle is not one of personal identity—it’s one of a rigid community refusing to acknowledge them as women on their own terms.

That being said, there is beauty in seeing oneself in them. If a trans or gender-nonconforming person finds kinship in their struggles, that is valid and meaningful. The power of storytelling is that we see ourselves in narratives, even when the struggles and experiences depicted do not perfectly align with our own.

I feel the same way about the Northmen and the Starks being NDN/Indigenous-coded—it is not explicit canon, but the cultural parallels are undeniable. Westerosi gender roles are stricter in the South, while Northern culture—like many Indigenous cultures—allows for a broader understanding of strength, womanhood, and survival.

Brienne and Arya’s journeys are universal in that way. They do not have to be trans or gender-nonconforming to be relatable to those who are. But at their core, their stories are about expanding the definition of womanhood, not escaping it.

That being said, let's fuckin YAP!!

Brienne and Arya: Women on Their Own Terms

They Are Women Rejected by Society—Not by Themselves

Brienne and Arya defy Westerosi femininity, but their conflict is not with their own gender—it’s with a world that refuses to accept women who do not conform.

They do not reject being women. They reject the restrictions placed on them as women.

Their struggles are external, not internal—it is society that refuses to acknowledge their strength, not themselves.

Brienne's silence on misgendering is not gender dysphoria—it is indifference to the opinions of those who diminish her. She does not waste energy correcting people who already dismiss her. As for Podrick, he is not questioning her gender, only how to respectfully refer to her.

Arya, similarly, never expresses a desire to be a boy—only frustration that being a girl limits her. She says it herself in ACOK

“I don’t want to be a lady,” Arya flared. “I want to learn to fight.”

Wanting to fight does not mean she is not a girl—it means she resents that Westeros restricts girls. When she disguises herself as “Arry,” it is not because she feels like a boy but because it keeps her alive.

Being Mistaken for a Man Does Not Mean They Identify as One

Neither Brienne nor Arya (i mean, she does generally, but not whole-heartedly) corrects misgendering because it serves a purpose in their survival—but it does not define them.

Brienne is called "Ser" because she is a knight. She does not correct it because she knows Westeros will never see her as a proper lady anyway. But she never expresses a desire to be a man—only to be respected.

Arya disguises herself as a boy out of necessity. The moment she no longer needs the disguise, she drops it. She never claims she feels like a boy—only that Westeros treats girls as weak.

At no point do either of them wish to stop being women. Their struggle is not about escaping womanhood—it’s about expanding what womanhood can be.

Brienne, in particular, wants to be both a knight and a woman. Her inner conflict is not about identity, but about a world that refuses to allow her to be both.

They Do Not Seek to Escape Womanhood—They Seek to Redefine It

Brienne and Arya challenge Westerosi femininity without discarding it. They prove that womanhood is not fragile—it can be strong, honorable, and defiant.

Brienne does not wish to be a man—she wishes knighthood wasn’t exclusive to them. She embodies the ideals of knighthood more than most men, proving that a woman can live by the same code.

Arya does not wish to be a boy—she wishes being a girl didn’t mean powerlessness. She does not reject her gender; she rejects society’s expectations of it.

Their fight is not against being women—it is against a world that refuses to acknowledge that women can be more than one thing.

The Stark and Northern Perspective: Strength and Womanhood Can Coexist

Westerosi gender roles are stricter in the South, where women like Sansa are expected to conform to delicate, ornamental femininity. The North, however, values survival, strength, and practicality—traits Arya naturally embodies.

Among Indigenous-coded Northern families like House Mormont, warrior women are not questioned:

Maege Mormont and her daughters fight without forfeiting their womanhood. They are warriors, leaders, and mothers, all at once.

Arya fits into this tradition. She does not need to abandon her gender to be a warrior—she simply needs a culture that recognizes warrior women exist.

In many Indigenous cultures, gender roles exist but are flexible—some women are suited for battle, others for domestic life, and both are necessary. This aligns with Arya's arc: she does not need to be a boy to fight. She only needs a world where warrior women are possible.

