#when people treat dream like a person >>>>>>>

[l0s3rd0wnt0wn]

"ITS A BIRD ITS A PLANE NO THATS MY SON..."

Bio: More of baby Cairo, the son of WB!reader and Conner Kent. Based of this post

Cairo Kent Who is the cutest little boy to have ever appeared in the spotlight: 3c curls and a light tan with the biggest smile known to man. He is literally the sun, and he could light the whole room with just his presence alone. Little Cairo is a spitting image of his dad; he looks too much like Conner—his cheeky laugh, his goofy personality, and his little pout. It's like that one meme: "Nine's mouth in my stomach making me suffer just to look like your damn daddy!" But you don't mind having him look like your husband. It was cute when he was a mini version of Conner; once, Conner made a joke of calling him "Kon Jr." You were not having it; you wanted to give him a C name that matched with the Kents, and Cairo just rolled off the tongue too well.

But just like you, Cairo is kind of an introvert; and when I say “kind of,” I mean a lot. He gets really nervous and anxious around people. You remember having a parent-teacher conference with his Pre-K teacher. She said that he didn't play with the other kids and was always by himself, which made a lot of sense because that was you. He may look like his daddy, but he has your subtle awkwardness down to a tee. But don't worry, he'll get adopted by super extroverts just like you did, and those Kryptonian genes are strong. Your little boy has powers; he's prone to flying around a lot, barely using his legs for anything. You have to scare him into walking around by saying that he’ll lose his legs if he flies too much. It worked, and it also worked on Conner as well.

Whenever it's time for date night, and you and Conner are too busy to take care of your little bugger, your mom takes care of him. But you refuse to let any of the Bat family get anywhere near Cairo; you're practically hiding him away from them. I mean, who knows how they act? You don't want him to get neglected like you did—pushed to the side, ignored, seen as an outcast. You didn't want those yandere tendencies to rub off on your son. But when Bruce begged to see him, you couldn't say no, and I guess he was the center of attention—which is an understatement. Bruce couldn't keep his hands off the little man, twirling Cairo around, cooing, using a baby voice on him. You feel a smile creep up on your face; the way he treats him can't let them think you're growing soft on them. You're still their biggest hater.

At your baby shower, Damien tried to give you a present for young Cairo; it was two dual swords, and he’ll have to learn how to use them soon. At least the other gifts were more acceptable—baby clothes, little hats. Alfred absolutely adores Cairo, and now your son is starting to get a little British accent the more he hangs out with the butler. Dick and Jason are having a literal staring contest over who gets to hold him. You never really liked kids—not even babies—but when little Cairo holds his finger, his heart melts, and he succumbs to baby fever. Stephanie and Cass can't wait to dress him up in little suits, and Babs has the weirdest baby voice when talking to him, while Damien is trying to make your son into a warrior: "Soon, one day you will be covered with the blood of your enemies!" But for now, he's going to be covered in strawberry jam. Does he have dreams of being a hero? We don't really know—he's in his own world, and there's nerd starting to appear in him. Conner's genes may be strong, but the way he's wandering off to the toy aisle so fast to get a Star Wars Lego set shows that the nerd never dies.

[stzrgirl4norris]

handle with care - GR63 & MV33

summary: reader told George she would like him to be rougher in the bedroom, and he doesn't quite know how, but has a friend more than willing to teach him.

word count: 5k

warnings: this is FILTHY, okay? the idea came to me in a dream, i had to. we have degradation, praising, fisting, rough, dom!max, switch!george, sub!reader.

I had to do this I'm sorry.

The night had been glittering, loud, and annoyingly glamorous.

You weren’t supposed to be nervous. After all, this wasn’t a date. Well, not the traditional type, at least. It was just George. The same George who knew how you took your coffee, who sent you voice notes that made you laugh when you were supposed to be working, who texted you random thoughts at 2am like you were the first person that came into his mind before he fell asleep. That’s all it was—texts, looks, stolen touches in cars, messy, soft-edged hookups in hotel rooms. A carefully constructed “no strings” agreement that both of you were pretending to believe in.

However, lately, it has been frustrating. Not because of George. Not exactly. But because the sex fell into something… Predictable. You missed that feeling in your stomach when you got your hair pulled, when someone kissed you roughly. You wanted to be pushed, ruined, treated like something breakable and owned. And George, sweet and desperate to please, had tried. He’d wrapped a hand lightly around your throat like he thought you might shatter. He asked “you like that?” in a tone like he was trying on someone else’s voice. But it all felt unnatural, forced, too much of a bad porn performance.

You were still stewing in the aftermath of it when you ended up clustered with the driver as your date in the corner of Susie Wolff’s birthday party. A beautiful room with chandeliers, good music, and even better cocktails. Not exactly your kind of party, but you could appreciate the feeling of the silk dress wrapped around you.

Somewhere, between the Cosmopolitans and glasses of Champagne, Max approached the two of you, holding sharp smirks and blunt truths, casually sipping from his drink, slightly frustrated from the boredom of the formality he wasn’t acquainted with. Max wasn’t a friend, not exactly, but he knew you both well enough to insert himself in the conversation with confidence. He always had an intensity in the blue of his eyes. Unlike George’s warmth, he was icier, sharper, as if he could read all the secrets beneath your skin.

You had to admit, Verstappen was a breath of fresh air and a damn conversationalist. George and Max were making you laugh with intensity, distracting you from the rich people around. It was good conversation, the flowing type, like talking to a random drunk girl in the bathroom of a frat party. 

You didn’t even realize you’d said something out loud until Max raised a brow and turned to you.

“You asked George to be rougher?” he repeated, like it was funny. Like it was charming and idiotic all at once.

George flushed, clearing his throat. 

“Well, I… I tried. Didn’t I?”

“You were very polite about it.” You gave him a pointed look. 

“That’s your problem, mate. You still want to be liked. Even while you’re inside her.” 

Max said it with the naturality of someone who was sharing secrets with his best friend. Of someone who knew exactly the kind of sex you liked.

George blinked, his mouth twitching in embarrassment, but he had no argument to give back. You were about to say something sarcastic when Max tilted his head, eyes on you now—not teasing anymore, but with curious intention.

“I could show him.”

It wasn’t even a suggestion. It was a challenge, laced with a quiet promise.

Your stomach flipped the same exact moment George’s jaw tensed.

“I didn’t mean—” George started, but you cut in, voice low and level.

“Show him what, exactly?”

Max leaned in, closer, invading the space just enough to make you feel like your breath belonged to him now.

“How to take what he wants. How to break a girl down so she forgets her own name. You know… How to make you cry, beg, thank him for it.”

You said nothing, but your body reacted without permission, not being able to resist the primal urge that appeared in the pit of your gut. A spike of arousal. A flush beneath your skin. George saw it lit up in your eyes, and Max saw him see it.

“You’re not afraid, are you?” Max murmured, to George this time. “Or maybe you´re just too good of a boy. Don’t have it in you.”

George held your gaze. There was something in his expression—tight, hot, cornered. But not afraid, never that.

“Fine,” he said. “Teach me.”

The hotel room door clicked shut behind you. Your heels hit the carpet. There was a moment—just a moment—where no one moved.

George looked nervous. His hands were in his pockets. You knew he didn’t quite know what came next, but to be fair, this was new territory to you too. You stepped past him and sat on the edge of the bed, letting your legs cross, letting your dress adjust to your body position. 

“Are you going to watch?” Your voice was soft, bearing fake innocence.

George glanced at Max, who looked at you. Then he smiled like this was his favorite track, and he’d been waiting for it.

“I think he should watch,” Max said. “Learn with his eyes first. That okay with you, sweetheart?”

You swallowed, nodding. Every nerve in your body was lit like a fuse. You saw, from the corner of your eyes, George move somewhere else, enough to make him blurred in your vision.

Max approached slowly, deliberately. He didn’t touch you at first. He just stood in front of you, watching your breath quicken. His voice dropped to a low, hungry murmur.

“Gorgeous girl like you shouldn’t have to beg to be handled right. You know that, don’t you?” You nodded again, heart pounding. “Use your words.”

“Yes, Max.”

George shifted in the chair by the wall, eyes locked on you both, fists clenched tight against his thighs. There was obvious jealousy blooming on his face, but it wasn’t mean. It was insecure. Possessive. A crack waiting to split open.

Max leaned down and tilted your chin up with two fingers. 

“Tell me what you asked him for.”

You were blushing now, but you forced yourself to answer. 

“I asked him to be rough. To take control.”

“And did he?”

“No.”

“Did you want him to?”

You glanced at George, only with your eyes. 

“Yes.” The tension in his face made you even hotter, like, somehow, you had power over him.

“He’ll get there.”

Max smiled, then he kissed you. Not gently. His hand curled around your throat—not enough to choke, but enough to make your head dizzy, make your body react. His tongue claimed your mouth, slow and filthy. He kissed like he’d already decided you belonged to him. Your hands clutched at his shirt, body already pliant beneath his grip.

“Let him see what it’s supposed to feel like,” 

Max said against your lips, then dipped his head lower, dragging his mouth across your neck, down to your collarbone.

You gasped when his teeth grazed skin, and he chuckled, having the most fun he had in years.

“Every little sound she makes? That’s your lesson. Every time her thighs twitch, every time she begs me not to stop… I want you to memorize it.”

George’s breathing was audible now, shallow, uneven.

Max’s hands were exploring every outline of your body—squeezing your hips, sliding up the curve of your ass, toying with the straps of your dress. He wasn’t rough, not yet. His fingers carried unmistaken softness, enough to leave you shaking with anticipation.

“You want to show him how wet you are?” He kissed down your sternum and whispered against your skin, 

“Yes…” You whimpered, your voice broken with need. 

“Then take your dress off, schatje. Slowly, put on a show for us.”

You obeyed, letting the luxurious fabric slide down the goosebumps on your skin, looking at Max underneath your lashes, giving him proper doe eyes.

And when George finally stood up, crossed the room with fire in his eyes and his fists still clenched—Max stepped back, smiling like a proud teacher.

George hesitated, frozen at the edge of the bed. His eyes were on you—in lacy white panties only, flushed, lips kiss-swollen and breath caught in your throat—and there was something fractured in his expression. Like he was caught between need and uncertainty, envy and hunger. His fingers twitched at his sides, like they didn’t know what to reach for.

Max didn’t give him the chance to spiral.

He walked back towards you, hands curling around your shoulder as he guided you back to bed, forcing you on your knees, facing George, hands shaking, dying to touch the gorgeous man in front of you. 

You could hear Max’s smile in his voice when he spoke again.

“Look at her,” he said to George. “Fucking trembling. All you’ve done is sit and watch, and she’s already falling apart.”

Your eyes flicked up, locking with George’s. He looked wrecked. Not devastated with sadness. But as though he wanted to devour you.

Max climbed the bed, standing behind you, both hands holding the soft skin from your arms, rubbing up and down. His right hand slid up your spine, his fingers spreading over the back of your neck like he could break it at any point. 

“Touch her, George.”

“Where?”

Max laughed, low and dark. 

“Anywhere. That’s the point. She’s not made out of glass.” You let out a soft gasp as Max’s palm slipped down to your lower back and then slapped your ass—a sharp sting to your ass that left you gasping, eyes wide. “She likes that, by the way.”

George swallowed, the tightness in his pants getting harder to control.

Max leaned in, his mouth against your ear. 

“You want him to try, don’t you?”

“Yes…”

“Ask him, then.”

You turned your head just enough to find George again, your voice soft but firm. 

“Touch me, George. Please.”

It was the so innocent, desperate please that cracked something open in him.

