#shut it nerd

[jonnywaistcoat]

I low-key love the fact that sci-fi has so conditioned us to expect to be hanging out with a bunch of cool space aliens, that legitimate, actual scientists keep proposing the most bizarre, three-blunts-into-the-rotation "theories" to explain the fact we're not.

Some of my favourites include:

Zoo Theory: What if there are loads of aliens out there, but they're not talking to us because of the Prime Directive from Star Trek? (Or because they're doing experiments on us???)

Dark Forest Theory: What if there are loads of aliens out there, but they all hate us and each other so they're all just waiting with a shotgun pointed at the door, ready to open fire on anything that moves?

Planetarium Theory: What if there's at least one alien with mastery over light and matter that's just making it seem to us that the universe is empty to us as, like, a joke?

Berserker Theory: What if there were loads of aliens, but one of them made infinite killer robots that murdered everyone and are coming for us next?!!

Like, the universe is at least 13,700,000,000 years old and 46,000,000,000 light years big. We have had the ability to transmit and receive signals for, what, 100 years, and our signals have so far travelled 200 light years?

The fact is biological life almost certainly has, does, or will develop elsewhere in the universe, and it's not impossible that a tiny amount of it has, does, or will develop in a way that we would understand as "intelligent". But, like, we're realistically never going to know because of the scale of the things involved.

So I'm proposing my own hypothesis. I call it the "Fool in a Field" hypothesis. It goes like this:

Humanity is a guy standing in the middle of a field at midnight. It's pitch black, he can't move, and he's been standing there for ages. He's just had the thought to swing his arms. He swings one of his arms, once, and does not hit another person. "Oh no!" He says. "Robots have killed them all!"

[sleepy-bebby]

[fragmentsdesoleil]

college au where regulus is absolutely awful at math and goes to the library every day trying to study with no success.

one day, after a coffee break, he goes back to his desk only to find mocking and kinda flirty notes (but with the right answers!) all over his books. this thing keeps happening at least twice a week and every time the notes are more flirtatious and regulus will never admit it but he likes it a bit too much.

so he starts writing short answers on his own book, effectively starting a very non conventional conversation with the mysterious person who keeps entertaining him.

imagine his surprise when one day during his break the coffee shop is closed and he goes back to the library only to find soccer team captain james potter writing on his book with a minecraft pencil.

[starleska]

behold: a non-exhaustive list of Date Everything! characters i'll be feverishly romancing next week 😳💖

we have: 🕯️ Scandalabra (the Candelabra) 📺 Telly (the Television) ⚡ Volt (the Breaker Box) 😋 Mitchell Linn (Food) 🪞 Amir (the Mirror) 📖 Lyric (Literature) 💦 Johnny Splash (the Shower) 🎲 Chance (the D20) rate or roast my choices 😂💖

[sturnslutz]

berry goes to matt's house for a little "tutoring session."

warnings: weed smoking, shotgunning, making out, grinding/dry humping, no actual p in v, basically sub matt, use of “mama”

the drive to matt's house didn't take very long. he insisted earlier in class that he could come pick you up in his brand new family van they recently got, but you denied politely as you had to do a couple errands for your aunt before seeing matt.

a couple textbooks and your laptop filled your passenger seat alongside your purse and whatever you needed. you didn't know if matt smoked or not, chris did, but you didn't really expect matt to. you brought a couple blunts just in case.

you sent matt a small message stating you got to his house as you knocked the door three times softly. he hearted it before shortly arriving after to the door. his face flushed a soft red as he smiled at you softly, muttering a small "hi."

"hey, matt. just you home?"

matt opened the door wider for you to come in, which you did. looking around, it looked a lot more normal then your house did which was filled with bright colors and aesthetics that you and your aunt love.

"yeah, my parents are at work and chris and nick are out somewhere, i'on really know." he said softly as he shut the door. he trailed behind you as you started exploring and walking around, which he made no effort to stop you, but was rather intrigued.