Survival Shapes How They Are Perceived—Not How They See Themselves

Both Arya and Brienne are mistaken for boys, but their responses are pragmatic, not existential.

Brienne does not correct people who call her “Ser” because she knows it won’t change how they see her. She is resigned to being seen as "unnatural," so she leans into her strength rather than fighting a losing battle over perception. She wants respect, not pity.

Arya actively disguises herself as a boy because it keeps her alive. She knows that if people recognize her as a highborn girl, she will be kidnapped, sold, or killed. The disguise is a survival tactic, not a reflection of her identity.

Neither of them struggles with who they are—they struggle with how the world treats them.

They Are Women Who Break Barriers, Not Women Who Break Away from Womanhood

Brienne and Arya are not trans, nor are they struggling with gender identity. They are women who refuse to conform to narrow standards.

Brienne does not wish to be a man—she wishes men would accept that women are more than single-minded expectations

Arya does not wish to be a boy—she wishes Westeros would stop treating girls as helpless and with only one lot in life

Their battle is not with their own gender but with a world that refuses to see them as full people based on their identified gender. That is what makes them powerful.

And if trans or GNC individuals see themselves in them? That is a testament to their strength and their pride in their existence as it is.

Representation in fiction can be deeply personal, even when it isn’t literal.

That is the beauty of storytelling—there is room for all of us in it.

[boxofbadaddiction]

Something from Nothing

George Weasley x She/Her!Reader

Summary: George and Y/n are complete opposites. After striking up an unlikely friendship they refuse to admit their true feelings for one another... until tonight.

Warnings: Kissing. Don't go rolling around on cliff edges. That's it.

Prompts: 1 & 22

How you doin' // Why don’t you stop worrying about trying to sound smart all the time and just be yourself?

A/N: This is my first fic back from a 4 year-long hiatus, so please be kind.

Due to extremely stressful personal issues these past years, I haven't had the urge or passion to write like I did. I'm still not doing well but I'm hoping fanfic could be an escape again like it used to be. I'm going to start small, with some prompts from when I had only just started writing. See if we can't work our way up 🤞

Also, don't ask me how they got there idk I just wanted a different location.

This is a request from my F.R.I.E.N.D.S Prompt-list circa 2020-ish

George had a talent for trouble. Not the serious kind but just enough to make the teachers sigh and his classmates laugh. He was the guy who could talk his way out of detention and into the good books, who could turn a pop quiz into a game show. If there was a shortcut, he’d find it. If there was a risk, he’d take it. And if there was Y/n in the room, he’d make sure he was there to torment her.

Y/n was his opposite in just about every way. The girl had a planner for her planner. She colour-coded her notes. She studied for tests that weren’t even announced yet. She expected nothing less than perfection from herself — because anything less, to her, was failure.

And yet, somehow, George was her favorite person. And Y/n? She was his.

They’d been best friends since fifth year, when he’d “accidentally” tripped over her meticulously stacked pile of books and sent them flying down the hallway.

She, in return, sent George soaring to fetch them by use of a silent and precise casting of ‘Stupify’.

She’d marched up to his spread-out body on the hard stone floor. Shouting at him as he attempted to peel himself into an upright position. She called him a “walking disaster with a god complex,” and he’d responded with a sore but ever cocky smile, “You look good from this angle.”

Now, years later, they were still at it.

“George, have you ever actually tried at anything?” Y/n asked, flipping through her perfectly highlighted notes while he balanced his wand on his upper lip and rocked on the back legs of his library chair.

“Sure I have", he grinned, dropping himself heavily back on all four chair legs and scooting impossibly close to her side. “I try very hard to annoy you.”

“And yet, it seems to come so naturally,” she deadpanned.

He clutched his chest dramatically. “You wound me, Y/n.”

“If only.” Y/n rolled her eyes.

It was always like that. The teasing, the insults wrapped in laughter. But underneath it, something unspoken wove itself delicately between them. Something soft… something real. Like a sweet perfume that lingers in the air from a passerby.

Neither acknowledged it.

