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#and i just have to turn up and let other people figure everything out and then agree to it
moonstruckme · 10 hours
Note
request for Remus x reader, or poly!marauders x reader - A reader who seems more dominant in everyday life (managing group projects, generally independent, being a leader, etc.) maybe she's an older sibling or has parents that aren't all that responsible so she's had to take on that role.
But she settles into a more submissive energy with her partner(s) because she feels safe to do so, and lets them take charge. sorry if that's too specific! I hope it makes sense
no stress if this isn't your jam <3
Soft dom Rem you will always be famous <3 Thanks for requesting lovely!
modern au
Remus Lupin x fem!reader ♡ 651 words
“No, yeah, I think that’s a good idea.” You flash your boyfriend a terse smile as you come in the door, phone held between your face and your shoulder. Remus steps forward to take your bag from you, and you mouth a thanks as you set down your keys. “That sounds like it would work fairly easily with my current plan, I wouldn’t mind incorporating that. No—of course—no worries, I appreciate your help.”
Remus starts to ease you out of your jacket, and it’s a struggle to keep from sighing at the casual care in his touch as you continue talking to the person on the other line. “Okay, are you free to meet on Thursday to finalize things?” You listen. Nod. “Perfect. I’ll get in contact with the others and figure out a time that works.” 
Remus hangs your jacket over a chair and goes to sit on the couch, motioning for you to follow. You make a gesture for one second and take your planner from your bag, grabbing a pen and taking the cap off with your teeth. “So you definitely can’t do after four? No, that’s cool, I’m just making sure.” You scribble down a couple of time ranges. “I’ll get back to you with what the others say. Okay, thanks! Talk soon.” 
You end the call with a sigh, leaving your planner faceup on the table so you’ll remember to call the others later. Remus waits until you’re looking at him before patting his thigh. 
Something unravels in you as you walk over to him obediently, settling yourself in his lap. 
“Hi,” you say, wrapping your arms loosely around his neck and laying your head on his shoulder. 
“Hi.” A bit of bemusement makes its way into Remus’ tone at your obvious relief. He rests a hand on the small of your back. “Long day, sweetheart?” 
You hum. “Not bad. I just have this headache that won’t go away, so that made it feel longer.” 
Remus tuts, his other hand coming up to cup the back of your head protectively. “Why’s that, hm?” 
“Dunno,” you exhale, snuggling into him. “It’s getting better already, though.” 
“Hm.” He sounds dissatisfied. A second later, he’s holding you securely to his back, tipping you both forward as he reaches for the coffee table. You hear ice clinking. “Drink this.” 
Reluctantly, you take your face from his shoulder to accept the water bottle. It’s his, nearly full and ice cold. Remus strokes your hair as you sip from it, eyes soft with approval. 
“That’s enough managing people for today,” he says, not unkindly. “You’ve already done most of the work, you can send a text and let them coordinate their own meeting time.” 
You frown, taking your lips from the water bottle. “I would, but they’ll never actually respond if it’s in a group chat. Nobody replies if I don’t message them individually.” 
“They’ll have to figure it out.” He shrugs insouciantly. 
You feel your eyebrows pinch, another argument rising to your tongue, but it evaporates when Remus wraps a long-fingered hand around your jaw. 
He tilts your chin up towards him. “They shouldn’t need you to take care of everything in order for it to get done,” he says sternly. “If they start calling you again tonight, I want you to send them to voicemail. Understand?” 
“Yes,” you reply automatically, and Remus releases your chin as you sigh, letting you ignore the water bottle for a minute so you can fold yourself back into him. 
“Good.” He turns his head into yours, kissing your temple. “You were never going to get rid of this headache if you let them keep pestering you all night, dove. They’re like flies.” You laugh a little, and Remus scratches at your scalp rewardingly. “You can text them in a little bit. Let’s just stay here for a minute, yeah? Try to get you relaxed.”
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anonymousewrites · 1 day
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Nature of the Human Soul (Book 1) Chapter Fourteen
Platonic! Hazbin Hotel x Teen! Reader
Father Figure! Alastor x Teen! Reader
Chapter Fourteen: Show Goes On
Summary: The Hotel rebuilds and moves on from the fight.
Mouse Note: Thank you for reading Nature of the Human Soul (Book 1)! I hope you all enjoyed because I loved writing this. I'm so excited for Hazbin Hotel to return because I have a lot of ideas for this series, and I'm excited to continue. But for now, thank you for everything! If you like my writing, please check out my other Father Figure series!