"sorry it's not much. our house is kinda boring." he said as he scratched the back of his neck, a bit worried you were going to judge him. did he really think you were like that? he couldn't help himself but inhale the trail of strawberry perfume filling the air around the both of you.

you stopped your movements abruptly, which almost made matt bump into you. "matt, do you think i'm a horrible person or something? i love your house, no matter what. i'm actually quite fascinated with it. i've never been in a house which wasn't maximalist to the max, or filled with a range of every color. i like this simple look."

he searched your face for any hint you were lying, but your big eyes just looked up at him with the most genuine honesty. he smiled softly, looking away and running a hand through his hair. "thank you. i really appreciate it. do you wanna head up to my room now? i think you'll like it a lot."

you face brightened even more at the thought, eliciting a big smile across your face. "yes, of course! lead the way.” he nodded and turned, beginning to walk to the staircase as you followed after him.

his room was the complete opposite of what you thought it was. it was filled to the brim with comic posters, action figures, legos of every universe, so many stuffed animals, and everything matt couldn't express in words, but rather filled his thoughts.

"sorry, it's a lot. it's really nerdy too." he said softly, his voice shaking a bit. you looked around the room in awe, genuinely surprised he's embarrassed by this. you would love to have a room like this.

"it's not, at all. i actually love it so much. its so you. i like being able to see what you're interests are." he smiled again softly, his blue eyes scrunching up in his glasses as he ran a hand through his hair, again.

"thank you, berry. i really appreciate that. so, do you wanna start studying?" he sits down on his bed, sitting in a criss-cross position as he looked up at you through those damn glasses that you adored. he looked so hot like this.

"yep. i brought some papers i need to finish." you sat down, tossing your shoes off and sitting in the same position as him, but across him as you grabbed your bag, dumping it. his eyes skimmed through the papers, but noticed something he didn't expect.

two blunts sitting right next to each other.

you saw him look at them, and you chuckled softly. "didn't know if you smoked or not, but they help me relax and study better. thought i could smoke one here, if you're cool with it."

he looked up at you again, nodding a bit. "y-yeah sure, i don't mind. do you think it'll make my room smell?" he asked a bit nervously. his parents knew that chris smoked to help with his adhd, but he didn't want them to think he did it also.

you nodded, picking them up and looking for the lighter through your papers. "yeah, probably because it's a blunt and not a cart, those don't smell as much. but don't worry i got some perfume that makes the weed smell basically disappear."

his face seemed to understand but also didn't. "a cart- whats that?"

you laughed a bit again, rubbing his knee. "nothing you need to worry about." he nodded again, now directing his attention to a couple of your papers, trying to understand what he actually needed to help you on.

what he didn't notice though, was you holding one of the blunts up to your mouth and lighting it, and when he did, it was when you blew the smoke towards him causing him to cough a bit. "shit- sorry baby. are you okay?" he nodded, his coughing wearing down. what caught him again off guard was the name you called him. baby.

"yeah, i'm okay." you took another hit, now redirecting it to the door area before looking down at the papers. he seemed to notice your calmer demeanor and wondered if the weed actually did make you focus better.

he didn't notice himself staring at the blunt that was fiddling in between your fingers, but you did. "wanna hit?" his attention came back to you as his eyes opened a bit wide. "what? no-no. well maybe? i don't know how to!" he panicked a bit, making you laugh.

"you don't have to hit it. i'll help. you ever heard of shotgunning?" you take another hit, a smaller one now to help preserve it. "like the chugging beer thing?"

"well, yes. that's also shotgunning, but there's another kind. it's where i take a hit, but blow it into your mouth then you inhale and let it out. it'll get you high also."

knowledge of smoking was not something matt ever thought he would be learning, but he wasn't really complaining.

"oh-okay. yeah, we can do it." he said, waiting for the rest of your instruction. you smiled, moving the papers off the bed as you handed him the blunt to hold, so you wouldn't burn yourself. you sat back up right, taking the blunt back into your hand.