George, for all his recklessness, never let Y/n push herself too far. When she stayed up studying until her eyes burned red, he’d show up with comfort foods from the kitchen elves and force her to take a break. When she got so caught up in her own expectations that she forgot how to breathe, he’d drag her outside and remind her that life wasn’t all a test.

Y/n, too, for all her self-doubt, never let George believe he was just the class clown. She saw through his jokes, past the playful smirks, into the boy who wanted to be enough but never felt like he was. When he got quiet, when he doubted himself, she was the one who reminded him, commonly with a sarcastic quip, but sometimes just by showing up. Reassuring he was worth more than just a cheap laugh.

They never talked about it. The pull between them. The way his hand would linger a second too long when he passed her an inkwell. The way she’d say his name like it meant something more to her than anyone else. The way their eyes would meet across a crowded room, and it felt like a secret only they understood.

And then, one night, nothing became something.

It was late. Too late. She was exhausted, her brain fried from studying, her nerves frayed from trying so hard. George had dragged her out to clear her head, "a public service,” he called it, “for the sake of your rapidly declining sanity.”

They ended up on the cliffside of the Castle, above the First Year entrance. Legs dangling over the edge, the Lake stretched out below them. Alive in the breeze, a mirror for the stars.

Y/n let out a breath, hands fiddling with the delicate vines of ivy beneath them. “Sometimes I wish I could be like you,” she confessed to the comfortable silence between them.

George looked at her, into her. “And sometimes I wish I could be like you.”

She scoffed. “Yeah, right. You’d die if you had to study as much as I do.”

“And you’d die if you had to wing it like I do!” He nudged her shoulder, eliciting the sweet melody of her subtle laughter. “Maybe that’s why we work.” He contemplated.

She smiled, but it didn’t reach her eyes. “Do we?”

George’s usual smirk softened into something else. Something serious. An unfamiliar expression to the girl. “Y/n/n... why don’t you stop worrying about trying to sound smart all the time and just be yourself?” He’d meant it genuinely, though it came across as taunting.

She turned to him, her brows furrowing. “Wow, thanks! That’s a really poetic way of calling me stupid.”

He grinned. “No, I mean it. You’re good enough as you are, you know that, right?”

Y/n opened her mouth then closed it. ‘He always does this’ she thought. Always followed up something genuine within a joke, so it didn’t feel quite as heavy. Only this time she didn't fancy hearing whatever joke he had lined up next.

So she did what she always did. She deflected.

“Well, if you like me so much, why don’t you just date me?” She threw herself back to lay amongst the thick carpet of ivy. She phrased it like it was a joke, but the way her voice wavered gave her away.

George didn’t miss it. His grin turned softer, eyes warm in her glow.

“Maybe I would,” he murmured, resting his weight on his palm by her shoulder and tilting his head over her. “If you asked me properly” he crooned.

Y/n swallowed. Her heart thundering in her chest. He was too close. Or maybe not close enough.

“George…”

His grin was back, wickedly so, but there was something softer beneath his stare. A temptation he'd toyed with submitting to.

She inclined her chin, a quiet request he hadn't dare let himself dream of, laid and waiting before him. He gave in.

Their lips met in a tentative embrace. Both nervous, not knowing where this road may lead. The feeling of her so intimately against him made George melt, desperate for more he pressed down into her further. His wanting for her clear. With each pass of their lips across the others the kiss deepened, each taste more ravenous and wanton than the last. Soon they were pulled tight to each other, chest to chest, encased in one another's arms as tight as possible though somehow still not close enough.

George, reluctantly, broke the kiss. Forehead pressed to hers as they gasped for breath. Y/n whined at the loss, and he crashed into her again, not strong enough to resist her. This was years of hopeless pining in the making and it was worth it.

Minutes passed and the heat between them calmed. Gentile touches and sweet broken kisses remained. Smiles seemingly permanently etched to their faces. George pushed back from her, only slightly. Enough to see her face.

“Hey” he spoke softly. And she echoed, "Hey."

“How you doin’?” he teased, wiggling his eyebrows.

She groaned, shoving his shoulder and sitting up. “Unbelievable.”

“Youuu love it!”

And she did. She really, really did.

