#write my assignments

[blueskittlesart]

cinderella adaptation for my comics history class :)

[candyrocks03]

I am a girl.

Always have been, always will be. It took me a while to figure that out, But that doesn’t make it any less true.

I am a girl.

I like dresses and skirts, Thigh-highs and Plushies, Light pinks and blues.

I am a girl.

When I hike in the woods or bike on the road, When I party with friends or play games alone, When I march in the street or cry on my bed,

I am a girl.

Nothing can change that. Not a politician’s pen, or a bigot’s threats, Not a prison’s cell, or a Nazi’s camp.

I am a girl.

When I’m bloodied and beaten, When I’m old and withered, When I’m long dead and gone,

I will always be a girl.

[leashybebes]

Buck jolts awake on the couch with no idea of what time it is, and even less idea of what woke him. The latter resolves itself pretty quickly when, from the other end of the couch, Tommy lets out another window-rattling snore. Mr what are you talking about, Evan, I don't snore has his head tipped back, his mouth wide open. It's a deeply unflattering position and Buck can't help himself, reaches for his phone and snaps a photo.

Tommy's own phone is on the coffee table and if Buck can get there without waking him, he's going to have a delightful new wallpaper come morning. He wonders if he could sneak in a recording of Tommy's pneumatic drill impression and set it as his ringtone, too. Maybe it's a little mean, but Tommy's just such a dad with his insistence that he doesn't snore.

Buck almost drops his phone, but not before he sees the time: 00.34. 

Mentally, he scrolls through the day. A run through the neighbourhood, running into the lady two streets over with the cute dog. An unnecessarily indulgent breakfast, as has become a habit on his days off. Facetiming with Eddie and Chris. Collecting Jee from swimming lessons and dropping her home after an ice cream. Tommy showing up like he always does on their mutual free days - unannounced but never unwelcome. Trying to put together a decent lunch while Tommy tunes up the Jeep's engine for the third time in six weeks. Driving to the grocery store and bickering their way around the aisles. Talking Tommy's ear off about the latest episode of the latest podcast he's gotten into while they make dinner. Tag teaming the clean up when Tommy tries to insist he can take care of it all. Settling in to watch another movie Tommy can't believe you've never seen, Evan.

Yep. Nothing.

He pulls up the notes app on his phone, opens the right folder, and starts a new message. He'd given up on actually sending them before they could start getting bounced back with a number out of service message, knowing that would have taken him out at the knees.

It's past midnight and I didn't think about you dying once today, he writes. I know you'd say that's a good thing, and I think you're right, but I think it's the first time that's happened, and I feel really weird about it. I had a really nice day. There was a time I didn't think I'd ever have a nice day again, but I saw a cute dog, and I spoiled Jee, and I cooked, and I hung out with Tommy, and it was really, really nice. We're not back together btw but it's heading there. We both know it. You were right about him. I really, really wish you were here.

He saves the note, pockets his phone, leans over and pinches Tommy's nose shut in the middle of another snore to watch him flail awake.

"Asshole," Tommy says, once he's settled.

"Yep. C'mon," Buck tells him. "Bed."

Tommy grumbles, heaves himself to his feet, and staggers towards the bathroom. Buck watches him go for a second. Platonic and only slightly charged bed sharing is a fairly new development - Tommy has slept on this couch a lot over the last few months. He has a toothbrush in the bathroom. He has spare clothes in Buck's closet. He has a key.

Buck takes out his phone again and hesitates for a second.

I'm gonna tell him, he adds to his message. Tonight. Right now. While he's brushing his teeth so he can't change the subject. Wish me luck, pops. Love you.

[funkle420]

Turbo Granny blunt rotation WIP

[yandere-wishes]

Dear Darling Rapunzel

────────────୨ৎ────────────

Okay been thinking about this for a while but what about a Damsel in Distress/Repunzel AU with the batboys and rogues. It can go one of two ways.

(The Princess who fell in love with the Dragon)

You're the betrothed of one of the batboys. A darling daughter of a Wayne Enterprises bigshot or some nice rich family. And while you may be indifferent to your future husband, he is very very much devoted to you. Absolutely in love with his precious soon-to-be wife...But after the marriage, the paranoia sets in. He loves you, he swears he does. He loves you so much, in fact, that he even reveals who he is, what he does during the ungodly hours of the night. He doesn't want you to doubt, to think he'd ever cheat with another. But there are precautions he must take to keep you safe. He won't let you out of the manner, won't permit you to make content with anyone outside of his family. Heck, he absolutely forbids you from even going near the doors and windows. But one day when the manner is attacked by some Rogue wanting something or another from the Wayne family. During the attack, this particular rogue spots you, the darling princess locked away within the estate. He's almost instantly in love. Heart fluttering outside his chest. He dubs you collateral damage as he steals you away. Poor little Rapunzel being swept away by the bandit...But funny isn't it how you have (somewhat) more freedom with the deranged killer than with your own husband...