"okay, just relax, lemme do what i need to do. also, can i straddle you? it helps me actually do it right." he was taken aback a bit at the thought of you actually getting on top of him, but nodded. "y-yeah. sure. go ahead." he leaned back into the bed more as he stretched out his legs and you climbed on top of him, right above his cock.

he was praying that he wouldn't get a boner as he knew you would feel it, so tried to look elsewhere, now fairly interested in his poster of pokemon he got when he was 11.

you chuckled a bit, grabbing his face in your left hand, redirecting his face towards you. "it's not gonna work if you're not actually looking at me, matt." he muttered a small "sorry" as you lifted the blunt to your lips, taking a big hit before leaning down.

your lips touched his as he let out a soft gasp, allowing you to blow the smoke into his mouth. once you blew most of it in, you leaned back up, watching his face. "inhale, good, now exhale." he did exactly as you said, but letting out harsh coughs in result.

you smiled at him as he finally regained his breath, looking up at you. his face was flushed as a cherry, but he laughed a bit. "that was my first kiss." he softly admitted, but this time not taking his eyes off you.

"really? wanna have another?" you smirked as you leaned back down, putting the blunt back in between your lips as you let out a puff of smoke, filling the air once around you both again. you finally had finished it, burying it's end into the table next to his bed as he nodded.

you leaned back all the way down, reconnecting your lips with his. he was very patient with it and being gentle. he let his hands fall to your hips as the kisses deepened, a very noticeable poke in between your thighs now.

your tongue made it's way into his mouth, matt happily accepting it. for what was his first kiss, he sure was good at it. you couldn't help but notice the ache in between your thighs, right where matt was. you started absentmindedly grinding against him, causing matt to moan into your mouth as you smirked and pulled away, a string of saliva connecting the both of you still. his flushed face and lopsided glasses made you even wetter than before.

"y'ever had a girl do this to you before, baby?" you tease him a bit, obviously knowing his answer. he shakes his head softly, burying his forehead in your neck. "n-no." "feel good, huh?" he whined softly as your hand reached to his head, gently pulling his hair. "mm-mhm."

"need words, matt." you tug a bit harder on his strands, causing a even louder whine to come from his throat. "yes, feels good." you nodded, grabbing his head out of your neck and softly pushing it back down on the pillow as you kiss him again.

this time, he was more hungry. his kisses were intense, like he was trying to kiss you deeper despite the minimal space between the both of you.

grinding against him was easy, his boner was very evident through his sweatpants, and you grinding against him gave him pleasure he never knew could erupt in him.

“fuck- mama, i’m close” he whimpered a bit softly as his hands gripped your ass through your pants, his hands roaming every inch he could. “yeah? cum for me, matt. i’m right here behind you.” you moaned softly as your head fell against his chest.

you pushed your hips closer to his, your movements minimal but rather putting pressure on his covered cock and your covered ache.

“fuck! berry!” he whimpered loudly as a warm spot filled the space between you two. you looked down as the dark grey spot grew larger with every twitch of his cock in his pants.

“i’m almost there, matty. can you cum again?” his fucked-out look without actually being in you, was so hot. you don’t know when, but he took off his glasses and set them aside, now allowing you to see his slightly red, dilated big blue eyes perfectly.

you don’t know if it’s the high, but just looking at him made you cum faster against him than you expected. your orgasm came as a surprise for you, loud moans coming from your mouth as your head falls against his chest.

he came for the 2nd time right after. moans and strangled whimpers fall from his mouth, filling the room with even more pretty sounds. as you both caught your breath, you rested against his chest, as his fingers played with your hair a bit.

your clothes sticking to you because of the sweat made you ick and he could tell you felt like this from your movements, almost trying to take it off.

“do you want me to get you some new clothes? i need to change anyways.” he whispers to you softly. a nod comes from you as you roll off him, flopping to the other side. his pants had a very evident dark grey area from the combination of your liquids flowing through your clothing.

a small chuckle falls from him as he looks down. he stands up, but his legs are wobbly, causing him to fall back on the bed. “what the hell?” he mutters a bit as his legs become a bit tingly.