           “Noooo!” screamed Lute as Adam fell. She ran to Adam’s side, and (Y/N) backed off, narrowing their eyes in case she tried anything. “Sir! Stay with me, sir! Adam!” He was gone.
           “It’s over,” said Charlie, holding Vaggie to her side protectively.
           Lucifer loomed over Lute, and her eyes widened in fright. “Take your little friends and go home! Please.”
           Lute narrowed her eyes and picked up Adam’s halo. Furious at having no other choice, she glared at the demons before calling out to the exorcists. “Retreat. All exorcists fall back.”
           The angels rose into the air, fleeing back through the portal to heaven.
           Lucifer, pleased, turned to the hotel group. “So…who’s up for pancakes?”
           Everyone, bloody and tired, stared at him.
l
            “Good evening, I’m Katie Killjoy,” said the news report later that night.
            “And I’m—”
            “No one gives a shit who you are, Tom,” said Katie. “Breaking news: extermination day is canceled! Charlie Morningstar managed to fend off the angelic attack with more than just nice words. In an unseen turn of events, our demonic head honcho Lucifer stepped in to save his daughter’s ass in the last moment. We’re also hearing reports that Adam, leader of the Angelic Legions, first man, and totally fuckable bad boy, has been slain by a filthy gardening demon or some shit like that. The kid said, quote, ‘I hate cameras, and TV here sucks, go away’ before threatening our crew! What an asshole! Anyway, congrats to Charlie and her crew for not being totally fucking useless for once.”
l
            Charlie held Keekee as she looked over the rubble that used to be the Hazbin Hotel. They’d lost so much, so many people. “Oh, there, there, it’s…” She sighed. “It’s okay.” She tried to believe it herself, but it was difficult.
            Angel smiled at her as he held Fat Nuggets. Charlie managed to smile back and took a step towards him. She found herself in front of the “Happy First Week!” sign she’d made for Pentious. Her heart ached at his loss. Vaggie put her hands on Charlie’s shoulders comfortingly.
(Charlie) “He did it for us, The ultimate sacrifice. He gave me his trust, And look how we pay the prince.”
            Tears gathered in her eyes. She had failed her friends. Because she hadn’t been strong enough, they had gotten hurt, killed.
(Charlie) “This bloodshed could have been avoided, If I convinced heaven to work together. I took a hotel, and I destroyed it, I know I could have done better, better, Instead of letting you down.”
            Lucifer put a hand on his daughter’s shoulder and smiled at her.
(Lucifer) “Come on little lady, why the frown? In the last ten thousand years, you’re the first one to change this town, You can do this, Now I know it, For your story has just begun, You can’t quit now, Hell, you owe it, There’s still damage to be undone, You’ve changed my mind, You’ve touched their hearts.”
            Charlie looked around as her friends approached with a smile.
(Lucifer) “Found the good in souls gone bad, The stage is wrecked, the crowd is gone, But by God Charlie, The show it must go on!”
            Her friends gathered around Charlie.
(Vaggie, Cherri, (Y/N), Angel, Husk, Niffty) “We can do this, We can build it! Best hotel that you’ve ever seen! Twice the bedrooms, We can fill it!” (Lucifer) “With more sinners than you can dream!” (Lucifer and Vaggie) “It starts with you!” (Vaggie, Cherri, (Y/N), Lucifer, Angel, Husk, Niffty) “You know it’s true, Fulfill your destiny!”
            They reached out their hands. Wiping her tears and smiling, Charlie stood and took her father’s hand as the group came together for a hug.
(Charlie) “So long as I’ve got all of you with me!”
            And so, the cleanup and work began. It was tough going, but everyone pitched in, and the hotel began to come together better than before.
(Niffty) “To build a hotel, I think we need some brick and lumber!” (Lucifer) “Good thing we’re in Hell, check out this little magic number.”
            He snapped his fingers, and the supplies appeared.
(Angel) “Start with foundation.” (Lucifer) “A remedial creation for me.”
            The foundation came together in a single spell.
(Niffty, Angel, Lucifer) “It’s as easy as can be!”
            Soon, the hotel was getting decorated, rooms ready to be stayed in.