(The Princess and the White Knight)

2. For one reason or another, you catch the attention of one of Gotham's notorious rogues. An infamous killer, whose stone heart now only beats for you. They steal you, lock you away from all humanity. It's because they love you, it's because they know how cruel society can be. They'd never want the world outside to hurt you. But one day while you gaze longingly outside the window dreaming of being free again. You happen to catch the eye of one of the batboys. They become your escape, chatting with you while the evil monster is away. You start to see them as your prince charming. You white knight. Hanging off their every word dreaming of the day you can pry away their mask and gleam at their full face. Whenever your tormentor kisses you, you imagine it's your superhero, all soft lips and hope. All sweet words and caring touches. Soon they promised, soon your prince charming will come to free you…

The only pairing I can think of for this so far is, Bruce Wayne and Harvey Dent. Constantly fighting over the darling they both love with all their broken heart.

Maybe Jason and Roman too? Albit it would be so messy and chaotic😆🤣😆🤣.

[horse-breed-a-day]

i got a B on my crime scene investigation final!!

[marshallseos]

date idea: bleed all over a guy's lap while he purses his lips disapprovingly into the middle distance

[noodles-and-tea]

i’ve just finished reading Saving Sherlock Holmes, do you have any teen johnlock art?

Sure :)

[bjlipss]

you try to ignore the way your heart skips every time you catch a glimpse of nanami, still lounging on the couch, completely absorbed in his book. you try to focus on the papers in front of you, but it’s like trying to study for a test while sitting next to a fireworks display. it’s just impossible.

“nanami,” you groan, frustrated, tapping your pen against the desk in a rhythm you can’t quite control.

he doesn’t even look up from his book. “hmm?”

you let out a breath, rubbing your temples. “you’re making it impossible to concentrate.”

he finally glances up, his glasses catching the light in a way that only makes it harder to look away. “what do you mean?”

“you’re distracting,” you say flatly, but it comes out sounding more like a pout than an actual complaint.

he just stares at you, blinking, like he doesn’t get it. “i’m just reading.”

“i know,” you mutter, barely able to contain your frustration, “but you’re… you’re you. and you’re just sitting there looking all… all perfect.”

there’s a long pause as nanami looks at you with that unreadable expression, his eyes flicking over your face like he’s trying to figure out if you’re joking. when he doesn’t get an immediate response from you, he finally shrugs, turning back to his book.

“i’m sorry,” he says, completely nonchalant. “i’ll try not to be so perfect.”

you can’t help it—you laugh, but it’s a nervous, almost exasperated laugh. “you’re not even trying to be, and that’s the problem!”

he hums again, his lips curling slightly at the corners as if he’s enjoying the way you’re losing your mind over something so trivial. “you know, if you need a break from all that work, i’m more than happy to distract you in other ways.”

you blink, caught off guard, and then, mortified, your face immediately turns bright red. “i—what?” you stammer, not sure whether to be embarrassed or frustrated.

he doesn’t seem to notice your panic, just flipping another page in his book with the same calm expression. “just thought i’d offer,” he says, as if he wasn’t just casually flirting with you in the most oblivious way possible.

you’re dying. internally, you’re about to combust, but outwardly, you just sink into your chair with a dramatic sigh. “you’re impossible.”

“only when i’m too distracting,” he says smoothly, glancing up with a look that’s almost teasing, though he doesn’t seem to realize the effect it’s having on you.

you just bury your face in your hands, utterly defeated. “i hate you.”

“mmhmm,” nanami hums, clearly not taking you seriously as he returns to his book. “sure you do.”

but you can hear the faintest hint of amusement in his voice. maybe he’s not completely oblivious after all.

[generic-enthusiast]

“Stupid stupid stupid stupid stupid stupid stupid,” Ponyboy’s muttering as he steps in the door, “stupid stupid stupid stupid.” He goes to slam the door behind him, but notices Darry’s work boots lined up under his coat, so he closes it with a soft click. 