“just relax a bit more, this was probably the first orgasm you had that actually made your body feel different, right?” you whisper a bit as you rub his arm a bit.

he hums a bit and nods, taking your advice. once he finally felt like he could stand properly, he walked carefully to his dresser. he pulled out 2 of his shirts, and 2 new pairs of sweats, and 2 new pairs of boxers.

“i don’t have any underwear so are boxers okay?” he walks over and hands the clothing to you as you hand him his glasses, immediately bringing back his vision.

“yeah, thank you matt.” he nods a bit as he walks out of his room, changing in the bathroom. you stood up and changed into his slightly oversized clothing, but extremely comfortable.

he knocks a couple times against the door as you allow him to come in. you were already laying back down in his bed, and his heart swoons seeing you in his clothing. he lays down next to you, fiddling with his fingers a bit.

“do you want to study a bit more?” he asks randomly, causing you to laugh loudly.

“didn’t we learn enough? we’ll just do it later.” he nods, understanding. both of your thoughts are interrupted at the sound of the front door opening, and chris and nick’s voices flowing through the house.

matt looks at you with worry in his eyes, but you rub his arm, helping him relax. “don’t worry, just relax. can i stay over? it’ll help me give them a better reasoning as to why im in your clothes.”

he nods immediately. “sure. of course. i’m sure my parents won’t mind. what about yours?”

“nah, my aunt won’t care. i live with her right now. sometimes i go to my parents’ house in upstate.” you explain to him as a knock comes through the door. “hey matt? you home, man?”

chris’s voice is heard as matt stiffens up once again. “just chill.” he lets out a breath as he talks. “yeah, i’m here.” and that lets chris in. his eyes immediately fall to matt, but then look to you as he gasps a bit.

“matt’s here, and berry’s here… in matt’s room? what the hell…?” it was clear chris was a bit high just like you and matt. the scent of weed also hits chris’s nose as he lets out another question. “were you guys smoking?”

“hey, chris. i came because he was tutoring me, and i smoked a bit because you know how it helps me study better. it’s getting late so matt told me i can stay here, and he allowed me to be in his clothes.”

chris nods slowly, but seemingly understands. “ight. mom and dad are staying at aunt cathy’s house tonight, so it’s just the 4 of us tonight, okay?”

his sight goes between you and matt as both you and matt nod. “okay, i got another blunt for later if you and nick wanna smoke it with us.” chris nodded at you, glancing out matt’s window. “hell yeah, but when it gets a bit darker out. so like 10? it’s saturday tomorrow so we’re good.”

you look at matt for a confirmation to which he nods, once again. “yeah, okay.” he says softly. chris walks out, and you plop back down next to matt, rubbing his shoulder. “you okay?” he smiles and hums. “yeah, i’m good. that felt really good.”

“i’m glad. dry humping is good, but actual sex is amazing. we aren’t there yet though.” his eyes widen a bit at the thought of actually having sex, but relaxed a bit at your reassurance.

“mhm- okay.” you smile again, rubbing his cheek a bit. “let’s take a nap before you we have to spend the whole night with energetic nick and chris.”

he laughs, nodding. he dips his head into your neck, wrapping his arm around your waist, holding you tight. he knew you two weren’t official and didn’t know if you’d actually ever be, but he knew he trusted you.

[luv4arinn]

I Just Wanna Feel

Author’s Note: So—sorry for not posting in weeks, but I had a massive writer’s block, and well… I’m back! I was heavily inspired by THAT Robbie Williams song. Yes, I watched his biopic. Yes, I cried. Yes, I recommend it. And… surprise?! There will be a whole chronology with the others, all themed around Robbie’s songs! Yayy <3!! Consider it a gift? from me for taking so long 🥺. Love you all.

Pairing: Bayverse!Donnie x female reader

Tags: Intense fluff, nerd having an emotional crisis, extreme overthinking, unexpected kisses, Donatello’s mental breakdown, romantic panic, “oh no I messed up” but in HD, happy ending.