They sat there for a moment, both of them hovering on the edge of something more.

Y/n sighed. “You’re not going to let this go, are you?”

“Not a chance.”

She bit her lip. “Fine. George… will you go out with me?”

George grinned, leaning back on his hands. “Oh, I dunno, I’m a very busy guy. Gotta schedule to keep you know. School, Quidditch, my daily attempts to ruin your life... and it's just so sudden! We barely know each other...”

She smacked his arm. He caught her hand before she could pull it away, holding it to his chest.

“Yeah,” he said finally, quieter this time. His free hand sweeping a stray hair from her face. “Yeah, I will.”

Y/n rolled her eyes, but she was smiling.

For once, perfection wasn’t something she had to chase. With George, it had already found her.

[songmingisthighs]

Pitiful, You're Pitiful

<< prev | fic m.list | next >>

ch. vi

group : ateez

pairing : aged up!wooyoung × aged up!reader

genre : angst, mature

word count : 2.8 k

warning : argument, mentions of cheating, negative depiction of wooyoung, mentions of loss, calling an adulteress an assortment of names, idk what else tbh lmk if there is anything else I should add

a/n : I FINALLY UPDATED !!!!! this chapter might be slightly shorter compared to the others but trust me when I say it's very much intentional because I just want to focus this chapter on this one specific interaction. some sort of catalyst or like break from the obliteration of pyp!woo's image ig lmaooooo BUT YAY I DIDN'T FORGET TO POST PYP THIS MONTH !!!!

buy me coffee ?

After the fiasco that was your unveiling of a VERY important information about a staff of the academy, Wooyoung was immediately pulled in to get his side of the story. And of course, unfortunately, you. Luckily, you didn't get chastised by anyone because you were CLEARLY the victim in this situation. Heck, the HR team even reached out to apologize to you for the inconvenience you experienced due to their staff's "misconduct" because you're one of the founders's wives. It was an interesting way of saying that their staff is a cheating whore without any redeeming value but you'll take what you can get out of them and the situation. Which also includes his own friend group contacting you every now and then to make sure that you are okay and some (Yunho, Mingi, and Jongho) even going as far as swearing to denounce their familial relations with Wooyoung which was sweet.

Speaking of Wooyoung, he had been shoved into the heap of horseshit that he had piled on himself. You honestly have never seen him so down because he was "suggested" to take an extra two weeks of break to "settle down from the issue" which was really code for HR still having to clean up his mess because Harin decided to not go quietly. From what you heard from a reliable source (Jongho over pastry and coffee after he ditched his vocal classes to gossip), Harin came back the day after she officially got fired and made a ruckus. Literally, she went crazy and made a mess of the lobby; throwing chairs and tables around, scattering pamphlets, breaking vases, and screaming random weird things like how the company is a misogynist for firing a woman for something that was beyond her control. Safe to say, because Harin refused to move to a quieter spot, Hongjoong had to step in and reiterate all the mistakes she had made including but not limited to her having an affair with a married man who was her boss. Hongjoong had even told her that while there was another party involved, another party that acknowledged the mistakes that he had made and agreed to accept whatever disciplinary actions were required, it was also her choice to partake in such behavior. Long story short, a student uploaded the whole thing on YouTube and as of today, there were 15 different TikTok remixes ranging from EDM, screamo, and even a Donald Trump edit. Without Jongho pointing it out, you could imagine that Harin's career in South Korea was over, not because of the cheating, but because of her disorderly conduct.

You found yourself spending time rather peacefully in recent times which was surprising since your house seems to always be in a state of chaos. For once, Wooyoung didn't try to make you talk to him or about him. In fact, he had the decency to be very considerate of you and your feelings, particularly about being in the same room as him. It made you feel slightly bad to be honest because although you both were going through something, he was in the middle of being the butt of the joke and jab by everyone at the company. It was sad and pathetic but also very much deserved. Sure you sometimes found his isolation to be sad, pathetic, and downright pitiful, but then you remember what he did and you remembered how he put himself in that position without even considering the repercussions.