George stepped forward. His hand lifted like it didn’t belong to him, hovering over your hip before settling there, tentative. Max guided him with one firm nod.

“Grab her. Like you mean it.”

George’s grip tightened.

Your eyes fluttered shut as George’s fingers pressed into your skin—not harsh, but not afraid either. You could feel the tension humming through him, the hesitation turning slowly into intent. He slid his hand along your side, up to your breast, and cupped it, squeezing gently at first, then firmer when he felt your body respond with shivers.

“She’s so fucking soft, isn’t she?” Max murmured, his own hand still splayed on your lower back. And then—without warning—Max slid your panties down to your knees, and he chuckled, low and mean. “Look at that, George. She’s soaking. All yours.”

George dropped to his knees in front of you like he’d forgotten to breathe. He paused, hands hovering again. But this time, when he looked up at you, it was different, you could see it in the darker shade of blue that took over his eyes and in the way his lips were parted.

“Can I taste you?”

The question shot straight through your core.

“Yes. Please.” You nodded, breathless. 

Max laid back on the white pillows behind him, moving your body so that you pressed your back against his chest and fit between his thighs. He stayed behind you, one had on your right arm, the other brushing your hair back, while softly murmuring little dirty words into your ear.

George leaned in—hot breath against the inside of your thigh.

“You’re gonna do it slowly,” Max said to him. “Let her feel every second. Make her beg.”

George’s tongue was tentative at first, until the moment he tasted you. Then he groaned, loud and desperate, the vibrations of his voice touching you. His hands gripped your thighs now, holding you open as his tongue moved with growing confidence. 

Max hummed approvingly, watching over your shoulder.

“See that? You train the softness out of someone. He’s starting to get it now.”

You whimpered, your body shuddering as George licked and sucked like a man starved, while Max’s voice kept you grounded. Dirty little instructions. Praise like poison honey. Occasionally his hand would slide between your thighs and tap George’s jaw, guiding him, correcting his rhythm.

When your legs started to tremble and your hands gripped into Max’s thighs, the Dutch pulled you even harder against his chest, enough to make your back arched and expose more of you to George’s mouth.

“You gonna come like this?” Max whispered against your temple. “Against me while your sweet little George learns how to ruin you?”

You moaned, too far gone for shame, ignoring the flush of redness in your cheeks.

Max chuckled, holding too much power ad pride in his chest, then looked down at George again. 

“Use your fingers now. Just two. Give her something to squeeze around.”

George obeyed. Slowly. One finger, then two, sliding in easily. His eyes widened at how wet you were. How tightly you clenched around him.

“Fuck,” he muttered. “You’re so…”

“So perfect,” Max finished for him. “Such a good little toy for us.”

That word—us—made you cry out, hips bucking into George’s mouth, into Max’s grip. Your hands were clawing at the fabric of his pants now, and your whole body burned with the edge of release.

“Don’t let her come yet,” Max ordered.

George groaned, but pulled back—his lips wet, his face flushed.

You whined at the loss, your body twitching with need.

“Look at her,” Max said to George. “Begging for it. That’s what she’s supposed to look like.”

He pushed you forward again, repositioning you between them, your body loose and dazed. They swapped places. You noticed the way Max was looking at George, smiling like, for the first time, he respected him.

The room was humid now, soaked in the heat of need and desire and craving.

You barely registered how fast they swapped. Your body was pliant, trembling, suspended somewhere between dazed and desperate. George was behind you now—propped up against the headboard, legs open, and you cradled between them like he couldn’t bear to let you go. Your back pressed tight against his chest. His arms wrapped around your middle, anchoring you in place. His breath was warm against your ear, ragged and uneven. One hand splayed across your stomach. The other held your thigh open.

You felt caged. Cared for. Claimed.

“Just like that,” Max said, voice rough and satisfied as he took in the sight of you both. “Good boy.”

You shivered at that—both from the praise, and the sound George made when he heard it.

Max stood at the foot of the bed now, stripped down to his boxers, slow and unhurried. There was something feral in his eyes—like having you like this had awakened a darker kind of hunger in him. One he had no intention of suppressing.

He knelt between your spread thighs, eyes flicking up to George as he placed his hands on your knees, widening them further.

“You hold her open,” Max said. “I’ll take care of the rest.”

You whimpered.

George’s grip tightened on your thigh, jaw locked. His voice was low, possessive, right at your temple. 

“You okay?”

“I want it.” You nodded, breath shaky. 

“Cover her eyes, George.”

George’s hand moved from your stomach to your throat, holding you gently, possessively, before it reached your eyes, blocking out the room, the light, everything except their voices and touch.

“Don’t think,” George whispered. “Just feel.”

The loss of sight made every sensation sharper. Max’s hands slid up your legs—slow and reverent, but purposeful. He leaned forward, pressing a kiss to the inside of your knee, then another, closer. His breath ghosted over your soaked core, and your head lolled back against George’s shoulder, overwhelmed.

Max’s fingers traced ever so carefully inside your inner thighs, until they were curling inside you. The obscene wet sounds filling the room. Your body tightened around his hand, the burn and fullness blurring into pleasure.

George shifted behind you, just enough that you could feel the thick press of his cock through his boxers. He was achingly hard. His hips flexed once—instinctive, barely restrained.

Max glanced up. 

“Feel that, love? He’s fucking twitching. Can’t take watching you fall apart without him.”

His touch was deliberate as he trailed his fingers through your slick folds, coating them. You gasped sharply, clenching around him instantly. Max groaned at the sensation, dark delight flashing in his gaze. 

“So fucking tight.”

You felt yourself stretching even further, unable to place a thought on what was going on. You whimpered, hands scrambling for purchase against George’s thighs.

Max kept his slow, deliberate rhythm, the obscene wet sounds echoing in the quiet space. 

“You feel that, sweetheart? How many do you think I have inside you?”

You whimpered, mind spinning, body trembling. 

“Th-three?” you stammered.

Max chuckled, voice thick with amusement. 

“Wrong.”

You sobbed, biting your lip. The stretch was intense, toes curling from the pressure, and yet you needed more.

“Try again,” Max purred, his thumb now circling your clit in steady, cruel strokes. “Tell me, baby.”

“F-four,” you gasped out, voice breaking. “It’s four.”

“That’s right.” His tone darkened, delighting in your helpless honesty. “And you’re taking it so fucking well.”

George’s breath was hot against your neck, his hand firm over your eyes, his hips flexing involuntarily beneath you. 

“She’s perfect like this,” he rasped, voice low and wrecked.

Max’s fingers shifted again, testing your limits, spreading you wider. You sobbed when he paused, applying a gentle pressure as though teasing you open further. 

“Do you think you can take one more?” he whispered.

You shook in George’s hold, desperate, overwhelmed. 

“I—I don’t know.”

“Yes, you do.” George’s voice was dark and coaxing in your ear. “You want it.”

“I want it,” you whispered, barely audible.

“That’s my girl.” 

Max grinned wickedly.  And then, slowly, deliberately, he eased a fifth finger inside. The burn was exquisite, your entire body tightening around the impossible stretch. You cried out, trembling violently, both of them holding you firmly as you writhed.

“That’s it, sweetheart,” Max rasped, his voice low, breath hot against your skin. “Take them. You can take it, can’t you?”

You nodded frantically, a soft sob escaping as Max pushed against your walls..

“Fuck, you’re swallowing my fingers, schatje.”

You sobbed at the threat, trembling violently, but desperate for it. Max eased his thumb to your clit, circling with maddening pressure while his four fingers worked inside you. Your entire body writhed in George’s hold, caught between too much and not enough.

“Easy,” George whispered in your ear, but his voice was shaking too. His lips brushed your neck, his teeth grazing skin. “Let him.”

You tried to speak. Tried to tell them both how much you needed it, how close you were already—but George’s hand in your stomach started to move to your throat, holding you gently, tilting your head back.

“Don’t talk,” he murmured. “Just take it.”

You whimpered, hands grabbing at George’s thighs behind you, desperate for something to hold onto.

“She’s close,” Max said, tone dark and delighted. “Tight as hell. Feel her clenching?”

George nodded, barely breathing.

“She’s gonna come soon,” Max said. “You ready to watch her break for me, George?”

“Yeah. Let me see her.”

And you did break.

You came with a cry—loud and sharp—your entire body spasming in George’s arms, Max’s fingers dragging you through it like he wanted to wring every last bit of pleasure out of your bones. You thrashed against them, sobbing something incoherent as George held you through it, whispering low curses and soft praises into your hair.

“Good girl,” Max murmured, licking you through it. “That’s it. That’s how it’s supposed to feel.”

George released your eyes, letting the dim lights hit your cornea, then kissed your temple, your cheek, your jaw—his grip never loosening, like if he let go, you might vanish.

Max looked up, eyes locked with George’s now. 

“Your turn. She’s all yours.”

Your body still hadn’t stopped shaking when George shifted behind you.

He’d kissed your cheek like he always did—tender, instinctive—but something had changed in the way his hands touched you now. They were heavier. He gripped your hips like he wanted to bruise them into memory. His breath against your skin was harsher, less controlled. Your come was still slick on your thighs, but George pulled your legs apart wider anyway, just to see how far you’d let him go.

Max watched from the edge of the bed, one hand stroking lazily over his own thigh, the other resting near your head, almost close enough to touch but not quite. He wasn’t in control anymore, not directly. He didn’t need to be. His work was done.

“You feel how wrecked she is?” Max asked George, voice low and amused.

George didn’t answer. He just hummed, sliding two fingers into you without warning, groaning at the resistance, at the way you clenched down hard around him even after everything.

“She’s so fucking wet,” George muttered, almost to himself. “Can feel her all the way down to my wrist.”

You gasped, head falling back against his shoulder. 

“George—”

“No,” he said. His voice—firm. Unrecognizable. “Don’t talk unless I say you can.”

Your body went still at the command. It was quiet, unpracticed, but it hit hard. Like he’d finally found the switch inside himself. And Max smiled watching it all unfold.

“Good,” Max murmured. “That’s more like it.”

George hooked an arm under your knees and shifted, manhandling you until you were flat on your back in the center of the bed. He came down over you after stripping from his clothes, as if the fabrics were the restraining him. His chest brushed yours, one arm braced beside your head. 

You looked up at him, wide-eyed and panting.

“You like it when I’m rough, right?” he asked, but this time the question was rhetorical. He was already dragging the head of his cock through your soaked folds, teasing your entrance without giving in.

You nodded quickly, your hands grabbing at his arms. 

“Please—”

“You want it?” George asked again, voice sharp now, testing the words. “Want me to fuck you like you’ve been begging for?”

“Yes—George, yes—”

“Say it,” he growled, and when you hesitated, he slapped the inside of your thigh—light, but deliberate.

Your hips jumped. You moaned.

“I want you to fuck me like you own me,” you said, the words tumbling out.

George inhaled sharply. And then he did.

He thrust into you in one stroke, hard and deep, making you arch off the bed with a strangled cry. He didn’t wait—he couldn’t. His rhythm was brutal from the start, hips slamming into you, hands pinning your wrists to the sheets. His skin slapped against yours with every thrust. You couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think—just moaned helplessly beneath him, your legs wrapped around his waist like you needed to keep him there.

“You hear her?” George spat out, half to Max. “This what you meant? All that begging?”

Max nodded slowly, his eyes locked on where George’s body met yours. 

“Yeah. That’s it. Don’t slow down.”

George growled, leaning in closer, his lips at your ear now. 

“You take me so fucking well. Like your cunt wants to be ruined.”

You shuddered. Mot just from the words, but the voice. The confidence in it.