“Stupid stupid stupid stupid stupid—”

“Hey, Pony, how was school?” Darry asks, coming out of the kitchen. His voice has its constant, tired lilt to it. He’s had it for two years, and yet Ponyboy still can’t get used to it. 

Ponyboy opens his mouth to respond but finds himself at a loss for words. Out of pure indignation, no doubt. He just throws the envelope on the table and grabs the back of a chair to lean on it. Darry takes a bite of his apple as he comes forward, eyeing the letter curiously. 

“What’s this?”

Ponyboy looks up at Darry. “You know that writing contest Mrs Anderson was gonna sign me up for?” Darry nods slowly, looking down at the letter and back up at Pony again. “Got the prompt.”

Darry stares at him for a moment as if in expectation before asking, “What is it?”

Ponyboy doesn’t respond, he just grabs the ripped envelope and takes out the folded piece of paper, holding it out to Darry between two fingers. Darry dries his hand on his pants and takes it. 

He fumbles with the piece of paper for a moment, trying to unfold it with just one hand, and his brow furrows as he reads through the prompt. “What’s wrong with it?”

Ponyboy sighs, forever uncomprehended by his environment, and snatches the paper back. He doesn’t really know what to do with it, though, so he throws it onto the table again — not quite as energetically this time — and goes to slump down on the couch. 

“I’m fifteen. How’m I s’pposed to write about ‘being in love’?” He asks, saying the last couple words in a mocking tone. 

“Hang on now, I ain’t seen nothin’ ‘bout being in love.”

Ponyboy squints up at him in a way that distinctly says ‘are you stupid?’ “Did ya even read the prompt?”

“Yeah. Says to write about love. Ain’t nothin’ ‘bout being in love. You can write about Pepsi if you wanna.”

Ponyboy looks up at him, then down again. A couple silent moments go by before he asks, “The drink or the brother?”

Darry makes a sound between a snort and a laugh. “I meant the drink, but I reckon they’ll like it more if ya write about your brother.” 

“Huh.” Ponyboy looks away from Darry and starts staring into nothingness, deep in thought. 

“What’s wrong?”

“I wanted to be annoyed and I’m not allowed to so now it’s sorta between annoyed and nothing and the feeling is annoying me.”

Darry hums, mildly amused.

“Is this like college essays where you just gotta compete for the saddest sob story? ‘Cause I think I win if it’s that.”

Darry looks down at him, confused. “Who told you that?”

Ponyboy blinks at him. “You did. When you applied for college. You said ‘I hope somethin’ terrible happens to you in the next six years and you’ll be a lucky son of a bitch if it does.’” He goes quiet for a moment. “Then Ma told you to watch your mouth around her.”

“Oh.” Darry blinks. “I don’t remember that.”

Two years ago, when police officers appeared on their doorstep to ask Darry to identify the bodies and the bathroom tiles were cold under his knees and the bile was burning his throat and Johnny’s hand was warm on his back, thumb rubbing back and forth, Ponyboy’s mind was blank. A couple minutes later, though, when he leaned his head on Johnny’s chest with a couple half-hearted coughs, the only thing he could think of was that at least he would have a great college essay. 

Johnny didn’t really know what to do when he dissolved into hysterical laughter. 

Ponyboy shrugs like it���s not a big deal. “I do.”

“Yeah.” Neither of them says anything for a couple moments. “I’ve never written for a contest or anything, so I don’t know what they want. Just writing good should be enough, prolly.”

“Yeah.”

The room falls into silence for a while. 

“I better get started on dinner. Try and get your homework over with before Soda gets home, alright? I know you get distracted with him.”

“Okay.”

Darry goes into the kitchen and Ponyboy picks up his backpack and goes into his room. He has to finish some math exercises for tomorrow, and Darry will get mad if he asks him to look them over too late at night, but he gives himself a couple minutes to look over the prompt one last time. 

Love is a central part of human existence, something near every writer touches in their work. From Shakespeare’s Romeo and Juliet to Lord Byron’s “She walks in beauty like the night” to Greek myths such as Sophocles’s Antigone. It’s been written and sung and painted about from every perspective — except yours. 

The 1966 edition of American Young Artists’s yearly writing competition asks you to write a short story (no longer than 8,000 words) or poem (no longer than 50 lines) about what love means to you. 

Please do not: 

Submit an essay or straightforward answer. While undoubtedly interesting, the objective of this contest is to explore your creative prowess and ability to transmit messages and themes through subtext. 

Submit more than one piece. You will be disqualified and none of your pieces will be considered. 