The same could be said about Dayoung. Well, only in the sense of her isolation seemingly from the rest of the world. Your outgoing, extroverted daughter seemed to spend a good chunk of time locking herself inside her room after school. Usually, you would have to turn into a negotiator three times a week just to get your daughter to come home right on her curfew. This time around, you had a worse time trying to get her out, even making her run some errands just so she could get some fresh air. It wasn't until a while later that Wooyoung clued in on why Dayoung was acting like that. The way you went off on Wooyoung for breaking the news in such a manner without you present or even consulting you. You did try to understand that maybe he just... slipped or that he was so emotional that it just slipped out but the point stood that he waited until you were trying to piece things together to finally tell you. Yet another secret he kept from you. Considering the frequency of things he said but hid away from you, you had to think if this was some sort of behavioural pattern that he hadn't exhibited even if you both had been married for quite a long time. Maybe he had became a master a suppressing it and all it took was you forcing the truth out of him to make said behavior to come back to the surface.

On the other hand, Woohyun was turning into a more mature and responsible version of himself. the day you both came home from confronting the slut, Woohyun became so very helpful towards you. The first thing he did was took your bag and brought it over to the kitchen table before he dashed to the bathroom to wash his hands, cleaning himself up before you had to tell him to. Then he made himself very available for you by making sure that he spent almost every single waking or available moments with you. When you;re in the kitchen doing the dishes or cooking, he would be on the counter or the dining table doing his homework. Sometimes he would even try to do chores like one time he tried to help you bringing his sister's laundry basket from the second floor and he ended up scattering everything down the stairs. Woohyun was upset and worried that you would be mad but instead, you laughed it up and helped him clean up before teaching him how to carry items that are heavier than him down. Although you couldn't find it in yourself to bring it up in case you ended up accidentally telling him yourself, you had a feeling that Woohyun was trying to distract you from the reality of what was going on with your husband in his own way. One of the things that solidified your assumption was the fact that Woohyun had limited contact with his dad significantly. The two of them used to spend time together playing games or pulling pranks on one another and even on you or Dayoung but he had suddenly refuse to spend elective time with Wooyoung no matter how much Wooyoung tried to negotiate with him with everything that he got. Despite that, Woohyun dudb't lose respect for his dad.

"Mom?"

You almost dropped the plate you were washing when you heard a voice come up from the doorway. It was surprising to see Dayoung standing there, timid like a deer because she was always happy, lively, and rambunctious, even straight-up disrespectful to you, your space, and your boundaries. But never this. She had been so... quiet for a week and it would've made you freak out had it not been for Wooyoung letting you know that Dayoung knew. That was all he said, she knew. You did not know what had gotten over you to not deck Wooyoung right then and there but he should absolutely consider himself a lucky bastard.

The sight of your own daughter standing there made you feel... anxious. You probably (most likely) should not be afraid of a bitty teenager, but how can you not? It's not like you thought that she was going to attack you or worse, ask you to give Wooyoung a sponge bath. But you just never saw your daughter this... Muted. It was as if she had stepped into an old TV where there was nothing but black and white. You silently wished that Woohyun had not gone to the zoo with his playdate friends because he would be a great buffer. Or witness for whatever that was bound to happen.

"D-do you need help with the dishes?" She asked, stepping closer to you slowly. At first, you were surprised, not exactly expecting that the first thing she would say was an offer to help you with a chore. But, you welcomed her with a smile and nodded, stepping to the side so she could come next to you and start wiping down the washed dishes.

There were no words exhchanged between the two of you for the first five minutes or so but it wasn't awkward. It was the first time that the silence was peaceful when it was just the two of you. Usually, the silence would always only come from Dayoung and it was because she was mad at you for something. Not at you and Wooyoung, just you. You were always the receiver of her animosity even when she was mad at her dad for whatever insignificant reason there could be, but this time was different.