The sound of the keyboard echoed through the room—a rhythmic, steady tapping that blended with the low hum of the monitors. The bluish glow from the screens cast irregular shadows across his face, reflecting off the lenses of his glasses with every line of code appearing and disappearing on the monitor.

Donatello was there, as always.

The work was easy. Thinking was easy.

It was like a well-structured algorithm: receive information, process it, execute a plan of action. The world had rules, patterns, probabilities—formulas that predicted outcomes with near-absolute precision. No matter how chaotic a situation seemed, there was always a logical solution waiting to be uncovered.

Computers don’t lie.

Data has no biases, no whims. It doesn’t suffer irrational fluctuations. It doesn’t beat faster without reason. It doesn’t have to remind itself to breathe.

But then…

There’s you.

And everything falls apart.

Not immediately. Not like a fatal error shutting down the system in the blink of an eye. It’s more subtle. Like an unexpected variable in an equation that had, until now, been perfect. Something that doesn’t fit into the rigid structure of his world—but something he can’t ignore either.

He thinks about it often. About how his brain operates like a well-calibrated machine, each thought clicking into the next like the teeth of a moving gear. Logic is his native language. Reason, his compass.

And yet, when it comes to you, all that logic becomes blurred.

The gears grind.

The code becomes erratic.

The equation fills with unknowns.

Because when you step into his space, when your voice disrupts the steady rhythm of his keyboard, when you lean over his desk without a second thought for the scattered circuits and switch off his monitor without warning…

His first instinct is to think. Analyze. Quantify.

What does this mean?

Why does his heart react this way?

Why does his skin register the shift in temperature more intensely when you’re near?

But thinking doesn’t give him answers.

Feeling does.

And that is terrifying.

Because feeling isn’t predictable. Feeling has no neatly arranged lines of code, no graphs to chart behavioral patterns, no equations with exact solutions.

Emotions, in themselves, are a chaotic system.

And you…

You are the anomaly he still doesn’t know how to decode.

Nights shouldn’t feel this short when spent alone in front of a screen. And yet, when his mind drifts to the memory of a laugh, the fleeting image of a glance, the echo of an accidental touch… time dissolves in a way not even quantum physics could explain.

When he feels the weight of his name on your tongue. Like an access key to a system he never thought anyone would try to hack.

And he watches you from the corner of his eye as you lean closer, and in that instant, every variable in his mind shifts. Every equation rewrites itself.

A shiver runs down his shell.

Feeling.

He knows because his chest tightens with an undefined pressure, a sensation he can’t attribute to any specific physiological variable. His heart rate isn’t elevated from exertion. He’s not under attack. He’s not in danger.

So why does his body react as if he is?

There’s no equation to explain this.

Because if there were, he would have solved it long ago. He would have identified the problem, broken it down into its components, eliminated any errors. But every time he thinks he’s close to an answer, another unknown appears, shifting all previous solutions out of place.

Music filters through his headphones, slow and melancholic.

“I just wanna feel, real love…”

A shiver runs down his spine.

His body reacts to the sound before his mind does. It’s absurd. It’s ridiculous. There is no logical reason why a progression of chords and a set of words arranged in a certain way should have this effect on him.

And yet, here he is.

Fingers hovering over the keyboard, motionless—caught between the instinct to keep working and the strange, undeniable realization that… he can’t.

Not because he’s tired.

Not because he lacks information.

Not because there’s a problem that requires more processing.

But because, for the first time in a long time, the data isn’t the most important thing.

The screen flickers with information he should be absorbing, but he isn’t. His glasses reflect numbers and graphs that would normally hold his full attention, but his gaze is empty, unfocused.

The room remains unchanged—draped in shadows, illuminated only by the bluish glow of his monitors and the faint blinking of LED lights from his equipment.

The mission had been difficult. The margin of error had been higher than he liked to admit.

It wasn’t often that his calculations failed.

But sometimes, calculations weren’t enough.