Rewrite a story that has already been written. We are not interested in why you believe Orpheus turned back or how Romeo and Juliet would have lived in another world. The story or poem you submit must be entirely original, not based on someone else’s work. 

There are a couple more points, but Ponyboy stops reading. He doesn’t know where to start. 

He doesn’t even know if he’s felt love before. No one ever bothers to give you a straightforward answer to what it is, only hints here and there that you’re supposed to put together so you get the same definition as everyone else. 

Tall tales of butterflies and blushing and stumbling over words. Of holding hands and staring into each other’s eyes and feeling connected. Of being willing to risk your life for someone (did he love the kids in that church?), of wanting the best for them (shouldn’t he want that for everyone?), and putting them before yourself. 

Ponyboy groans again and buries his face in his pillow. 

He takes the math homework out of his backpack and gets a pencil. 

A minute later he gets up and opens the door, yelling on the way to the kitchen so Darry can hear him over the sound of whatever he’s cooking, “Darry! Is cosine the adjacent or opposite side?”

…

Ponyboy might have school friends, but none of them can hold a candle to Johnny. 

They’re fine for grouping up for projects or sitting together at lunch, but he wouldn’t spend hours next to them in silence, reading or drawing or just thinking. He wouldn’t invite them home and sit down on his bedroom floor next to them, just enjoying each other’s presence. Letting them flip through his sketchbook would leave him anxiously looking over their shoulder and watching their face, trying to gauge their reactions. 

Which means that now he spends an awful amount of time alone in his room. He doesn’t usually mind, but now the stupid prompt seems to be glaring at him, screaming that he should be working on it. 

Mrs Anderson won’t ask him to have something written until at least a month from now, but it still torments him. He finds himself zoning out in the middle of a drawing, wondering about whether love can really be considered a feeling or if it’s actually something else. Answering some questions for science class is interrupted by three attempts at starting to write something about his parents, but all of them sound cheesy. 

Finally, when Soda asks him if he’s okay because he doesn’t seem to be completely there, he decides to just get it over with and excuses himself from the dinner table. 

Ponyboy sets up the typewriter, grabs the stupid, stupid prompt from his bed and reads it through. 

He skims through the rest of things not to do — most of them fairly obvious — and reaches a small bit at the end. 

If you’re not sure where to start with this prompt, you can try exploring some of the more common literary topics relating to love. We’ve included a list of some of the most common ones: 

Love as a home, someone safe, where outside troubles can’t reach you. 

Home isn’t home anymore, not without Ponyboy around. It wasn’t home before, anyways, not with the constant simmering tension, the knowledge that Darry and Ponyboy could start at it at any moment. Living over a ticking time bomb, not knowing how much time was left, waiting for the seconds hand to tick for the last time. 

And now every room is riddled with landmines. A single misstep can set them off, saying the wrong word at the wrong time — Soda can’t take it anymore. He loves his brothers, he really does, but he can’t let the tension seep through his skin and into his veins.

He’s started to spend less time at home. It started slowly, a couple months ago, but now that Ponyboy’s gone, he hardly spends any time there at all. 

Money’s tight as always, and he takes all the shifts he can. Steve hangs around even when he’s not working, and, honestly, Soda kinda prefers being at the DX over being at home. 

Sure, he needs to talk to the occasional customer and put on a fake smile, but the customer doesn’t know him inside and out. They don’t know all his tells and they don’t know that he lost Mom’s pot pie recipe and they don’t know his brothers hate each other. All they know is that they want a candy bar or they need their car fixed. 

And then they’re gone. 

And whether or not Soda sold the routine, whether or not they know he was faking it, whether or not they think there’s something wrong with him, none of it matters, because they’re never going to see him again. They walk out that door and he’ll never talk to them for the rest of his life. 

It’s a breath of fresh air to be able to exist without the constant pressure of holding them all together. 

And then there’s Steve. 

Steve, who sits on the counter while he does his book reports. Who pretends to hate Ponyboy so he won’t go out with them when Soda needs to decompress without his brothers around. Who somehow always knows when he’s worried about his brothers fighting or how disinterested Sandy’s been recently, and starts telling him some crazy, probably made up story. 

You get this wrinkle between your eyebrows, Steve told him once, Shows you’re worried ‘bout somethin’. 

Sometimes Soda wishes he could come home to Steve, instead of Darry and Ponyboy, go out with him instead of Sandy.

Then he realises what he just thought and a wave crashes down on him, a wave of ungrateful and don’t care about them and queer. 