"Mom..." she called you suddenly but what came next surprised you instead, "I'm sorry," she started, not looking at you which was unfortunate because you were staring at her with a very priceless dumbfounded expression. "I- I- what?" "I'm sorry for... This, my part in... Whatever's going on with you and dad. I'm really sorry for making you take care of him. Had I known, I wouldn't have made you take him in," she confessed and you could see that she was starting to tear up. Your heart broke and you really wanted to pull her in and give her the biggest hug that you could muster just to show your support for her but you knew that it would just make yourself feel better for accomplishing something and not actually help her feel better. So you took a step closer to her and breathed out a sigh of relief when she didn't push you away. "I'm really, really, REALLY sorry mom. He's the worst husband ever," she sniffed which made you chuckle as you blinked back the tears that were threatening to fall, "Well, I would say that Emperor Peter, Catherine the Great's husband is a far worse husband than your father."

Your attempt at making light of the situation was met with Dayoung squinting her eyes at you. "Mom, I'm serious. I've heard about my friend's dad cheating but not like this. Not in your situation, and not with someone dumb enough to think she can substitute a hand wrap for martial arts with boob tapes," she scoffed, annoyed. You sighed and shrugged, "Well, people are complicated, sweetie. I... I'm not mad, annoyed, or angry that you wanted me to take care of your dad because, in retrospect, it WAS the absolute right thing to do. I mean, your dad was injured and he's facing such a hard time at work. It would be absolutely wrong to just toss him to someone else. Who would we even toss him to? His friend? His parents?" "His whore, mom. We could've tossed him out and have his whore handle him."

The very second the words left Dayoung's mouth, your eyes widened and your neck snapped in her direction to see her frowning, staring up at you. "He's a cheating bastard and we have the right to not even be in contact with him anymore," she curtly stated. "Jung Dayoung," you started shakily. Dayoung simply shook her head to cut you off, "No, mom, oh my God, you need to stop being a doormat." "Dayoung!" you exclaimed, surprised that she was able to say such a thing and perhaps slightly offended. "It's true! God, mom, how long have you known that he has a side piece who's as dumb as a bag of rocks? How long have you held everything in and just let him walk all over you? He fucking CHEATED on you mom! When you were so down in the dumps to the point that you couldn't even take care of yourself properly! You used Woohyun and I as a distraction, shoving all the attention and care to what, fill in the void over the loss of my would've-been sibling? And where was he? He was with some other woman because he is the worst of the worst and I will never forgive him for what he did to our family!"

Maybe it was the volume of her voice or the massive weight of her words but you felt your blood boiling and before you even realized it, you had shoved a plate into the sink and you were huffing, "Jung Dayoung that's enough, you should not talk about your father that way." "Why? Why shouldn't I, mom? My God, this is the first time in like, maybe ever that I'm standing up for you, this is me protecting you and yet you're still trying to make excuses for that pathetic son of a bitch who betrayed his family!?" "He did not betray our family, okay? He betrayed me, Dayoung!"

Just like it was the first time Dayoung defended you, you had experienced your first time screaming at her and to say that she was scared was an understatement. Dayoung shut her mouth and stared at you with sadness in her eyes because she had yet to comprehend why you were still trying to stand up for your cheating husband.

"Your dad did nothing to our family, sweetie. He did this to me," you sighed, closing your eyes and exhaling shakily as you used both of your hands to hold onto the counter to stabilize yourself. "Sure, he might have altered the dynamic and whatever else in our family but he... What he did was nothing against our family but it was just against me. At least, that's what I think. I don't think I have it in me to find out exactly why he did what he did because I'm weak, Dayoung. I'm a coward like that." you turned to her and shed a tear, breaking Dayoung's heart as she realized just how strong you were all this time.

"Then why, mom? Why are you still letting him off?" Dayoung asked, her voice cracking. You tearily chuckled and shrugged, "Who said that I am? I'm doing this, ALL of this, not because I want to. I did it, because for the longest time, that was what we have agreed on in our marriage. He deal with the monetary stuff and I deal with the family stuff. As much as it hurts, no matter if I like it or not, he is still my family because his behavior be damned, he... He gave me you and your brother and that is something I would never regret. For that, I will always be thankful to him and that is also why you should still respect your father. You can be mad at him, you can be hurt by what he did, but your respect should be non-negotiable not because he deserved it, but because your dad an I taught you better than that. He truly loves you, Dayoung. He might not love me anymore but you and Woohyun are the apples of his eyes, you are his stars in the dark night sky, and you are the best thing he had and would ever achieve. Do you understand me?"