Sometimes, reality simply… refused to adhere to logic.

“Feel the home that I live in…”

His jaw tightens.

He doesn’t know how that song ended up on his playlist.

But he has a reasonable theory.

One that involves Mikey, his blatant disregard for personal privacy, and his insistent need to “help him connect with his emotions.”

(Sure. Right.)

And yet…

The lyrics hit him harder than he’d like to admit.

It’s not the melody itself. It’s not the chords or the rhythm. It’s the way the words seem to slip through the cracks in his mind, seeping into the spaces that logic has never quite managed to seal shut.

“I just wanna feel, real love…”

Donnie exhales slowly, his fingers still hovering over the keyboard, motionless.

He thinks about the battle.

The mistakes.

The risks they took.

Numbers flash through his mind like a simulation running in reverse—impact probability, the margin of error in his calculations, the reaction speed needed to avoid damage. Fractions of a second where the difference between victory and absolute disaster depended on decisions made under pressure.

But more than anything—he thinks about you.

He thinks about the way, at the end of the fight, you rushed to check if he was okay.

About how, without even thinking, your hands—warm, alive—ran along his arm, searching for injuries he had already identified and dismissed milliseconds before with his visor.

He could have told you it wasn’t necessary.

That he was unharmed.

That he had concrete data to prove it.

But he didn’t.

Because logic dictates that worry should be extinguished by facts.

But feeling…

Feeling dictates that your touch lingers, even after you’ve gone.

That the sensation of your skin against his stays beyond his capacity for reasoning.

That the light pressure of your fingers on his forearm still burns in his memory, like an unsolved equation looping endlessly in his mind.

“Come and hold my hand…”

Donnie closes his eyes.

He could turn the song off.

He could erase the anomaly from his system.

He could rewrite the equation, adjust the variables, find a way to rationalize what he feels.

But… he doesn’t want to.

Because for the first time in his life, the result of a problem doesn’t matter as much as the unknown.

He doesn’t just want to think.

He wants to feel.

He wants to understand why being with you feels like the only constant that truly matters.

And then—you arrive.

Without warning, without fanfare, without the slightest idea that the world inside Donatello’s mind is teetering on the edge of a collapse even he can’t explain.

The lab door slides open smoothly—barely a whisper against the silence, thick with static electricity and the faint murmur of music in his headphones.

He notices everything.

The shift in air pressure.

The sound of your footsteps, softened against the floor.

The faint scent of shampoo and fabric laced with the chill of the night.

The way the temperature in the room rises by just a fraction of a degree when you step inside.

But he doesn’t turn around immediately.

Because he doesn’t know what to do with the anomaly that you are in his equation.

He doesn’t know where to place you within the rigid parameters of his logical, structured world.

His operating system slows, his brain—so used to processing information with the precision of a surgeon—stalls in an endless loop, searching for a resolution that refuses to exist.

And then—your voice.

“Donnie?”

Soft. Not because you’re hesitant, but because you know him. Because somehow—through a method he can’t quantify—you can read the tension in his shoulders. You can see the way his fingers have stopped typing, even though the screen is still waiting for input.

He closes his eyes for just a moment, as if that alone might be enough to reboot him, to restore the control that feels like it’s slipping through his fingers.

He knows he should say something.

He knows he should act normal.

But his normal means efficiency, speed, precise answers delivered at the exact right moment.

And right now, every command in his mind is failing.

You watch him with quiet curiosity, tilting just slightly toward him—just enough for the air between you to feel heavier, more tangible.

“Everything okay?” you ask, voice soft in that way that completely disarms him. Then your gaze sharpens slightly, scanning him with quiet scrutiny. “Are you hurt?”

He doesn’t answer immediately.

Instead, he looks at you.

His mind runs an automatic analysis of your expression—eyes slightly narrowed, lips barely pressed together, the faintest crease in your right brow, as if you’re already calculating the probability that he’s lying.

Logic dictates that he should reassure you with data. That he should tell you his visor has already run a full diagnostic scan and that his physical condition is optimal. That there is no rational reason for concern.