2. Venatus amoris. Being loved as something to hunt, to be achieved. 

You don’t become Boy of the Year without picking up a few tricks on how to be well-liked. 

If Darry wants someone to like him, he’ll get them to like him. He’s got it down to a science at this point. 

Now, love, that’s a trickier bit. He’s not all that sure how to get that. But for now, being liked is enough. 

He’s learned how to smile and avoid dangerous questions. He’s learned how to hide the parts of himself that other people don’t like — the part of him that can’t lose and goes to the bathroom after a bad game because he can’t break linoleum the way he can break drywall. The part of him that doesn’t understand what people want when they talk to him and goes over every interaction when he’s trying to fall asleep. The part of him that feels things as strongly as his little brothers do. 

People like a pretty shell, they don’t like a messy, feeling person.

The doors in the Curtis household don’t have locks, though, and the walls are thin. So when he punches the bathroom wall after losing because stupid fucking Mark couldn’t run fast enough, the whole house can hear him. He can’t turn on the shower to drown out when he’s crying because they have one bathroom in the house, and you better believe Ponyboy and Sodapop will barge in if they need to. 

There’s no hiding, no covering himself in a shell.   

Which is fine, until this fifteen-year-old kid shows up with Soda one day, claiming to come from New York. Darry doesn’t mind if his brothers and their best friends know that he’s a sore loser, but he’ll be damned if this asshole knows a thing about him. Dallas Winston is still a stranger, even if he’s a teenage hood, and it means that Darry’s walls come up. 

Which is. Exhausting.

Dallas seems to be everywhere. He’s latched onto Johnny, and Johnny’s always with Ponyboy, so there’s no escape. 

And he isn’t falling for Darry’s usual tricks. He scowls at Darry’s forced smiles and scoffs at the questions he asks without caring. Either he doesn’t notice social cues, or doesn’t care about them. Whichever it is, he doesn’t bother to hide that he doesn’t like Darry, and seems to get a rise out of getting him to try and prove himself. 

Which finally pushes Darry over the edge. Why should he give a fuck what anyone thinks about him? Being well-liked only got him so-called friends that forgot him as soon as they threw their caps into the air. 

So what if Dallas Winston doesn’t like him? So what if he thinks he’s a weakling? So what if those years didn’t mean shit to Paul and Mark and Noah? 

Who gives a fuck? Darry definitely doesn’t. 

“What’s your fucking problem with me?” It comes out scathing. 

And Dallas Winston has the fucking gall to look him up and down judgementally and smirk impassively. You’re in my house you asshole. “You ever told me anything that wasn’t a lie?”

Out with the forced smiles, out with the meaningless questions, out with the closed doors. 

You wanted the real me? Here he fucking is. In all his glorious colours. 

So he snaps and he stares and he doesn’t ask about what he doesn’t care about. The underlying Are you happy now? grows sharper and louder and covers up the noise outside, so much that he doesn’t notice when the contempt starts to leave, when something else starts to grow. Maybe Dallas doesn’t quite like him, but there’s something else there.

He doesn’t notice it, any of it, until Steve’s handing him the phone, saying Dally asked for him. 

Johnny’s not entirely sure when, but at some point during the seventh grade, a fire started burning in his chest. 

He doesn’t notice any of it until he’s screaming because there’s nothing else you can do with a body full of bullets. 

3. Ignis amoris. Love as fire: uncontrollable, burning, intense. 

He doesn’t know how it was before. Was it frozen over or just numb? Was there anything there at all?

Maybe it was just empty. What was the point of anything without the little flame to enlighten it?

At first it was quiet, warm, crackling in tune with Ponyboy’s excited rambling. They were ten and twelve, and it was the first time that Johnny found out what it meant for someone to see him and care. 

As days turned into weeks turned into months, casual touches and toothy grins and barks of laughter threw firewood into the flame. It would flare protectively when a Soc shoved Soda when he was just trying to get to class, burn warmly when Steve waited for them in his car despite having a free last period, thaw even the coldest of nights as long as Dally was in the lot beside him. It reached his cheeks when Darry called him smart and burned brighter every evening spent with Two-Bit, wandering around and avoiding responsibility. 

But when it really roars to life, when it becomes a starved monster that takes over Johnny’s body, is when crickets fill the air or the wind whistles past his ear or the low rumble of whatever cars are still driving around reaches the lot, whispering to him as he lies on his side, eyes tracing Dally’s profile. 