“You gonna come for me?” he snarled. “So fucking tight. Can feel you milking me already, God…”

He kissed you hard, teeth scraping your lip, tongue demanding. And then Max was touching you again, stroking your hair, murmuring against your neck.

“You’re such a good little toy,” Max purred. “Letting us break you open like this.”

George didn’t stop. He just went deeper.

Max’s hand slid down your chest, pinched your nipple, and you cried out—overwhelmed and fucked-out and falling.

“You gonna come again, baby?” George’s voice cracked with effort. “You gonna come on my cock like a filthy little slut?”

You nodded frantically, legs shaking, back arching. 

“I’m—George. Fuck-”

“Do it,” he snarled. “Come for me. Fucking show him who you belong to.”

You broke.

The orgasm hit hard—louder, messier than the first. Your whole body convulsed, your hands clawing at George’s back, at the sheets, at anything to ground you. You screamed something that didn’t sound like language, your vision going white around the edges.

George groaned deep in his chest, nearly losing it at the way you clenched around him. He fucked you through it, hips faltering only when Max leaned down again and whispered in his ear:

“Now stay inside her. Make her feel you. Make sure she knows you’re not done.”

Your body was humming with aftershocks, too soft, too sensitive, too everything. You barely registered that George was still inside you until he shifted slightly, just a subtle roll of his hips, and you whimpered, grabbing at his forearm like you needed him to stop or to never leave you again.

“Fuck,” George breathed, his voice wrecked. “You’re still squeezing me.”

You were. Your walls fluttered around him like you couldn’t help it—like your body was begging for more even if your mind was short-circuiting.

Max watched you both from above. Chest rising up and down, broad and calm and in control. His mouth curled into a sharp smirk when he saw the way you tried to catch your breath, blinking up at him like you couldn’t remember what planet you were on.

“She’s not done,” Max said. “You’re not either.”

George looked at him, flushed and panting. 

“She came twice—”

“And?” Max raised a brow. 

George hesitated.

Max stepped forward slowly and grabbed George’s jaw with one hand—not rough, but firm enough that it made George go still. 

“You think just making her come means you’re finished? She’s cockdrunk, yes. But she’s still clenching you, isn’t she?” Max’s voice was low now, quiet and lethal. “Still open for you. You want to keep her like that, you hold her. Stay buried. Let her feel what she does to you.”

He released George’s jaw, and then turned to you. His expression had changed. Still dominant, but now tinged with something dangerously tender.

“You okay, sweetheart?”

You nodded, slow, dazed. 

“I… Yeah. I just—”

Max leaned down, brushing your hair away from your face. 

“Too much?”

“No,” you whispered, “just… Burning. Too sensitive.”

“Good.” Max smiled. 

He climbed onto the bed and sat beside you, fingers brushing down your stomach, then lazily circling your clit. You jerked in George’s arms, a strangled cry tearing from your throat.

“She’s not gonna break,” Max told George calmly. “You want her trembling. You want her so sensitive that every little touch makes her whimper.”

Your whole body was shaking now, legs spread wide, George still thick and hot inside you while Max played you like an instrument, light pressure, gentle circles, relentless stimulation.

George buried his face against your neck, arms tight around your waist. 

“She’s squirming so much,” he murmured. “Can’t hold still.”

“That’s the point,” Max growled. “Let her fight it. That’s what cockwarming really is. Control. You don’t move, even when it feels so good you want to lose it. You stay deep. You keep her full. You make her come without thrusting.”

Your mouth fell open.

You didn’t know whether it was Max’s words or his fingers, or the stretch of George still rooted inside you, but suddenly it all crested again. Another orgasm built faster than it had any right to. No warning. No rhythm. Just heat slamming through you like lightning.

You sobbed something broken. Arms flailing, toes curling, thighs twitching. And Max didn’t stop. He watched you fall apart again, watched George hold you tighter through it, whispering frantic praise against your ear.

“That’s it,” Max growled. “That’s what she fucking needed. Begging for it. One orgasm isn’t enough. Not when she looks like this.”

George groaned against you, his self-control fraying at the edges. 

“Max… I can’t… If she keeps squeezing me like that I’m gonna—”

“Not yet.” Max grabbed George’s hip, steadying him. “You want to fuck her again? You earn it. You make her beg for it. You look at her face and claim what is yours.”

You were babbling now—nonsense, pleasure-struck, tears on your cheeks as Max’s fingers finally left, leaving you throbbing and full and panting.

Max leaned down, kissing the corner of your mouth, his voice gentler now. 

“You want more?”

You nodded, barely audible. 

“Please…”

He looked at George. 

“That sound like begging to you?”

George’s eyes were blown wide, pupils dark with lust and something deeper. 

“Not quite.”

“Try again, baby.”

Max leaned in close to your ear, one hand cupping your jaw. His tone went razor-sharp again.

“Please, George, baby, fuck me. I need you. Please ruin me.”

“And now?” Max stared at him, serious.

“Good enough.”

“Then fuck her.”

You barely had time to breathe before George moved. It wasn’t gentle this time either.

Max’s command hung in the air like smoke and George obeyed like it had been burned into him. He pulled back, just enough to make you feel the drag, and then slammed back in, hard and deep, punching the air from your lungs.

You cried out, head falling back onto the soft pillow, and George groaned, his voice low and wrecked. 

“Fuck… She’s so tight, still… Can’t… Can’t believe—”

“She’s yours,” Max cut in, sharp. “Take her like it.”

George’s arms wrapped around you, pinning you to his chest as he began thrusting; not wild, but relentless. Deep strokes that made your thighs shake, made your clit ache from the overstimulation. 

You felt yourself being moved by both of them, getting to your hands and knees. Your body tried to retreat from the pleasure but couldn’t, not with George holding your hips, not with Max standing in front of you again, his hand stroking your jaw.

“Open your mouth, pretty,” Max murmured.

You obeyed without thinking.

Max’s fingers tapped lightly against your cheek, encouraging. 

“Good girl.”

Then he pushed his cock into your mouth, letting you suck it, watching as your lips wrapped around him with a messy whimper. Your eyes rolled back slightly. It felt too much and everything was going on too fast. Meanwhile, Max smiled like he owned the reaction.

George groaned again, thrusts stuttering for a moment at the sight of you like that. Wrecked, between them.

“Look at her,” Max said, cock still in your mouth. “She loves being used like this. Loves being full.”

George’s grip tightened. 

“She keeps clenching down… Feels like she doesn’t want to let go of me.”

“She doesn’t,” Max said. “She wants to be ruined. So give her what she wants.”

You moaned around him, mouth opening wider, as he fed it to you slowly, letting you taste him inch by inch.

“That’s it,” Max growled. “Suck me while he fucks you. Let both of us feel how desperate you are.”

Your mind blanked. All you could do was feel; George’s cock dragging in and out of you, Max’s thick heat stretching your throat, your body trapped between them, stuffed and shaking and blissed-out.

George was losing rhythm now, panting hard, voice rough in your ear.

“She’s… fuck, Max, she’s squeezing me so tight I can’t—”

Max pulled your mouth off him with a soft pop, one hand fisting in your hair. 

“You come when I say, not a second before.”

George groaned like it physically hurt. 

“She’s shaking—”

“Good. She’s going to come again.”

Max’s cock returned to your lips, but this time he started moving, fucking your throat with cruel precision. Your throat twitched, sounds of choking leaving you like silent cries while you spiraled toward the edge, again, with George still pounding into you from below, his grip bruising, his cock relentless.

Max leaned in, voice right against your ear. 

“Come on his cock. Come like you’re nothing but something to fill.”

That’s what broke you.

Your orgasm tore through you, violent and uncontrollable. You screamed, toes curling, thighs shaking. You didn’t even know what you were mururing, they were just sounds, sobs, whimpers between breathless cries of their names.

George roared, hips snapping up once, then twice, before he came deep inside you, heat flooding your cunt, his body trembling as he held you through it.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck.”

At the same time you felt the hot load feeling your mouth, tasting the saltiness while you watched as Max’s face twitched in pleasure, letting his dominance out the room so he could feel the ecstasy.

“That’s it, baby, so good to us.”

You collapsed against the bed, boneless, overwhelmed, tears drying on your cheeks. 

You felt George’s arms around you again, soft now, shaking from the effort. He was still inside you, still twitching with aftershocks.

Max watched you both, chest rising and falling, his breathing gradually slowing.

Then, without a word, he lay down beside you, one hand resting lightly on your lower back, the weight of him grounding you. George’s heartbeat drummed beneath his chest as he moved away. The room was thick with heat, sweat cooling on flushed skin.

No one spoke. There was nothing left to say.

You let your eyes close, your body finally still, carried by the quiet hum of spent pleasure that settled over all three of you.

And for a while, there was only silence.

[jujuberry136]

Murderbot 1x07

It's an episode that adds in some backstory for the PresAux crew, everyone is dealing with the fallout from 1x06, and the PresAux team and Murderbot all have a think if they really should be sticking together. Spoilers and reactions behind the cut!

Those Bharadwaj/Pin-Lee shippers should be happy -ish, one-sided attraction is canon!

Gurathin backstory! David Dastmalchian did a great job with his monologue and I feel like it really helps bring light on Gurathin's behavior to date. He's suspicious because he knows first hand what the Corporation Rim will make people do; he did it himself. It's not paranoia when you've actually done this kind of sabotage yourself.

Dr. Ayda Mensah, inspiring people and constructs to believe in humanity's potential and rise above the Corporation Rim's violence and green

We get some really interesting looks at PresAux culture in this episode, from the Sweet/Bitter game (team building before the trip began?) to the holding hands and "we can talk it out" response to resolve inter-team conflict

This episode had a lot of the PresAux team being surprised at how much Murderbot can see and hear; I had assumed that with the reveal in Episode 4 of SecUnit having control of the Habitat's security system (and reading private logs in S3?) that they would have realized how much reach Murderbot has, but this appears to be a slow-going reveal. I'm curious if this is meant to built up to something in later episodes or if they're trying to make sure the TV audience gets a better understanding of Murderbot's ability to interface with different systems (since we don't have the same narrative device in the books where Murderbot talks about hacking or asking bots for permission)

"Unless you feel like dying. I mean from them, not from me".

Murderbot still lying to itself that it does care about the PresAux team (well, most of them) and its feels hurt that everyone now mistrusts it because it murdered Leebeebee

How much do I love that Ratthi still gets LBB's name wrong?

Gurathin's look at Mensah when she voices her concern that Murderbot will leave them (instead of them leaving us) - he later presses her if she has feelings for it, seemingly unable to see the parallels in how she is able to empathize with Murderbot (and previously him)

They kept the book lines about what makes a construct! I appreciate that we get this contrast between how Murderbot considers itself ("I was one whole, confused entity") vs the PresAux team using "person" as the default

I appreciated Arada getting to get her biologist nerd on

I loved that moment visually where Murderbot is dreaming about just slipping away into the landscape watching its media. The phrasing "another piece of the scenery" really gets towards how Murderbot has been treated for most of its existence (and its ongoing confusion at how the PresAux team treats it). The fact that Murderbot blows this course of action off ("not enough media"), this makes the end of the episode not much of a cliffhanger, but others may vary.

I appreciate that the episode allows the PresAux team to continue to deal with the violence from last episode

The PresAux team still trying to get Murderbot "Maybe it just needs some perimeter time?" "Where exactly is the perimeter?" "It's not a crime to have feelings!"

I admit it, I laughed at the evil SecUnit telling the PresAux team to please remain calm while shooting at them

"In retrospect, I was glad we didn't touch the egg sacs"

Was the metaphor a bit heavy handed this episode about complimentary species? Yes. Did I still enjoy it? Also yes.