But then his gaze drops.

And he sees his own hand, still resting on the desk—still tense.

And for the first time in a long time, he chooses to do something without overthinking it.

He looks at you again.

His throat feels dry. Without realizing it, he wets his lips—a quick flick of his tongue over skin cracked from hours without proper hydration.

Then, in a voice so quiet it barely sounds like his own, he asks:

“Can I… hold your hand?”

It’s not the kind of question anyone would expect from him.

And he knows it.

Because it doesn’t fit his usual patterns. It’s not something that makes sense in any logical context.

But right now, logic is utterly useless to him.

Your lashes flutter in subtle surprise, as if the words take a few extra seconds to fully register.

“What?”

His instincts scream at him to backtrack, to rephrase, to find a way to explain what even he doesn’t fully understand.

But he doesn’t.

“I want to…” He inhales, trying to reorganize his thoughts. “I mean, just—”

He shuts his eyes for a second, frustration flickering across his face. He has never felt this clumsy with words before.

When he opens them again, you’re still there. You haven’t moved. You haven’t looked away.

And somehow, that alone gives him the courage he’s lacking.

“I just… want to feel it.”

The truth escapes him so easily, so quietly, that it almost embarrasses him.

Your expression shifts.

It’s not amusement.

It’s not rejection.

It’s something softer. More intimate.

And without questioning it—without hesitation or unnecessary words—you let your hand slide over his.

Not hurriedly.

Not hesitantly.

Just with the quiet certainty of someone who understands exactly what he’s asking for.

And when your fingers intertwine with his, Donnie feels every equation, every algorithm, every carefully structured rule in his mind… simply dissolve.

As if they had never really mattered in the first place.

“Well?” you ask, your voice carrying a faint attempt at lightness.

Donnie knows you’re trying to sound casual, that you’re masking your uncertainty behind a relaxed tone. But he notices.

He notices the delicate dusting of pink on your cheeks, the almost imperceptible tremor in your lower lip, the way your thumb brushes against the back of his hand—like you’re adjusting to the contact just as much as he is.

And something inside him… softens.

His lips curve, at first unconsciously—a smile, small and barely formed. Then, from deep in his chest, a quiet laugh escapes, unbidden and genuine, as weightless as the air after a storm.

It’s not mockery. It’s not disbelief.

It’s something purer. Something real.

—Nothing, —he murmurs, his thumb moving awkwardly against your skin— Just… this is nice.

The confession catches him off guard.

Because he hadn’t planned it.

Because he hadn’t filtered it through his logic before speaking.

Because it simply happened.

And then, you look at each other.

Maybe for too long.

Maybe just long enough for the world around you to blur into a distant murmur, as if nothing else exists except the space you occupy together.

He finds himself mesmerized by you.

Fascinated.

But not in the way he is fascinated by a new equation, by an unexpected pattern in the data, by the perfect symmetry of a well-designed structure.

This is different.

This is raw.

This is visceral.

This is feeling.

His other hand, trembling in a way he doesn’t understand, lifts with a slowness that borders on reverence.

And when his fingers brush against your cheek, the touch is so light it feels like an experiment in itself.

He feels.

He feels the warmth of your skin beneath his fingertips, the way it molds so effortlessly to his touch, the way your body leans ever so slightly toward him—responding to an equation he hasn’t yet written but, for the first time, doesn’t feel the need to solve.

He feels the erratic pounding of his own heart, too fast, too unsteady, as if it has forgotten its natural rhythm.

He feels the heat gathering in his chest, expanding outward like a shockwave, defying all logical explanation.

And then, he hears you sigh.

Small.

Soft.

Almost imperceptible.

But he feels it.

He feels the warmth of your breath against his skin, the subtle vibration of your exhale in the nonexistent space between you.

Feels,

feels,

feels.

As if every one of his senses—once so meticulously calibrated to process information—has now been repurposed for a single objective:

You.

Your warmth seeping into his skin.