When it crawls up his throat, when it starts making his brain do flips, is when the stars glitter in the sky above him or when clouds crawl over them and bathe the city in darkness or when it’s pouring and he’s running with Dally, jackets over their heads, trying to find a roof to huddle under. 

When it turns from warmth to heat, when it turns from comfort to exposing hidden truths about himself, is when he lies next to Dally in the lot, both pretending that they don’t have to pretend, fingers inching closer, pinkies only just grazing as the sun comes up. 

And then he has the sun to bring him heat, and the fire turns back into embers with small, pale flames above it, and Dally’s still beside him but it isn’t the same when there isn’t the rush of adrenaline, the weight of the news stories, the freedom that darkness brings.

But it burns nonetheless. 

There is a world where that fire never starts burning. Where Johnny’s chest stays empty and cold and dark, where the hearth gathers dust as it’s beaten day after day. 

In that world, Johnny doesn’t survive. 

How ironic, then, that it should be fire to take him from this one. 

4. Furor amoris. Love as madness: all-consuming. We are blinded by it, confounded, and act purely out of passion, rationality all but forgotten. 

Dally isn’t thinking. His head is completely blank, just like that bullshit the hippies spread around. 

A couple minutes ago, he was stumbling around hazy, dark blues, forest greens wrapping around him, black ink dripping down from the sky. 

Now there’s red streaks tunneling around him, bringing him down the only direction he can go in. 

Dead.

Red like Johnny’s jacket collar four months ago in that field that Dally takes a long way around to avoid seeing. 

Dead.

Red like when the church brought them straight into hell yesterday. 

Dead.

Red like the rumble. 

Dead.

Red like the sirens following him as he runs for his life.

5. Amor post mortem. Love after death; overcoming the menial, human barriers of a heart beating. Love as the only eternal thing in a life full of the fleeting.  

Ponyboy sighs and lies back on his bed. 

Usually, Johnny would be lying next to him, bouncing ideas off him to see if anything inspired him. Dally would come storming in, not even bothering to knock. Mom would ask if he made any progress when he came back down to dinner. Dad would tell him it was fine, that he’d think of something like he always did. 

It’s hard to come to terms with. 

Maybe part of him will always be in denial. Maybe part of him will always turn to Mom to ask where the oven mitts are. Look for Johnny whenever he steps into a room. Trust that Dally’ll get back at whoever tries to hurt him. Want to ask Dad to tell that story about when they were kids again. 

Is that what love is? 

This can’t possibly be it. It can’t possibly be something that follows Ponyboy around, wakes him up when he thinks he’s finally worked past his nightmares, seems to disappear then comes back to haunt him, crawling up from behind to see if it can finally get a scream out of him.

No, it can’t be. It isn’t. 

What it is is Darry staying up late to calm him down from a nightmare. It's Steve knowing when to quit the teasing. It's Two-Bit leaving books on his nightstand without a word about it. It's Soda asking him about his day, every day without fail, no matter how tired he is. 

What it was was Dally offering to teach him to fight. Johnny listening to him every time he went on a rant or monologued about whatever book he’d just read. Mom setting aside a couple hamantaschen for him when he had track until late on Purim. Doing his bar mitzvah in the same tallit his father had done his in. 

And maybe it didn’t change anything. In fact, it didn’t. 

Love doesn’t bring people back to life and it doesn’t give them a happy ending and it doesn’t take away all the struggles that come with just being alive. Sometimes it’s just there, and that’s all that matters. 

[quintinh43]

Washing their back/hair in the shower.

oooo i could see luke loving his girlfriend washing his hair and she always does he curl routine for him

Toast my love 🥹 Thank you for requesting

-

The buzzer blared through the speakers of the TV, and you winced. The devils lost 5-4 in a shootout. Luke looked absolutely exhausted in his post game interview. It ticked you off a little that they made him do them so often. It's like they forgot he was a rookie sometimes.

Lukey The Loml: Be at urs in 20

You: Ok, drive safe love. See you in 20 ❤️

You paced around your apartment anxiously while you waited. You heard his footsteps in the hall, and before he even had a chance to stick his key in the lock, you were flinging the door open and holding your arms out to him.

Luke stepped over the threshold of the door, dropped his bag, and collapsed into your arms with a sigh. The height difference has him hunching over awkwardly for him to bury his face against your neck. His arms lock around your waist, and he sighs, melting further into the warmth of your body.

You card your fingers through his curls, fingers catching on all the knots from wearing his helmet for so long. You tug him further into your apartment, kicking the door shut as you go. He doesn't protest when you lead him to the bathroom and detangle him from your embrace to turn on the shower.