Description for 1x08 "PresAux receives a dispatch from a rival group. Gurathin taps into Murderbot's bloody past." Name reveal time?

(Spoilers for All Systems Red and Artificial Condition, I'm curious if they'll just dig in more than the existing flashbacks they've shown of Murderbot's murder spree to avoid having future seasons of this show deal with the fact that the PresAux team isn't really a part of novellas 2 and 3. I hope they don't resolve it entirely in this S1 of the show to be able to skip to Exit Strategy as S2 of the tv show because that would really shortchange Murderbot's character arc...)

[emersonpierce]

Wilbur has said that if he were to fully explain the situation, it would involve doxxing both himself and Shelby. So why is it okay when Dream makes his statements, but not when Wilbur does?

The constant hate directed at Wilbur needs to stop. This situation was never something the public should have been involved in to begin with, and everyone needs to recognize that.

People are demanding answers as if they’re entitled to them. Wilbur did his best to explain, but when the answer didn’t satisfy some, they just jumped back on the hate train. That’s not just immature; it’s a refusal to move on.

Let’s talk about Shelby for a second. It’s been over a year, and she still hasn’t provided any concrete proof, only statements that are essentially a “trust me, bro” defense, backed up by people she wasn’t even close with. Yet somehow it’s okay for her to make those claims without evidence just because she’s considered a “victim” and a woman?

People need to take a step back and see the bigger picture. Wilbur did everything he could to keep both himself and Shelby safe, and just because you don’t like the way it turned out doesn’t give anyone the right to keep attacking him.

This situation should never have been public in the first place, and deep down, everyone knows that. You can lie to yourself all you want, but it’s the truth.

It's time to move on.

Wilbur's statement that fully explaining the situation would require doxxing both himself and Shelby is not just a cop-out or an excuse — it's a real boundary rooted in privacy and safety. Doxxing isn’t just the release of addresses or phone numbers; it includes exposing deeply personal details or past histories that could place people at risk mentally, emotionally, socially, or even physically.

If Wilbur is withholding information to avoid exposing sensitive details about another person — especially someone he had a personal relationship with — then that is not only valid, but commendable. It's respecting someone’s boundaries, even if that person has chosen a public-facing narrative.

Meanwhile, when Dream speaks, the public seems far more willing to entertain nuance, to say, "Well, we don’t know everything," or "He’s doing his best." Why does that courtesy not extend to Wilbur? It raises questions about selective empathy and inconsistent standards of accountability.

From the outset, this situation was steeped in parasocial dynamics. Fans want transparency from creators, which is understandable to a point — but there’s a difference between being a supporter and being entitled to someone’s private trauma, explanations, or personal life.

The truth is: no one is owed an answer — not beyond what Wilbur has already said. He did make a statement, despite the potential personal cost. And because that statement didn’t align with what some people wanted to hear, they dismissed it entirely. That’s not a search for truth; that’s confirmation bias in action.

Shelby’s narrative has often been accepted at face value, largely because of the public’s instinct to "believe victims" — especially women — in any dispute involving a man. While that instinct is important and rooted in a history of survivors being ignored, it cannot override basic principles of fairness, especially when evidence is lacking.

Let’s be clear: Shelby has not provided concrete evidence. Most of what exists are vague, indirect statements and anecdotes from people who weren’t directly involved. And yet she’s treated as if the burden of proof lies entirely on Wilbur, who cannot respond in detail without crossing serious ethical and legal boundaries.

That imbalance is stark. It suggests a public climate where one party is presumed guilty until proven innocent, and the other is granted the benefit of the doubt without having to prove anything.

What more do people want? Wilbur has said his piece. He’s been silent, likely on the advice of legal counsel or out of concern for emotional wellbeing — his and hers. Still, critics keep demanding answers. But what would satisfy them? A tell-all that invades someone’s privacy? A thread full of screenshots that drag a private relationship into the public eye?

The refusal to move on says more about the audience than the people involved. It's easier for some to continue cycling outrage than to accept an unsatisfying resolution. That’s not just immature — it's dangerous. It contributes to a culture where real-life mental health is collateral damage in a public drama people consume like a Netflix series.

This never should have become public. The audience has conflated their investment in a content creator's work with entitlement to their personal life. That’s not fandom — that’s voyeurism.

Both Wilbur and Shelby are real people. Real people don’t owe strangers their trauma breakdown. The expectation that they must publicly litigate a complex personal history is absurd and harmful.

Wilbur tried to navigate this situation with as much care and privacy as possible. He didn’t retaliate. He didn’t release compromising details. He chose silence where it would’ve been easy to clap back. That’s not guilt — that’s maturity.

And Shelby, regardless of what anyone believes, deserves privacy too. That’s why people need to stop using her identity as a rhetorical shield while using Wilbur’s as a punching bag.

It’s time to step back. Respect both parties. Stop pretending we’re owed anything here.

Anyone still dragging his name through the mud is in the headspace of entitlement because they can’t accept the fact people need to move, and he gave a mature response that they didn’t want.

[kinesisk-fyrverkeri]

Literally coming back to Tumblr to say this

Joost fans, go outside.... experience fresh air, connect with nature. I get that a lot of his fanbase are neurodivergent and connect with him and his story, but that is not his problem. You don't know him, he doesn't want to be your friend or your boyfriend, he's a regular guy doing his job and you're on the internet dreaming about sucking his cock while also treating him like a baby who needs to watch owt becauwse da world is scawy :"3.

Your neurodivergence is not an excuse to overstep every possible boundary he has set up and act like a crazy person, your obsession does not justify making the internet, what used to be his safe space, into a hellhole where you're spreading rumors about his sex life and speculating about what he likes and how he does it. You have completely driven him off the internet, he rarely interacts with people, and so your go-to is to make up stories and stalk him in real life when he has asked you not to. Some of you walk through life thinking you're the exception to the rules, that he doesn't want people to tag him in things but it doesn't hurt when you do it once, and it doesn't hurt that you walk up to him because you're just nice and trying to say hi, and you're just writing sexual fanfics on Tumblr so I'm sure he doesn't mind you describing how it feels when his huge dick enters you, and you're just checking jodel to ask for his location and if you see him you're not gonna run up to him and scare him so it's okay if you just introduce yourself and ask for a photo. Stop thinking you're the exception to rules or the main character in other peoples lives just because you enjoy the work he puts out, start thinking about how other people feel when you act the way you act and think about how you would feel if crazy people wouldn't leave you alone.

I'm saying this as someone who is autistic and sees the harmful stuff a lot of people in this fandom do, and the harmful view a lot of neurotypical people have on autism. Some of you will say the most ableist stuff about Joost and be like UwU I love him sooowww mwuch my pookie x"D

[scary-grace]

11. YOU CAN’T RUN FROM ME FOREVER (scarier prompts) if you are open to it for Shigaraki Tomura

Hi there, anon! When you sent this prompt, it lit my brain on fire, and produced a fic that's cleared 50k words -- and a fic that's much darker than what I usually write. Your call on whether it counts as scary or not. If you hate it, send me another ask with any kind of prompt, and I'll rewrite the fic for you!

Savior - a Shigaraki x f!reader fic

When you broke up with Shigaraki Tomura at the end of high school, you never expected him to stalk you for years, and when you and Chisaki Kai got married, you thought you'd finally broken free. But life with Kai turns quickly from a dream into a waking nightmare, and with every month that passes, you can feel your chances to escape dwindling. Almost out of time, with no good choices left, you turn to the one person who swore he'd never give up on you -- and hope he's less interested in stalking you than he is in saving your life.

AU - no quirks. Past (and future) Tomura x reader, present Overhaul x reader. Dead Dove Do Not Eat. Depictions of dubcon, domestic violence, and reproductive coercion (Overhaul). References to past stalking behavior (Tomura). Angst. Hurt/no comfort for the majority of the fic. If you find any of the above too triggering to read about, please go check out some of the other fics in the fandom! there are lots of them waiting to be discovered and loved. dividers by @cafekitsune

Chapter 1

Before you got married, going out with Shigaraki Tomura was the worst mistake you’d ever made. Sometimes you try to reassure yourself that you were in high school, that high school is where people are allowed to make mistakes. But most people’s high school mistakes are little things – a bad outfit, a bad haircut, a bad grade, a speeding ticket or a broken curfew. Things parents yell over, and ground you over, too. They’re not the kind of mistake that follows you for the rest of your life. Short of getting pregnant and dropping out of school, dating Shigaraki Tomura was the biggest mistake it was possible for you to make.

He didn’t look it. They never do. He was quiet and kept to himself for the most part. The friends he did have were delinquents to a fault, who picked on most people but never on you. Nobody picked on you. You found out later that it was because of him, but not because he told you. Looking out for you wasn’t something Tomura expected you to be grateful for. It was just something he did.

And Tomura wasn’t bad, exactly. He was a perfectly typical high school boyfriend, the quiet almost-loner that girls like you think needs fixing, the kind of boy girls like you leave in the dust when you realize they won’t change. You stuck it out a lot longer than most, because you liked being with him and he treated you well – so well that your friends were jealous, even friends who’d never date him in a million years. But the two of you were never going to work long-term, so you broke it off the night before you moved away for university. It broke your heart more than you thought it would, but you told yourself it was the right thing to do.

But it wasn’t. It wasn’t, because instead of accepting it and moving on, Tomura followed you. He followed you for the next seven years.

He never threatened you or did anything to make you legitimately scared, but that also meant that he never did anything you could point to when you called the police. No angry emails or notes. No forced entry – the cops always assumed you forgot to lock the door or shut the window, no matter how many pictures you took of the door or window after you locked it. No stolen valuables, but when something turned up missing, you always knew who had it. You knew Tomura would give it back, whatever it was, if you asked – but then you’d have had to ask him, which meant talking to him. Stonewalling was the best you could do, even if it didn’t work. At least he wasn’t stealing your underwear.

You tried to hold it together, but by your third year at university, you were a wreck. Your grades crashed and kept falling, and you couldn’t tell anyone. All you could do was keep it together and hope no one noticed. Eventually, someone did.

You met the man you married in the tutoring center your senior year, when you were trying to salvage a chemistry class you’d failed as a sophomore and were in the process of failing again. Kai was a grad student, tutoring because someone made him, and he was better at it than everyone else combined. One night you were there late, almost to closing time. It was dark out, and even though Tomura had never threatened or hurt you, the idea of being followed through the darkness by something you couldn’t see terrified you. You panicked. Kai saw.

What is it? he asked in that dry, calm voice he always used to explain things you couldn’t grasp. Are you afraid of the dark?

No, you said. It’s just –

What?

You wouldn’t believe me, you said. Kai didn’t put up with excuses. You knew that already. It’s fine. You should go.

You were both standing up, backpacks slung over your shoulders. Kai sat back down. Try me.

You explained everything. It spilled out in a stammered wash of tears, your chest tightening until you could barely speak, and all the while Kai sat across from you, perfectly calm. He was going to tell you that you were crazy. You wanted him to. You wanted him to say you were out of your mind, that nobody would stalk you of all people for going on four years straight, and you’d use his reassurance that you were crazy to be scared to force yourself to walk home in the dark.

Kai, who never touched anyone, reached across the table. You thought he was going to put his hand on your shoulder. Instead he cupped your cheek, smudging away your tears with his thumb. His behavior is ridiculous, but I can’t fault the impulse, he said. I’d have a hard time letting go of you, too.

A warning bell rang distantly in your head, but the relief of being listened to, being believed, drowned everything else out. I’ll walk you home, Kai continued. He took his hand back. You don’t need to be scared of him as long as you’re with me.