Dayoung groaned and dropped her head on your shoulder as she wrapped her arms around your waist. "Damn it mom, why do you have to make it hard for me to unleash my wrath on him?" You couldn't help but chuckle and return her hug, "Sorry sweetie, part of my job is to make sure you grow up to be a decent human being and sometimes I have to make or say things you don't like," you chuckled, making Dayoung roll her eyes but nudge her hips with yours.

As you spend a heartwarming moment with your daughter, you can't help but let your mind slip and travel somewhere else. You couldn't help but think about how you and Dayoung would probably not have experienced such a changing moment in your life. So as much as you hate it, there was a silver lining in this whole shenanigan.

Beyond the heartwarming scene in the kitchen, alone in the dark and cold emptiness of the living room, Wooyoung stood with his back to the wall. Having come down when he heard the commotion, Wooyoung initially thought he might have to step in to get Dayoung off your back. But when he heard you yell back at Dayoung, he stopped in his tracks and debated If he should stay or leave until his interest was piqued and he ended up listening in on the conversation which left him feeling broken down. Despite the gnawing pain that made him feel like he couldn't breathe, he knew he deserved that and more. He should not complain and instead, he should just accept the harsh truth. Not just the facts that you laid out to Dayoung, but also the truth that your action further proved that he was truly the devil in this equation. And perhaps he doesn't deserve to be forgiven.

network :

@cultofdionysusnet @sandsofire @kflixnet @pirateeznet

taglist :

@atinyreads @strawberry-yeo @soobiverse @vixensss @smally97 @maidens-world @yunhoswrldddd @imcoenffl @nescaffei @miaatiny @showmehoseok @tmingi @wlv-asteria @sunwoosbaby @hyukssunflower @remi-young @roguesthetic

@staytiny816 @dearinsaniiity @scentednerdenemy

permalist :

@kodzukein @phenomenalgirl9 @skzatzloveismonsterous @memorymonster @surveilenceysystem @dreamlesswonder86 @maddiebabyxoxo @imababywolf @do-you-actually-care @marievllr-abg @ilsedingsx @wasteitonserendipity @bbymatz @noonaishere @honeyhwaaa @ateezourstars @yoonjunshi @yoongiigolden @camillelafaye @charreddonuts @kpopnightingale @starryunho @atinct @mirror-juliet @hyuckilstan @jayb17

[iheartsparklingwater]

2025 House MD fandom

My analysis of the four corners of the House MD fandom:

Reddit

Obsessed with ranking systems: best seasons, best team members, best cane.

'Who else is watching House in 2025??' (2600 upvotes, 340 comments)

Looooooooooooong threads discussing the show’s medical accuracy/realism

'Do you think House was a good doctor?'

Nostalgic 42-year-olds watching House with their spouse at night.

'Wow Hugh Laurie does such a great American accent, I had no idea that he was British haha'

'Medically speaking….'

'just watched season 5 episode 20 😭😭'

Thinks House is "Grumpy"

'This gets asked every 2 weeks but…'

There are daily posts, with 50+ comments debating whether House ever truly changes.

Cameron haters ;(

'Was House justified in breaking into the patient’s apartment?'

Tumblr

Carries the weight of 2006 House LiveJournal fandom lore.

Fanfic

#Hilson divorce AU, #Chase as Persephone, #hurt no comfort

Heavy focus on seasons 1-3

Chase = babygirl

Dominated by aesthetic gifsets of House's eyes with all lowercase captions

META META META

Kept alive by queer-coded English majors with receipts.

Anti-twitter, scared of reddit, tolerates tiktok for the aesthetic edits

'Chase is the sad prince, and pain is the point'

Ships House with suffering. Ships Wilson with codependency. Ships Chase with guilt.

 ‘This 12k-word post deconstructs House as a Byronic hero through the lens of queer temporality.’

My faves, ily tumblr forever

TikTok

SPOILER ALERT (for a show that ended in 2012)

my editing queens

Hilson

Doesn’t know what order the show goes in, but knows allllll of the most emotional moments.