Your quiet, rhythmic breathing.

The barely-there weight of your gaze resting on him.

The familiar scent of you, imprinting itself onto some hidden corner of his mind he never thought necessary.

Just you.

Only you.

Nothing else exists.

Nothing else matters.

And then—without thinking, without calculating, without rationalizing it into exhaustion like he always does—

he kisses you.

It’s brief. Just a brush of lips.

A moment suspended between doubt and need, between impulse and fear.

A single heartbeat contained in a single point of contact.

And then—

He hears you gasp.

His entire body locks up. Every muscle goes rigid with a tension so sharp it’s almost painful.

His brain—so efficient, so precise, so relentless in its ability to analyze every variable in a situation—enters a total shutdown.

He stares at you, eyes wide, pupils blown.

Oh, no.

No, no, no.

He misread everything.

What the hell was he thinking?

You don’t see him that way.

Why would you?

Why would you ever?

Shame crashes over him like an unstoppable wave. His stomach twists, his skin burns, his heart clenches into an invisible fist that threatens to crush it from the inside out.

He pulls back, his hands loosening, his voice catching in his throat.

—Oh, God, I didn’t mean to— —he stammers, his voice cracking under the weight of his own panic. His thoughts are a mess of unsolved equations, of probabilities collapsing into a singularity of pure dread— I just… I thought it was a good moment, I—

—Yes.

Your voice cuts through his spiral.

His brain short-circuits.

—It was.

…

What?

His breath halts.

The air thickens, pressing in from all sides, as if the entire universe has stopped—right here, right now, in these words, in this reality he never accounted for.

And then—

You close the distance.

You are the one to bring your lips back to his.

And his mind—his brilliant, overanalyzing mind—

for the first time in his life—goes completely silent.

And he simply—feels.

[catgrandpa]

RIP Jason Todd, you would have loved coming first at Kahoot in every class.

[annies-pie]

All I’m saying is that this guy…

and this guy…

are NOT the same character.

[i-dreamed-i-had-a-son]

jon val jon or something

[punkeropercyjackson]

Dark Percy hoes be potraying Percy Jackson as some kind of nonstop overtly sexual fuckboy like he dosen't canonically flirt like this

[asydicsydney]

MY BOYS ARE DONEEEEE

Ahem- I've been hyperfixated on this game and these dorks for a few days now. I love drawing from reference but omg Jerry is the most painful thing to draw. Anyway, they are my boyfriends and they are boyfriends, no further questions your honor

[fukutomichi]

The fact they managed to make BLACK SPEECH sound so gentle and soft while Glûg was asking his orc papa if he loved them...is an achievement!! And the absolute fool of a character that is Adar doing EVERYTHING wrong thinking it's the best and only way, cause he loves them too much.

[kyluxtrashpit]

Sorry for being the way I am lmao, but I cannot believe andor s2 has me jealous of sad cereal man. How did this happen. This is exactly how I want a woman to treat me. How dare he have what I want

[panbhonpan]

Is there a possibility you could draw Radford…the popcorn boy…the. Nerd. What’s wrong with him

Love your art btw 🥹

HI ANON HI ANON!!! IM SO SORRY- THIS MONTH HAS BEEN CRAZY FOR ME BUT I'M FINALLY HERE WITH THE BOIIII HERE YA GOOO

LOOK AT THE NEEERRRDDD ALSO, THANK U SO MUCHH!!! AND IM SO SORRY FOR THE WAIT AAA- HOPE U GET TO SEE THIS aLSO- thanks , because you made me appreciate Radman more smnsmns

Anyways, hope u like it!!! Ur dosis of popcorn boyy wowoowow

[the-smiling-doodler]

almost forgot to post dis here

[m0rninglatte]

C!Fable's Elysium wings being feathered instead of light rays or swords like his elytra, yes gives a maybe canon explanation to Icarus and their birb thing but also plays into the more Icarus and Daedalus mythology that these two seem to have.

Why? Ohoho buddy let me write you an essay /silly