And Kai was right, because Kai is always right, because the laws of the universe would bend and break before they’d do anything but prove him correct. You don’t need to be scared of Tomura any longer. Now, almost four years after you married Kai in the culmination of a whirlwind romance, you know that there are worse things than Tomura – and you married the worst thing of all.

Your cheek stings, and you keep your face pressed against the cool tile floor of the bathroom, knowing better than to try to rise. Kai looms over you, expression perfectly calm, barely a spark behind his eyes. “Go on,” he invites you. “Make another excuse.”

You shake your head, and he kicks you – not in the stomach, but hard against your hip. It’s one of his usual targets, and there’s a bruise still healing there from the last time you let him down. You whimper in pain. “Tell me how it isn’t your fault,” Kai continues as you cringe away from him. “I’ve been to the doctor. There’s nothing wrong with me. Are you really going to sit there and tell me it’s my fault you aren’t pregnant?”

“It’s nobody’s fault,” you whisper. Kai kicks you harder this time, and you slam both hands down over your mouth so you won’t cry out. “I didn’t mean to. I’m sorry.”

Apologies are worth nothing when Kai’s like this. It doesn’t matter to him whether you apologize or not. He’ll stop when he thinks he’s made his point, and not before. The words sneak out of your mouth anyway. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry –”

“I don’t want to hear that you’re sorry.” Kai seizes your arm and the collar of your pajama shirt and hauls you upright, putting you face to face. “I want to hear what you’ll do to fix it.”

“I’ll exercise more, like the doctor said. And take the vitamins. I won’t forget.” Your voice rattles. “I’ll keep track of my cycle like I’m supposed to. I can fix it. Please let me fix it. I know I can.”

He studies you. You stare hopelessly in his eyes, searching for something, anything you recognize as human. But there’s nothing. Kai’s amber eyes are flat and pitiless, like always. “Good,” he says. He drops you abruptly, and you fall back to the floor. “Get dressed. I’ll drive you to work.”

Kai likes to drive you to work. He says it’s important for the two of you to spend time together. Maybe he thinks that’s true, but you only know the effect it has – it means you don’t have a car at work, that you’re dependent on him to get home, that you don’t have even a spare second to think or regroup. You have to do it under his watchful eyes, which is how you do everything. You can’t even put your makeup on to cover the red handprint on your cheek without getting feedback. “Do the other side, too,” Kai instructs. “It’s uneven.”

You do, your hands shaking. You make the mistake of glancing down at the negative pregnancy test still sitting on the counter and spill setting powder into the sink. “Next time, use the spray,” Kai says. “Hurry. You don’t want to be late.”

No, you can’t be late. If you’re late, Kai will be late, and you’ll pay for it – later, when you’re not expecting it, when you’ve made the mistake of thinking he’s let it go. You get dressed the rest of the way, pick up the workbag you packed last night, and hurry to the door. Or try to. Kai’s hand comes down on your shoulder with a bruising grip. “Aren’t you forgetting something?”

Your head swims with terror, and worse when you feel his hands wrap around your neck. But he’s not choking you – just putting a necklace on you, one he bought for you on your birthday a few weeks ago. “Make sure your idiot coworker sees that. I’m tired of hearing about how she thinks I don’t treat you well.”

Your coworker doesn’t mean any harm. She’s just joking, because you and she are friends, because she assumes your husband is the rational, normal man he appears to be instead of someone who took a joke about your work wife stealing you from him way too literally. You nod, and you force the words out of your mouth, the ones you know he’s waiting for. “It’s beautiful,” you say. “No one’s ever treated me like you do.”

You turn back to face Kai and see him nodding, satisfied. No matter how many times you say those words to him, he never hears what you really mean. He thinks about himself in comparison to Tomura, your loser of a high school boyfriend who could never get a job like Kai’s job, never make the kind of money Kai makes, buy the kind of gifts Kai can buy. You think about Kai in comparison to Tomura, too. Tomura stalked you for years. Kai might kill you one day. There’s no comparison at all.

The drive to work isn’t quiet like it usually is, because Kai always goes back to asking human for a little while after he beats you. You’re familiar with the cycle. He never apologizes, never pretends it won’t happen again, but he acts the way he used to when the two of you were dating. You both know it’s fake, but sometimes it amuses him to play the part of a good husband in private as well as public. You might as well go along while it lasts.

“I’ve been asked to represent the company at a conference in Dubai next month,” he says, and you smile at him. Your cheek hurts. “I’ll take you with me. Where else should we visit while we’re in the region – Istanbul, or Cairo?”

You’ve dreamed about visiting both of them. You’re also convinced that they’d be great places for Kai to kill you, dump your body, and blame it on the locals. But you know he won’t do that. There’s a specific image Kai is cultivating, and until that image requires him to be a widower, he needs you. “Istanbul,” you say.

“Hmm. I favor Cairo,” Kai says, and you freeze in your seat. It’s either freeze or flinch, and Kai hates flinching more. “Why not both? We might as well travel now. It’ll be more difficult after the baby is born.”

“You don’t want our baby to be a world traveler?” You keep your voice light, playful. “Think how far ahead they’d be by the time they went to school.”

“Only an idiot would expose an infant to the kind of pathogens present on an airplane,” Kai says. “Neither of us are idiots. We’ll have plenty of time to travel once our child receives a full course of vaccines.”

“Of course,” you say. “I shouldn’t have forgotten. I just got too excited about it. Us traveling as a family.”

“Yes,” Kai says. His hand leaves the steering wheel to settle on your thigh, and you force your muscles to relax. “This month was a setback, nothing more. Next month we’ll succeed.”

He’s let it go for now, at least. You allow the relief to carry you the rest of the way to work.

Kai’s been playing the good husband since you got in the car, but once he reaches your office building, he kicks the performance into overdrive. He parks the car in a no-parking zone, comes around to your side, and opens the door for you, hand extended to help you out. It looks like a grand gesture, but you know why he’s doing it – if he kicked you too hard, it’ll show when you step up onto the curb. Sure enough, you stumble, and Kai steadies you, setting you back on your feet. “Careful,” he admonishes. “The nurses at the urgent care are busy enough without adding you to their list of patients.”

“I’ll be careful,” you promise. You’re conscious of eyes on you – so many eyes, always. As the heir apparent to the biggest pharmaceutical company in the region, Kai’s a local celebrity. His comings and goings are always an event, and you know your role by heart. “Do I get a kiss goodbye?”

“It’s appalling that you think you need to ask.” Kai cups your cheek with hideous gentleness and kisses you in full view of everyone in your office who’s standing by a window, like he’s a soldier going off to war trying to give you something to remember him by. As if you needed anything else. “I’ll be back at five pm, precisely.”

He lets you go, and you head to work, turning back just once to wave at him. He’s still there. You know from experience that he won’t leave until you enter the building.

Once you’re inside, you duck into your cubicle and sit down as quickly as possible. The fewer people see what your walk looks like right now, the better. Emi, your work wife, flops down on your desk. “Saw you and your hubby making out,” she says, and pops a bubble of gum. “You guys are gross. When Shouta finally realizes I’m the one for him, it’s payback time.”

Emi’s had a crush on Aizawa Shouta from the security division for as long as you’ve known her. Most of the people in the office think she’s insane for liking him, given how scary he is, but you’re on her side. You know what scary looks like. You know that Aizawa, who’s gruff and grumpy but never cruel, isn’t it. “How’s it going with Shouta? Any progress?”

“Little bit. He lets me eat lunch with him now instead of walking away.” Emi sighs dreamily. “We’re going to have five kids. I’ve already picked out their names.”

“Five is a lot. You’re going to have to grow an extra arm.”

Emi laughs. “What about you? Have you and Kai had the talk?”

“About kids?” Your cheek stings. Your computer pings and gives you an excuse to look away. “Not yet.”

Windchimes sound over the loudspeaker, signifying the official opening of business, and Emi blows a kiss to you before ducking back into her own cubicle. As soon as she’s gone, you turn to the locked door in your desk and open it to check on your supplies. You’re almost out. You have a little over a month to figure out how to get more.

Kai thinks he has you under control, and for the most part he’s right, shamefully so. But since you went off birth control, since the two of you started trying for a baby, you’ve been keeping a stash of Plan B at work. Every time you and Kai have sex, you take one within three days.

When Kai brought up trying for a baby, you knew instantly what it meant. If you have Kai’s baby, you’ll guarantee that he won’t kill you, but you’ll wish he would, because you’ll lose every scrap of freedom you’ve managed to cling to. You’ll have to quit your job, which you’ve only kept this long because it suits him to project the image of the young power couple, both decidedly going somewhere in life. The baby will be the only excuse he’ll ever need to keep you tied to the house, to him. And if threatening you ever stops being enough to keep you in line, he’ll have someone else to threaten instead.

You’re terrified that it’ll work, and at the same time, you’re scared it won’t work at all. The bottom line is that you can’t have a baby with Kai. You’ve been sneaking morning-after pills for months now, well aware that you’re running out of time. At some point Kai will get suspicious. At some point he’ll suggest fertility drugs, artificial insemination, IVF, and then you’ll have only three ways out, none of them good. Kill Kai. Try to leave him, which means he’ll kill you. Or kill yourself, make it stick this time, and be done with all of it for good.

There’s one more thing in your locked drawer, other than the Plan B. Something that was waiting for you at work, when you got back after your suicide attempt three years ago, in a plain envelope with your name written in handwriting that triggers only a faint shadow of the anxiety it used to. Tomura didn’t send a letter. Just a picture of the two of you hanging out in Toga’s backyard, with a message scrawled on the back. You can’t run from me forever. I know you don’t want to. I’ll wait.

It’s the last message you ever got from Tomura. If he’s stalked you since, he’s left no trace. And on days like today, when you’re hiding bruises and battling a headache and sick to your stomach with terror, you almost wish he would. At least then someone would see what was happening to you. At least then you’d feel a little less alone.

You knew Kai was being too nice about the Dubai thing, but it’s not until you’re packing for the trip that you understand the full scope of the disaster. The trip lasts for seven days – three in Dubai for the conference, two in Cairo, two in Istanbul. It maps almost exactly onto the point in your cycle when you’re ovulating. And neither Plan B nor any other form of emergency contraception is going to be easy to get while you’re abroad. You spend the night before the trip in a panic, then the morning of the trip talking yourself down. When Kai notices that you’re anxious, you tell him you’re just worried about the flight.

“What about it?” he asks. “The airline has an excellent safety rating.”

“They all do until something happens.” It’s easy for you to summon up tears. “It’s just – things are going so well, and whenever that happens it means something’s going to go wrong –”

You remember sharing the same set of worries with Tomura one time, except it was about something silly – your lines in the school play, or maybe a presentation you had to do. You remember how he shrugged. Yeah, it might go wrong, he said, and you protested, indignant. I still love you, though.

“Nothing will go wrong,” Kai says, perfectly calm. “Everything will go as planned. And if it doesn’t –”

He doesn’t need to finish that sentence. You know exactly who he’ll blame.

Everything does go as planned – the ride to the airport, the always-fraught stumbling through security, and the settling into the airline’s VIP lounge with two hours to kill. Kai orders drinks. One for him and one for you, which is strange, because he’s been harping on you not to drink since you stopped taking birth control. “Is this okay?”

“Yes. I know for a fact that you aren’t pregnant right now.”

You don’t want to be pregnant, so it shouldn’t sting – but somehow it does. “I guess I should enjoy it while I can,” you say. “Thank you.”