POV: You’re a patient and House just told you you’re dying of sarcasm

They loveeee Wilson and RSL

Never watched the show linearly

'House gaslit a nun into living? King.'

'Why he eat the Vicodin like that??’

Cuddy edits captioned “girlboss entrance of the century💅’

‘He needs more mouse bites to live!’

Audio: ‘House you can’t keep doing this.’ / Caption: ‘When the neurodivergence hits 😍’

Can tell you the entire Wilson/Amber arc beat-by-beat but doesn’t know Chase’s first name.

Hasn't watched season 8 and refuses to acknowledge it.

Twitter

Hilson or die

Headcanon > canon. Canon is pain. Canon is wrong. Canon was written by cowards.

90% out-of-context screenshots, 10% 'House is literally me'.

YouTube shorts

Someone posts an earnest analysis, gets roasted in the comments for ‘romanticising medical malpractice’

Live-tweeting entire seasons

Screenshot of a blurry scene with no context 37k likes captioned ‘Me when the serotonin hits’

YouTube Shorts reposted with quote tweets like ‘This edit just solved all my emotional repression’

Supposedly ‘loves Cuddy’… until she’s brought up, then the gloves come off.

'House is not a bad person, he’s just deeply pragmatic and wounded.'

Anyone who posts in good faith gets eaten alive by someone quoting them with 'this ain’t it.'

[sexisbetteronthemoon]

this fic gives me heartburn

While Blue easily acquiesced to letting Lance fly her, Black and Red were different altogether. Red grumbled at Keith and literally turned her back on him in petulance, while Black refused to acknowledge Shiro at all. “This might not work,” Keith said. “You think?” Allura said, flat out sarcastic. “Maybe we're shuffling too many Lions,” Shiro said where he stood before an unresponsive Black. He was in Paladin armor, but where theirs was color-coded according to their lions, Shiro's was the reverse of Keith's. All the white was black, and the colored parts were white, thanks to Coran. Shiro had been ecstatic to match Keith, the dork. From behind Red, Keith turned to him, frowning. “What do you mean?” Keith asked him. “Blue is the only one who needs a pilot,” Shiro said. “Let me try to fly her instead. That way, Red can keep Lance, and Black can keep you.” “But you've never piloted any Lion except Black,” Keith said. Shiro countered, “We can at least try, can't we?” “You're right,” Keith said. He tapped at his helmet. “Lance, bring her in. We're going to try something different.” “Aw, but she's such a sweetheart!” Lance complained. “Red can probably hear you and she's not going to like that,” Keith warned him. “Whoops,” Lance said. “Sorry, Red! I love you! You're the love of my life, okay?” Keith went stiff. Once, Lance had teasingly called him Red. Just once. And yet it was like Keith had instantly developed a Pavlovian response. He closed his eyes and reminded himself that those words were not for him. “Just bring Blue in, Lance,” Keith said quietly. “Sure thing, bossman.” They tried again. And when Shiro asked Blue to let him pilot her, she opened up. “She really is a sweetheart,” Shiro said through the comms from within Blue. Allura made a noise and Keith glanced at her. Shiro had taken Allura's bayard from Lance, and Keith could see how she flexed her hand like she was attempting to summon it. In her other hand was a staff she had retrieved from the armory. She seemed very put out about handing over Blue a second time. There was a furrow in her brow as she looked longingly at Blue. “Take her out,” Keith directed Shiro. “See how you handle her.” “Sure thing, boss,” Shiro chuckled. Keith sighed. He got off the comm and turned to Allura. He said, “Don't worry, it's just temporary. You'll get her back.” At his words, her Altean marks brightened and she huffed a little. “I wasn't worried,” she lied. “We should go watch from the bridge.” Then she turned and made her way to the elevator. Keith shook his head and followed, Lance hopping to after them. Shiro did very well piloting. He had always been good. It was why everyone in his class had hero-worshiped him. But then came the real test. “Alright, team,” Keith said into his helmet. “In your Lions. We're going to try and form Voltron.”