"You played so well, my darling boy," you say softly, helping him strip.

He gives you a tired smile, "Thanks, baby."

You make quick work of your own clothing and pull him into the shower. He groans, rolling his shoukders as the hot water hits his back. "Fuck I'm tired," he mutters attempting to run a hand through his hair. His fingers catch on the tangles, and he grunts frustratedly, yanking at his hair.

"Sit down, darling, I got you," you say, tugging his hand from his hair gently, and guiding him to sit on the shower seat, he does so without complaint, closing his eyes and ducking his head under the hot stream of water. He rests his hands on your hips, rubbing gentle circles with the pads of his thumbs.

You pop open the shampoo bottle, squirting some in your palms and lathering it up. The scent of coconut and vanilla melds with the steam, and your fingers delve into his curls once again, massaging at his scalp expertly. He melts against you with a happy sigh, his forehead resting against your torso.

Luke will never get tired of having you wash his hair, and honestly, you'll never get tired of washing it for him. Your fingers move in gentle cirlcles from the top of his head to his temples to the back of his neck. You detach the shower head and rinse the shampoo out of his hair before reaching for the conditioner.

You spread it all over your palms and drag your hands through the ends of his hair, working out all the knots with practiced ease. Luke had never been a post game ritual guy. As long as he had a shower, snack, and got to sleep, he was good. Until you came along, with your whirlwind of hair products and showed him the wonders of having his hair washed by another person.

Now, whenever he had the opportunity, he pulled you into the shower with him and made you wash and style his hair. You scrub him down gently and rinse out the conditioner. If he notices the floral scent of the body wash, rather than whatever the fuck Night panther smells like, he doesn't comment. Although you know he likes your bodywash better.

You hand Luke a towel and wrap one around yourself before padding to the bedroom and grabbing a change of clothes for the pair of you. Sweats and a hoodie for Luke, and one of his sweat shirts and shorts for yourself.

Luke takes the change of clothes from you and plants a kiss on your temples, "Thank you, baby."

As soon as the two of you are clothed, Luke is hoisting you onto the bathroom counter and standing between your legs patiently, his hands rest on your thighs, tracing shapes absent-mindedly. You lock your legs around his hips, ensuring he's as close as possible while you run product through his still wet hair.

Leave in conditioner, scrunch, then gel and scrunch again.

You twirl a couple of wonky looking curls around your finger to make them coil neatly. You twist around to wash the product off your hands and then pull him in for a sweet kiss. Luke kisses you back softly, cupping your face with so much care that it makes your heart gooey in your chest.

You pull away, panting softly as you rest your forehead against his. "Come on, i'll make you a snack and we'll cuddle on the couch and watch a movie. Ok?"

Luke can't resist pressing another kiss to your lips, hoping he can pour all the love he feels into it. "Thanks for making me feel better."

"It's nothing darling, that's what I'm here for," you shrug.

"I love you so much," he murmurs, pressing fluttering kisses to your cheeks, "more than I have words for,"

Your cheeks warm, and you smile shyly.

"I love you too, my darling, with my whole heart."

[dearfizz]

I DIDN'T KNOW BIGB WAS AT HIS OWN FUNERAL AS A GHOST??????

[Transcript:

Grian: Here lies BigB, the best secret soulmate. I... I am so sorry. I killed Ren, and I didn't think hard about the consequences. I didn't really... I didn't really expect it to work. I'm sorry B. Please

BigB: I... forgive you Grian. I forgive you

Grian: secret soulmate. Still secret soulmates]

THIS IS SO SICKENING????? Has this been talked about, and I'm just... late to the party??? Oh my god... this is so sickening.

On another side note, more ghost perspective pls. Especially after the final battle. Like post a bonus video a week after the finale yk? I want to see them make bets on who's winning.

On another another side note. Ren saying that they were loyal to the end in their ghost perspective is so ironic to me, but it literally doesn't help with my utter confusion of what's going on with Ren and BigB. So does Ren actually know?? Or did Ren just say that for a nicer final narrative?

[becca-e-barnes]

Honestly, it might not be everyone's thing but the thought of sweet, domestic free use makes me purr 😵‍💫

Just the thought of baking in the kitchen with some quiet music playing that you can't really hear when the mixer is running. Wearing a cute little dress with an apron on top, knowing that your husband has been enjoying the way the hem flutters just above your knees.

Bucky's always been full of compliments but never more so that when you're making him his favourite sweet treats. He appreciates you. All of you.