The drink is pretty. It comes in a pretty glass, with a flower garnish, and you take out your phone and snap a picture with it, even though you haven’t had social media to post it on in years. But as the shutter clicks, a idea pops into your head. You set your phone aside, take a sip of the drink, and glance at Kai. “I’m thinking about redownloading Instagram.”

He’s just taken a sip, too. He coughs. “Excuse me?”

“I was talking to my supervisor,” you say. “About promotions. She said that when upper management is looking to hire, they check on candidates’ social media to see what their personality is like. If I want to get promoted –”

“You’ll no longer be able to work once the baby is born.”

“They don’t need to know that. And in the meantime, I should try to make as much money as possible, right?” Your mind is screaming at you to shut up, to walk it back, but you keep talking.  “I wasn’t doing anything strange on my old account. If I post a picture or two every week, it’ll at least look like I’m active.”

“I suppose,” Kai says. He takes another sip of his drink. “My account serves a similar function, after all.”

You’re featured on Kai’s account a lot. Most of his rivals for the top spot have messy personal lives, and Kai’s veneer of domestic bliss gives a leg up. “Still,” Kai continues, “I’m surprised to hear you bring it up. Aren’t you concerned?”

“About?’

“Your ex.” Kai’s eyes narrow slightly. “You took down your social media because of him. Aren’t you worried about attracting his attention?”

“He hasn’t done anything in three years. He’s lost interest by now,” you say. “And even if he hasn’t – you always told me I didn’t need to be afraid of him while I’m with you. I should finally start taking your word for it.”

Kai looks pleased. You reach for your drink, but he lifts it out of your hand and sets it back on the table. Then he takes out your paper boarding passes and fans them out, revealing the first-class stamp along with the destination. “Now take the picture,” he instructs. Oh. You pick up your phone. “If you’re curating your image, always consider what lies in the background. This looks sophisticated. Your first photo looked cheap.”

Sometimes Kai reminds you of Hannibal Lecter. You snap a few photos, then come up with an idea. “Hold your hand out,” you say. He extends it across the table to you, and you take it with your left hand. Kai raises his eyebrows. “So my ring’s in the picture. It’s sophisticated, too.”

“Yes,” Kai agrees. “It also says you’re taken.”

You nod. Your heart is hammering, and you draw your hand away from Kai’s before he can feel your pulse. You redownload Instagram, then give Kai your phone, letting him choose the photo from the several you took and edit it to his satisfaction. He adds the tags, too, but leaves the caption for you.

What do you even caption it? That depends on why you’re posting it, and even you aren’t sure. Finally you tag Kai’s account and type a caption that sounds fun, maybe. Flirty, but it’s okay, because you tagged your husband. And a little bit of something else, something you don’t want to look at head-on. Run away with me.

Kai’s personal phone pings and he consults it. “The caption is rough, but passable for now. You’ll do better next time.”

“Yes,” you promise. Your hands are shaking.

The flight goes well, but that’s not to say there’s no turbulence; a particular patch of unstable air over the Indian Ocean scares everybody except you and Kai out of their seats. Kai’s not easy to rattle, and you’re so rattled from everything else that it doesn’t make much of an impact. Once the air smooths out, the other passengers fall back to sleep quickly. Kai stays awake, and alert. “What is it?” you ask.

“The bathrooms are empty. We should take advantage.”

That makes as much sense to you as anything else. It’s not until you’re up there, opening the door to one, that you figure out what Kai actually meant. As tiny as airport bathrooms are for one, they’re smaller for two, and you have no idea how Kai expects the two of you to have sex in here after he’s yanked you into the one he just opened. “I don’t think this is going to work.”

“Use your imagination.” Kai shuts the door. The click of the lock is unbearably loud.

You don’t have a clue where he got the idea that the two of you should join the Mile-High club in the middle of an eleven-hour flight. Then again, you don’t usually know where Kai gets his ideas for spicing up your sex life. This one feels far enough out of his usual zone to be the result of something he heard or something he read. Kai likes things clean and orderly, and he doesn’t like to be rushed – and he doesn’t like needing too much active participation from you to make something work. You can’t imagine why he thinks fucking you in an airplane bathroom is a good idea. You’ve never been more uncomfortable in your life.

And that’s it, you realize. Your discomfort is what’s getting Kai off here, the fact that you clearly don’t want to do this but are putting up with it anyway, just because he said to. He likes the reminder of your obedience, and you think he probably likes to forget where it comes from. Either way, he’s into it, and you’re as bent as it’s possible to be over the sink while he makes quick work of your clothes. You catch a glimpse of your own face in the mirror, see the resigned, vacant look in your eyes, and squeeze them shut.

Your experience with men is limited. You dated a guy or two in college, but your constant paranoia about Tomura scared them off, and you and Tomura only got farther than third base a handful of times. It was never scripted, always awkward, because you didn’t have a clue what you were doing – and at the same time, it was good. Good because it wasn’t a performance, because you weren’t playing a part, because it wasn’t about anything except feeling how you felt. That was another reason it took you so long to break up with Tomura. When the two of you were together, you felt good.

There’s something twisted and wrong about thinking about the guy who stalked you while the guy who might kill you someday fucks you from behind, but you have to think about something. Kai expects a certain performance from you, given the effort he’s putting into being kinky and spontaneous, and you can’t do it off the top of your head. So you come up with some memory of Tomura, try to pretend you’re there instead of here, while Kai’s thrusts shove you hard enough against the sink to leave bruises on your stomach and hips.

“Look at yourself,” Kai hisses in your ear. His hand brushes against your neck, and even the suggestion of it spurs you to look up. “Look. Who else would do this for you?”

He’s doing it for you? You could almost laugh if you weren’t so sickened by your own reflection. You can make the right faces, mimic the moves he likes with the scant space you have, but you know what Kai really wants from you. Noise. You would almost rather he choked you to death right here than that he forces a single sound out of your mouth. There’s nothing he can make you feel that’s worth it. Not even your memories are enough.

But Kai doesn’t leave things to chance. He sinks his teeth into your shoulder, and you cry out before you can stop yourself. Your husband doesn’t try to stop himself either – he pins you against the sink, fucking you fast and hard until he comes inside you. “No one else would do this for you,” he pants in your ear, as undone as he ever gets. “Don’t forget that.”

Kai never makes the comparison to anyone but Tomura, because in his head, he’ll always win. And you know he’s right. Tomura wouldn’t have dragged you in here. If the idea had come up, it would have been as a joke. You wouldn’t be in first class, you’d be in economy, and you’d have woken up with the turbulence and gone back to sleep.

Kai pulls out. You’re dully surprised that he manages it, given how little space the two of you are working with. “Clean up,” he orders. “I’ll be waiting.”

Cleaning up takes a while. Kai’s cleaned up, too – when you get back to your seat, the entire row smells like hand sanitizer. He looks you up and down and nods in approval before he lets you into the window seat. Your phone, which you left screen-down on your seat and connected to the plane’s WiFi, is inundated with notifications, almost all of them from Instagram. People from high school, from college, from the life you had before this one, all excited to see you back, most of them asking for a life update. Asking about the ring, about the husband – about the drink, in one case. But once you clear those notifications away, there’s one last banner glowing up at you. From your period tracker, informing you that you’re ovulating as of today.

As the Dubai trip unfolds, it starts to feel like you’re leading three separate lives. One where you’re Kai’s arm candy with a brain, an integral part of his power-couple image. One where you’re putting up with his attempts to get you pregnant at least twice a day and talking about how excited you are for a baby that hasn’t been conceived. And one where you’re a normal person, posting photos of your vacation on Instagram.

You do a lot of scenery posts. A lot of food posts. If there’s a photo of you, Kai’s usually in it. You’ve been getting DMs from old friends, and the comment sections of your photos get a little lively. Your favorite ones are probably the ones where Emi tags Aizawa, who you didn’t realize had an Instagram until now, and demands to know why he never takes her anywhere this nice. Kai sees you smiling while you read one and comes over to investigate. “No wonder she makes so many ridiculous comments about me. Her partner can’t measure up.”

“They’re not actually dating,” you say. “She likes him, and he’s either gay or dumb about it. I think she’s just having fun.”

“Fun,” Kai repeats. He scoffs. “You should set a higher bar for friends.”

You heart-react to Emi’s comment once his back is turned, then go scrolling through y our notifications. There are a few usernames you haven’t seen yet, although you know they’re still active. If none of them interact with you, you’ll know it hasn’t worked.

Kai is busy during the day in Dubai, and you try to make good use of the time. You spent a lot of time trying to hunt for emergency contraception, a lot of time trying to see the things you want to see, and the rest of the time you’re on Instagram, messaging your old friends, queuing photo posts with meticulously crafted captions that call back to inside jokes from your high school days. The captions won’t make sense to Kai. He didn’t know you back then. The person whose attention you’re trying to capture did.

You’re aware of just how insane this is. Tomura vanished out of your life three years ago, and the best thing you can hope for him is that he’s moved on, found something else to do, found someone else to love in a healthier way than he loved you. So what if Tomura left you that picture? He can’t have meant it. He wouldn’t wait for you, not when you married somebody who’s as different from him as it’s possible to be. He wouldn’t wait for you. Who would?

And even if he did wait, even if this does work, what you’re doing is still incredibly far-fetched. Have you really given up on saving yourself so completely that you’re trying to get someone else to do it for you? You don’t think so. You just know that Tomura’s good at watching. Good at picking up details. You want someone to watch what happens to you, no matter what it is, and know the truth.

At night you go out to dinner or drinks with Kai and his colleagues. You know what part to play, almost well enough to put the whole thing on autopilot, and when you’re not answering questions about your career goals or telling someone how proud you are of your husband, your mind is sipping off in a thousand directions, hoping that one holds a way out.

You’ve done your research about domestic violence, and you know your position is better than the position a lot of people find themselves in when they start trying to leave. You have a degree, you have work experience, you have a credit score, and best of all, you have your own money set aside, a quarter of each paycheck going into an account with nobody’s name on it but yours. You and Kai had a fight over that account a couple months after the wedding. You call it a fight because it was the first and last time you held your ground and won, as well as the first and last time he actually knocked you unconscious. It’s the only time either of you ever went that far.

You have money. That puts you in a stronger position. And for right now, for as long as possible, you don’t have a kid. If you want to leave Kai, now’s the time.

It looks possible on paper. In practice it’s not. There are too many moving parts, too many times where things would have to go exactly right, and Kai’s the only person who has that kind of luck. Even if you got clear somehow, Kai could find you. He’d find you through the lawyers when you tried to divorce him, or he’d find you all on his own, and once he did, it would all be over. He’d kill you and get away with it, or worse, he’d find a judge, wave your extensive history of paranoia and your past suicide attempt in front of their face, and get legal guardianship over you in a heartbeat. Leaving Kai won’t work, not unless you leave him without the ability to come after you again. He’s too smart to get caught in the act of abusing you, so you can’t trust the law to protect you from him. That only leaves one option. And that option is unthinkable.

So here you are. You do exactly what Kai wants you to do for the entirety of the Dubai leg of the trip, and he buys you a pair of earrings that cost more than the downpayment on your house. You’re wearing them as you get on the plane to Cairo. He insisted.

Kai has an itinerary in Cairo, like he does everywhere, but because you haven’t messed up yet, he’s made sure everything you want to see is on it. He steers you through the city with an arm around your waist, effortlessly confident in the way that made you fall for him, before you knew what it meant. And he’s more lenient with you than usual, too. If you get tired, if you need to stop for water, if you take one look at a crowded market and panic a little bit, Kai indulges it. It takes you a while to figure out why. He’s been giving a hundred and ten percent at the task of knocking you up. Too much stress and it might not stick.

His indulgence continues through Istanbul, and because you go above and beyond to please him, you’re able to convince him to take the picture. Just one picture, of just you, inside the Blue Mosque, the place you were most excited to see. Kai gives instructions like he’s directing a photo shoot, about where you should stand and how you should angle your face to best catch the light, and instead of getting one picture, you get three. One where you’re smiling. One where you’re looking up in awe. And one where you’re glancing back over your shoulder, the neckline of your shirt pulled aside, the faint shadow of the bite mark visible beneath it.

Kai doesn’t notice, or doesn’t care. He wants to post the pictures on his instagram, but you talk him out of it, compromising by giving him photographer credit in a caption Emi promptly calls out as “simping”. You embed the photo in the middle of a three-photo post before you leave the hotel, and you don’t check the notifications until the plane back to Tokyo has reached cruising altitude. The instant you do, your heart stops in your chest.

You’ve been waiting, hoping, but nothing prepares you for what it feels like to see it at last. togachan817 has liked this.

Himiko’s had that same handle since high school, and you never blocked her, not even when you realized she was feeding information about you to Tomura. You’d thought the two of you were friends, and you’d been too hurt to do anything but deactivate your account. And you’re glad you never blocked her. Now she’s seen your post. You know she’ll tell Tomura. And now it’s out of your hands.

Which of the photos did she like? You tap the notification, and the center photo appears. The one where you aren’t smiling. The one with the bite.

[audreyscribes]

Ω PJO MISC. DEMIGOD HEADCANONS: 🤰 RHEA “TITANESS OF MOTHERHOOD, FERTILITY, COMFORT, EASE, AND PROTECTION AND BLESSING, MOTHER OF THE GODS, THE GREAT MOTHER” ☮ {Wave 5.0}

A/N: You know after all the asks about Rhea, you would think I would write something official for her. Though with the amount of asks about Rhea, I wasn’t compelled to do so until now. So here it is! If you’ve read the past Rhea asks, you will see a lot of repeated words because I did just take stuff from there and put it into here cause they were rather substantial. Anyways, enjoy the little story I wrote at the end cause why not at this point! Thanks for reading and hope you have a good day! MISCELLANEOUS DEMIGOD H/CS MASTERLIST LINK: [TUMBLR] || [AO3]  

Following the dreams and motherly words, you were climbing over the hill of Delphi Strawberries, and saw the lone Pine Tree that stood over. You noticed the giant dragon that curled itself around the base of the tree and the sparkling golden fleece hanging over its branches. The dragon cracked open an eye, its nostrils bellowing smoke and you smiled gently but cautious as you greeted it softly. The dragon rumbled and yawned, before closing its eyes. Taking it as a sign that you were allowed to pass, you crossed the boundary and immediately saw all of Camp Half Blood as the dream had told you. There was already a great crowd of people just down the hill and that was when you were claimed.  A bright golden turret crown appeared over your head. It floated just so that as everyone looked up at you, it looked like the crown was sitting upon your head. People were murmuring and you could hear in the distance of the trees and wind chimes calling your name.}

Everyone keeps trying to get a look at the demigod of Rhea, not because there is anything wrong but more so the fact Rhea hadn’t been seen for a millennia by anyone aside from the Olympians and maybe a few close others. And after her experience with Kronos, no one expected her to go out and have a child with a mortal is almost unfathomable.

Dionysus takes personal responsibility over you because he is a grandma’s boy and because Rhea helped him a lot, by curing him of madness induced by Hera when he was a demigod, and taught him religious rites that solidified himself as a god. He doesn’t treat you as his favourite explicitly but people who have known Mr. D for a while can see him being a touch more gentle with you. If you’re a son of Rhea, he’s protective because he can sense Zeus rumbling with jealousy and if you’re a daughter of Rhea, well…he’s going to practically treat you as his own daughter. 

If you’ve been told you’re the sweetest, kindest, calm person, you’ve inherited Rhea’s characteristics but it doesn’t mean you’re a complete push over or a perfect angel. Your personality can be gruff and tough but there is a comfort and ease behind the strong persona like a heavy weighted blanket. However, you are most definitely a pacifist and rather choose not to fight unless directly threatened.

Whether it's based on your character or power, you can induce serenity and make people feel at ease around you. As the demi-titan of Rhea, the Titan of Comfort and Ease, you are able to emit feelings of tranquility much like seen in Hestia, where they just exude comfort and ease, giving an aura of warmth, comfort, safety, and so forth. The caveat is that as a power, it can only be attuned if they practice the act of comfort and ease. Something like achieving Inner Peace but with Comfort and Ease. The best way I can put into perspective is that the child of Rhea already exudes comfort and ease but their aura leaks out much like a leaky tap. Only when they come into their power can they let the power of Comfort and Ease flow out of them like getting the stuck tap to flow. 

I can also imagine their power being used to force their opponents to not fight, in a sense where a child of Hypnos just makes their enemy fall asleep kind of deal, getting their opponents or target to lose their desire to fight. In a better situation, it can be used to keep the peace and ensure communication is exchanged with words and not fists; which if they were at Camp, this would be used in so many ways. In most situations, people are drawn to them to just feel at peace. However, this power is not necessarily a good thing to have on all the time.

While Comfort and Ease are good things, it is a passive thing and things cannot always be passive. They will have to learn or be forced to allow things to happen and it is inevitable that people will fight one way or another because it is required and there are reasons to fight and be active in. Even Rhea took the initiative to plan Kronos’ downfall when he started swallowing their infant children.

Considering Rhea is often associated with nature, earth, and the mountains, and of the such, you may also have a connection with nature. I dunno if you could say minor nature manipulation but you definitely can communicate it in a way. You definitely have a better connection with the nymphs and dryads.

If you manage somehow to get lions, then you’re going to have a lion companion. Or if you somehow get your hands or meet a Rhea bird, the South American Ostrich. The reason why is pretty self-explanatory because the bird was named after Rhea herself and it might as well be considered one of her sacred animal, and being her demigod, well, yeah you get the point.

I can see the child of Rhea being able to pick up general skills to invoke protection and blessing, healing, and so forth. It’s not as powerful as a god but as a half-titan, you also have the ability to cure afflictions. The demigod of Rhea is often seen at the Apollo cabin and medical ward helping to care and ease for those hurt, mostly out of their own initiative.

You’re the only one who can walk into the Grove of Dodona that surrounds Camp Halfblood without going insane. You often can be seen tending to the trees who talk to you often. Their attitudes are less…dominant towards you but they’re still quite talkative and gossipy at times.

There’s a possibility that you have prophetic tendencies, whether through you or being able to interpret with the help of the Grove of Dodona. You also become the caretaker of the Grove, the wind and the trees constantly whispering to you for company.

If you ever come into the need to or have to, you probably could have a staff or the staff base of your weapon made from the wood from the Grove of Dodona, much like Iris’s staff is made from the grove too.

You also can be found making pottery and while people are confused how you’re so good at making pottery, you just admit the clay just wields to your fingers and just seems to seeming come together, you find out through Lester that Rhea has started a pottery studio somewhere. You faintly remember a memory of chubby baby hands being guided to mold a big lump of clay, bigger warmer and steady hands helping you as the woman smiled at you with love.

You’re going to be visited by all the Olympians, mostly those with connections with Rhea as her child and grandchildren. Try as they might hide it in their ‘mortal’ forms. Sometimes you don’t know, and sometimes you do. The only thing stopping the gods (cough Zeus) from messing with you is because they don’t want to make mother mad at them. This opens to shenanigans as long as you don’t explicitly dishonour or disrespect the gods. · • —– ٠ ✤ ٠ —– • ·· • —– ٠ ✤ ٠ —– • ·· • —– ٠ ✤ ٠ —– • ·· • —– ٠ ✤

“So…I take this is unusual for mother,” you said slowly, carefully trying to wrap your mind around being a demigod? Demi-titan of Rhea; the Mother of the Gods and you know, the (former) of Kronos. 

“Try highly unusual, in fact you are the first demigod of mother” said Hades, “and I would know if there were any others before you as they would’ve ended up in my realm.”

“Also Zeus, as the one who claims to know mother most, would not be able to be quiet about not being the youngest sibling anymore” added in Hera. 

You stared at the two gods in front of you as you politely stirred your cup of tea. After you were claimed as the half-mortal child of Rhea, everything had flipped over and sent everything in an absolute panic. Mr. D was absolutely breaking down, Chiron was trying to get a semblance of order, and while you tried to calm everyone down, you accidentally let out a power of full calmness that made everything in camp stop. 

Then Hestia came forward, grabbed Dionysus’s hand and yours before calmly taking you to the side and then you were taken to Olympus, and now there was this. Having tea with Hades; the God of the Dead and Riches, Lord of the Underworld, and Hera, Goddess of Marriage, Queen of the Olympus. 

Your technical older godly half-siblings. Which you were having tea with. 

“So…not that I’m not enjoying the company, but why is that you’re here? I’d imagine you have more pressing issues to deal with then” you said. 

“Mother has never had a mortal child before and after our…father, we had assumed greatly that she was dissuaded marrying or being with another man” started Hera-

“No one would have blamed her. After all, she had to witness her husband swallow every child she had birthed” scoffed Hades. 

“And other than the times we have sent invitations to mother for our brunches, Mother has rarely shown herself anywhere” added Hera, “Even when we visit her in locations, we seldom catch her there uninvited. Even now we don’t know where she is.”

You remembered grubby baby hands, playing with clay in a studio with a woman encouraging you by cooing and the rumbling purrs of lions as your lullaby. 

“Yet, here you are; clearly a child of man as well as our mother” said Hera, “Zeus has everyone looking for mother to get things straight, and even Apollo who had seen her most recently, doesn’t know where she may be either.” 

“Zeus has always prided himself on being the youngest of us all and while my business with the Underworld have kept me exempted from this, I don’t trust what Zeus will do to you when he has the opportunity to catch you alone” said Hades. 

“What? I’m only a demigod, Lord Hades” you said. 

“It is because you are a demigod that Zeus may feel threatened by you. Gods cannot directly interfere with each other but heroes have always been used on behalf of the gods. You are capable of change and depending on what you do, or how Zeus feels, he may strike you down. And I’m in no hurry for you to join me in the underworld earlier.”

“Oh. That’s rather kind of you.” 

Hades grumbled but you did catch the slight blush to his ears. 

“And as for me, I’m here because I rather enjoy not being the second youngest and I will not have Zeus take that opportunity from me” huffed Hera, “Besides, he better not do anything that make more cross with him.”

She glared at the sky and clouds as if she thought Zeus was eavesdropping from above. Given the sky is his domain…that was pretty much the case. 

You and Hades sipped your respective drink to keep quiet about it.

[jerseyluck]

Batman: No Man Land's: Chronicles (#18): Spiritual Currency (Story #23)

No Man's Land continues on with the final Chronicles issue of the saga. And we are doing a character study on Leslie Thompkins for it.

Unlike every other issue of Batman: Chronicles, this issue only has one story in it, so we got an extra-long tale.

The issue opens on an overwhelmed/overworked Leslie Thompkins trying to assist a large number of people with medical issues. She has no supplies to help everyone relying on her...

But this is a fake out, cause it is just Leslie's dream! But reality is about as grim as the nightmare, it is still No Man's Land.

Leslie does a checkup where it is revealed that Victor Zsasz is being treated there. Which is a bad thing because as this issue keeps telling us, Zsasz is a man who only wants to kill people... so her decision to give the serial killer medical assistance is very unpopular.

Mikey (the ex-gangster from the second arc of NML) is assigned the job of watching over the ticking timebomb that is Zsasz. Leslie continues to some doctoring...