"Such a good little wife for me." He's been sitting at the kitchen table, waiting for your mixer to finish incorporating the dry ingredients into your chocolate brownie batter.

With your back to him, he can't see the smile that tugs at the corners of your lips. He can't see the joy you feel at being able to show him how much you love him.

"You're so gorgeous, do you know that?" He's already crossed the space between you, standing behind you and trailing his lips up your neck.

His hands feel huge on your waist and you feel how desperate you are to melt against his broader frame. You're safe and loved and appreciated and it makes you want all of him.

"I think you'll like the panties I'm wearing." You whisper, trying not to look at him as the kisses to your neck pause.

One hand slips from your waist, under the hem of your dress, trailing up the outside of your thighs.

He doesn't know whether to expect lace or cotton or silk or something else entirely but his breath catches in his throat when he finds nothing. No fabric at all. Just more soft, warm skin.

"Fuck sweetheart, you've been at home all day with no panties on?" The hand disappears and you hear your husband undo his belt buckle.

"No, I took them off before you got back." Somehow he likes that answer more. They came off just for him.

"You must've been hoping I'd take care of you." He gives his stiffening cock a few strokes before pulling your dress up and bending you over slightly.

His tip has no trouble slipping inside you, followed quickly by the rest of his length. You're almost embarrassingly wet just from knowing that he was looking at you.

"Just you keep doing what you're doing. Don't let me distract you." He groans as he thrusts into you, enjoying the tight, wet heat of your body and the way you try to turn your attention back to your mixing bowl.

[buttercupshands]

have a transparent Loop because I actually put efford into this one out of allllll the sprites I did today just because.

[ricky-mortis]

Howdy, Hello there! Here is my piece for this year’s @hatchetfield-bang!

I’s a companion to the wonderful, @mythuzalasheir3 ‘s fic, “Does This Look Like The Goddamn Abstinence Camp To You?”- which you all should go read!

[diamondvic]

Sometimes I just think about how absolutely TERRIFIED V is of Cyn vs just the solver in general. Her behavior in specifically episode 8 when Cyn is around is SOOO interesting.

V uses her knife hands unnecessarily through the whole show - she uses them just as much as, if not more than, her normal hands. It's probably a mix of show and a genuine defensive habit she's picked up by the time the show actually starts.

Even during episode 8, when she's being emotionally vulnerable to what she believes is N, the knives are out. She's probably tense, both from the fight AND from the emotional weight of spilling these secrets she's kept for ages.

And yet, when faced with Cyn, who she KNOWS is a threat... she retreats the knives, placatingly, and IMMEDIATELY begins pleading. This is V, who has never hesitated to resort to violence before. And it's not the solver itself she's scared of, its CYN. There's a brief moment in episode 3 where, when Uzi's solver activates, V startles and pulls her gun on her. In episode 4, when Uzi is possessed by the solver, V is clearly rattled, but she still has no problem taking action against and fighting Uzi. In these instances, she WAS afraid, but not enough to not be able to take action. But here? Her confidence completely falters. Her first instinct is to make herself as small as possible and try to reiterate that she can still do whatever Cyn wants of her (and she most definetly gets this behavior from having to serve the Elliotts on Earth, and from being disposed of even before that.. do a good enough job, or you can easily be thrown out. Something something, she's never been free, and at least being gleeful about murder means she's ok with it, so therefore she's not being forced!!! Any way to get autonomy back. But that's a side tangent in itself).

When Cyn nearly eats N's heart, V is in no way being prevented from trying to reach him. Sure, J is there, but V is clearly not afraid of J, having just fought her. But faced with the drone she worked so hard to keep safe being at risk, who she'd clearly done so much for... She freezes. Because this is CYN. And Cyn RELISHES mocking her fear, like she KNOWS V won't make a move to stop her.

And even down to what she would have surely thought was when she and N would definetly die, when she is STILL technically free to get up and fly away, she freezes. It's all she can manage is to vainly try to defend herself and keep N's core sheltered. She's too terrified to even move but she's still trying to keep him safe to the end.. (side note, if you pay attention to them once Uzi shows up, you can see she's still covering him with her sword while he's out of commission, which is very cute. Presumably she stays with him while he regenerates, which is why they show up late to the fight)

V is just soo interesting. She tries sooo so much to be cool under pressure and unbothered, but Cyn's presence is enough to stop her completely. Very fun and very revealing dichotomy to her character, and seeing how she effects V makes Cyn much more personally threatening than her just being an entity employing some vague cosmic power manages to do