But at as time passes, Leslie takes a break and talks with Killer Croc. It turns out Mr. Zsasz got his injury from attacking one Croc's lieutenant... and said lieutenant got seriously injured in the fight. Croc is there to get update on the injured man, and to see if he can kill Zsasz in retaliation.

Leslie manages to calm down Croc... until the cops come to make everything worse. Pettit, Huntress, and the rouge GCPD officers came to Thompkins's Clinic for medical help. Leslie yells at Pettit for being, well, a cop, but accepts the injured anyway.

Mikey yells out in pain, because he was assaulted by Zsasz. Huntress and Leslie go to help Mikey. Huntress judges Leslie because the doc just won't let a psycho like Zsasz die. But Leslie explains that as a person, she can't let a person die even they are a serial killer. Leslie will help anyone who needs help. If she just him die, then Leslie couldn't be live with herself.

Anyway, we get a fun moment of former Batgirl, Helena, meeting up with the new Batgirl, Cass, who is wearing her old costume. It is a cute moment for the comic that needed to happen.

But Batgirl did not come alone, because Batman is also here. Bruce gives Leslie medical supplies...until he realizes that the medical supplies were meant for Victor Zsasz. Batman is annoyed, but he has to leave when the hero hears some gunshots. Before Bruce can leave, Cass asks if Leslie is his mom; Batman tells her no, but Leslie is a motherly figure to him.

Everything is heating up, as the cops are shooting at Croc, who decides if he is getting shot at might as well kill Zsasz. Batman tries to move Leslie out of fear she might be shot, but she refuses. Instead, Bruce leaves Batgirl to protect her from the powder keg that is happening.

As things are getting worse, Zsasz finally wakes up. And like the bastard that he is, Zsasz tries to some killing. Leslie stands up to Zsasz, trying to get him to feel compassion. While this is happening, we get scenes of Huntress and Batgirl/GCPD and Killer Croc fighting each other. It is a really neat sequence.

But Zsasz is a psychopath and decides to kill our good doctor. Leslie does not resist because she does not violence to be done in her name. Luckily Croc's friend has no such ideals, so Killer Croc charges at Zsasz before he can kill Leslie! Croc is just a fun character.

Batman ends the fight by trapping Zsasz in a metal tube. Bruce tells Leslie that Zsasz will be going to Blackgate (as soon as Nightwing takes it over). Leslie gives Bruce a hug for saving her, and out of sight Batman gives a smile at the soft, caring moment.

Anyway, this is another strong one-shot in the No Man's Land. It has great Leslie Thompkins moments, highlighting her role as caring, pacifist, motherly character in the Bat mythos. It is great to see Bruce to happy. Devin Grayson understands this character and Dale Eaglesham gives the issue some great art.

But the role of out villains in this tale are excellent too. It is nice to a frightening Zsasz as the villain. It is terrifying to see him as this psycho killer. This one of definitive Zsasz tales (and this issue is in his collection of stories about him. It is a correct choice.) Killer Croc is also fun here, and it builds up the crapness of bad cop Pettit in a compelling way. Just a fun story.

9/10

[syndrossi]

Reversal!twins with their cousins Rhaenyra and Helaena??? 🥹 What a treat! I'm pretty sure Viserys is peeking out a window somewhere all pleased and giddy because those are his daughters! And Daemon's! Getting along so well! The twins really do serve as a nice bridge between the existing hostilities between Rhaenyra and Alicent. Helaena's not spending time with Rhaenyra, she's playing with her favorite cousins, Aemma and Rhaella! Rhaenyra just happens to be there, what a coincidence...

I can't with how adorable and happy Helaena is! Just getting showered with affection and support while Rhaella is silently so relieved that it's only a spiderweb and no spiders this time. But also delighted herself by Helaena's delight over the wonders/beauty of nature (something that Rhaella shares, just not for spiders specifically).

Her haaaaand on Helaena's head, so cute! They just seem like a duo that would understand one another. Rhaella dealt with terrible dreams in her past life, and knows what it's like to "see" strange things that other people don't, albeit in a different way to Helaena's prophetic visions. She would be such a great source of comfort when Helaena's scared and everyone's telling her that she's imagining thing.

Meanwhile, Rhaenyra getting to live her Visenya fantasies through Aemma's swordsmanship lessons! Aemma's little finger pointing at the hilt, all "so this is a sword, they're fairly light and easy to hold despite what men like to tell you" is killing me. 😂 And Rhaenyra's patient expression. She knows the basics, I'm sure, but she's happy to hear Aemma "start from the beginning," as it were. She's lucky though, Aemma's taught many people before!

Aemma has a locket! (I think.) I'm so intrigued about what's inside it.

Rhaenyra's hair is so pretty... *stares*

By the way Rhaella's is braided, I'm guessing they went for a ride with Daemon earlier. (Is that blue of the ribbon I spot for Qelebrys?)

Love all the clothing choices! Aemma's long tunic-dress is very practical and cute! Her and Rhaella's habit of wearing pants halfway traumatizing Daemon (due to his assumptions) gives me life.

Honestly, the fact that they're girls means Crayne probably didn''t make Rhaella sleep in his bedroll. He would have had strict rules about them. (Though hers was doubtless right next to his for easy control.)

Awww, the twins' black and red being inverted!

Helaena being a tiny splash of green is adorable.

Rhaenyra's dress, oh my! Gorgeous. Those gold accents and patterns to make it clear that this is the Princess of Dragonstone, heir to the Iron Throne. And I'm dying for a better glimpse at her hair adornments. I like that her dress is the one most "ladylike" in terms of length. She is a grown woman, and doesn't get away with the things that the twins can as "lesser" princesses of the realm. (That and the girls are constantly growing. And may or may not have their new wardrobe yet, which could mean they're wearing some of Rhaenyra's and/or Alyssa's old dresses! Alyssa could totally have had Aemma's shorter tunic dress, given her own love of dueling/practicing in the yard.)

Helaena's tiny gold shooooooes peeking out. 😭 They're perfect.

You know that Alicent has tried at least half a dozen times to sneak a green dress into Rhaella's wardrobe at least.

I'm imagining the Great Mud War of 116AC with Reversal and it's just as delightful. Though more difficult in sodden dresses.

On the dysmorphia topic, yeah, they'll be needing the Redfort twins to help process it. And even then, imagine the Redfort twins remembering being boys. Commanders and princes who were obeyed and respected. I hope that was a positive influence on their little personalities, one that fostered a sense of confidence and self-worth. Them being girls might even have made Allard Royce a little bit less cold, honestly. The boys were always a threat to his inheritance in a way girls wouldn't be.

And though they are robbed of quite a lot more freedom versus their male Resonant counterparts, Aemma still will be the lady of Runestone, a ruler in her own right. And they are dragonriders! So if the social pressures grow to be too much for a time, they always have an escape. (We'll ignore the inconvenient matter of Volantis and warlocks.)

The daughters of Viserys and the daughters of Daemon in a rare moment of peace.

For @syndrossi 's story "Reversal" look at them four! Helaena is not carrying flowers, she has a bunch of leaves and twigs, and is showing Rhaella a pretty spider net; meanwhile Jon/Aemma/Visenya(?) Is giving Rhaenyra some basic sword handling lessons.

@textbookchoices suggested I draw the twins as girls, and I have opinions:

Is it common for parents to dress their girls with some kind of “over dress” on top of the dress of better quality or was that just a thing in my family? Either way, I’m dressing them as such.

I suspect dresses would be ankle length, even for little girls, however Jon is Daemon’s dearest warrior and she can wear tunic length.

I think Jon/Aemma/Visenya? Would be the kind of girl who uses pants under her dress.

Rhaegar/Rhaella would adhere to fashion standards a little bit more, but I’m sure she’s wearing pants too.

(Insert Daemon worrying that wearing pants is leftover trauma from when they were kidnapped. Several sleepless nights follow for him)

I’m sure the only limit Daemon pushes on their clothing is “just nothing green”

My gosh, they must be experiencing some heavy body dysphoria on top of everything else! (I imagine myself waking one day and being asked to dress and act as a different gender and I find it jarring, the twins are dealing with that plus being younger than before, and having different parents, and being back in the past…)

Plus they have 4, maybe 6 years before their periods start. T_T

And after the menstruation arrives another calamity: suitors (Daemon will never sleep peacefully ever again)

I guess in this 'verse Jon and Rhaegar really, really need to bond with the girls who inhabited their bodies before them or marriage is going to be awckward.

All in all, Reversal is the one verse that makes me fret over the twins more than the others… I mean Jon was already pretty powerless being a bastard from the north, and Rhaegar witnessed the helplessness of Rhaella, but is that enough/equal to experience first hand the almost lack of self agency that is being a princess in the cusp of womanhood? And of all this os without even considering there are countries out there seeking to kidnap the twins and their dragons, and the warlocks with their candles, and the Hightowers plotting… *visible worry*

[day-mark]

thinking about dreamnap and how when they were younger they had a fight and didnt talk to each other for months, but one of them reached out and now look :((( theyre best friends, they live with each other with their other best friend :(

[proudfreakmetarusonikku]

hot take but people treating tommy like he’s in the wrong for, like, being a victim of abusive actions and Literal Crimes (like, objectively, I don’t want to put words in Tommys mouth or define it for him but Dream's acting in a textbook abusive way rn and “sharing pornography with minors” is literally csa legally) is in large part bc of the normalisation of excusing abusive action in a fictional context here specifically. dream is right in saying c!dream influenced how people reacted to this, but it’s not with inniters- it’s with people using the Exact Same Arguments they used to defend c!Dream’s abuse when actual worse shit turned out to have happened to an actual irl sixteen year old.

[scribbyz]

utmv fic idea where ink casually mentions their partner to the stars and theyre like “WHAT. since when do you have a partner???” and ink is like “oh did i not mention it” and yaps about his partner yada yada and they ask to meet them

and it turns out ink’s partner is broomie. lmao

[cdroloisms]

As one of the droolish fighters, you have to admit it's very funny that Wilbur lost to the dude who only saw Dream once and yet may have understood post-prison Dream far better than anyone else save Punz.

Nah, more than c!Punz. c!Punz was the Plan which didn't reeeeally demand understanding c!Dream, just well. Working with him. c!Punz and c!Dream and the gulf between them in terms of actual understanding is what really defines how they're portrayed in the finale. on the other hand c!Wilbur's whole thing with c!Dream in inconsolable differences ... kind of speaks for itself.

[seenthisepisode]

~~~

[vveakfish]

something something Kon brain worms something something Miley Cyrus music

[dragonlights]

Me: hey mom can you not make your anxieties my problem? I'll encourage you to talk to others and help you reach out however you want, but I can't be the one to help you, it stresses me out and given my childhood it's upsetting.

Mom: doesn't stop, keeps going "what if this happens, what if that happens?"

Me: answers her questions and says "I don't know though, that's just in the hypothetical you came up with" *leaves bc I'm stressed out about having to deal with her anxieties Again*

Mom: keeps! Going! Even when I turn up the TV to drown her out!

Me: can you please stop, it's really upsetting when you violate my boundaries like that.

Mom: what? I was not!

Me: you were! You were yelling so that i-

Mom: I wasn't yelling! You were just across the house so I wanted to make sure you could hear me.

Me: yeah! And you were talking about your anxieties! That I've asked you to not talk about with me!

Mom: I wasn't making it you deal with my anxieties! I'm just loud.

Me: reminds her that she JUST said she was raising her voice so I could hear her while she was talking about her anxieties.

Mom: *babbles in backtracking*