(Charlie) “No time for cryin’, We got a lot of work to do and, We gotta try and make the best of what’s in ruins.” (Vaggie) “New coat of paint!” (Husk) “New lights across the marquee!” ((Y/N)) “With a little sorcery!”
            They waved a hand, and plants grew up around the hotel, decorating it with nature amongst the barren city that Pride usually was.
            Finally, the hotel was put back together, with a statue of Dazzle outside. Charlie smiled at the painting of Pentious and the Egg Bois going up in the foyer to honor his memory. The memories of who they lost would never be forgotten as a new era of the Hazbin Hotel approached.
(All) “We can do this!” (Charlie) “We can do this!” (All) “We’ll be better!” (Charlie) “We’ll be better!” (All) “Though redemption may take a while.” (Charlie) “Though it may take a while.” (All) “Wayward sinners, clear their ledger!”
            They came together for a hug, and a familiar face popped out of the shadows.
(Alastor) “And we’re doing it with a smile!”
            (Y/N) grinned. He was healed and back with them. He had survived, too.
(Charlie) “We’ll make a difference, wait and see.” (Charlie and Vaggie) “We’re gonna do this, you and me.” (All) “And then tomorrow it will be, A fuckin’ happy day in Hell!”
            The Hazbin Hotel was open for business.
l
            (Y/N) walked through the hotel to the new wing dedicated to Alastor’s broadcasts. Obviously, it was placed on the opposite side from Lucifer’s apple-themed wing. They paused at the door of the radio and knocked.
            “Alastor?” they called out.
            The door was opened by a shadow, and (Y/N) stepped inside. Alastor was standing over the controls of the new radio, examining everything.
            “Do you like it?” asked (Y/N), slightly nervous.
           Yes, they had faced Adam, but this was…different. It was a different type of encounter. With a fight, (Y/N) knew what it felt like to suffer, to go through pain, so they could handle that. With friendship, (Y/N) had very little experience, so they weren’t sure how to deal with it.
           Alastor turned to face them. “It seems Charlie did a good job ensuring this was up to my standards. My broadcasts will be quality, as usual.”
           “Charlie didn’t make it. Well, she helped, but I, uh, I did it,” said (Y/N).
           Alastor paused, and his grin, unbidden, widened. “You did?”
           (Y/N) nodded. “I saw your tower was affected when Adam hurt you, so when we rebuilt the hotel, I made sure there was something for you to come back to.”
           “I hadn’t expected to have a broadcast tower at the hotel,” said Alastor.
           “Do you like it?” asked (Y/N).
           “I do,” said Alastor honestly.
           (Y/N) brightened. “I’m glad! And I’m glad you’re alright. Adam did a lot of damage to the hotel, killed Pentious, and hurt you pretty badly.”
           “It will take more than that to kill the Radio Demon,” said Alastor, but the unfortunate truth was that he had nearly died.
           “I faced him,” said (Y/N) suddenly.
           Alastor paused. “Oh?”
           “Yeah, I fought Adam. It didn’t go that well for me, either.” They grinned at him. “But I killed him. In the end, I killed him.” They stood proud in their strength and determination. Yes, (Y/N) had nearly fallen to Adam and Lucifer had really defeated him, but dealing the killing blow had given (Y/N) so much satisfaction.
           Alastor looked at (Y/N), and he cursed every part of him that still had some humanity since he felt something as they smiled at him. It wasn’t what he felt when Rosie laughed alongside him and teased him, but it held a familiar warmth. Although he had begun by seeing something in (Y/N) that reminded him of himself from oh-so long ago, Alastor couldn’t help but look at (Y/N) and just see them, now. It wasn’t them being like him, even if it still began there, but it was more.
           “I wouldn’t expect anything less of my protégé,” said Alastor, unable to keep the fondness completely out of his voice.
           Alastor was falling victim to all of the weaknesses he wanted to eliminate within himself.
           And (Y/N)? Well, the Nature Demon stood tall. They were growing into all the strength they had ever wished for.
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atarathegreat · 2 days
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Hello! May request a Draken sibling!Reader x Mikey. Any scenario and/or headcanons will do! Thx♡
No one knew what the hell was wrong with the commander. For weeks on end Mikey had been acting weird, not acting as childish or as ruthless. Even in fights, he was more inclined to let people at least have the ability to walk away, which was a little concerning to Draken. All the founders and captains were used to Mikey absolutely destroying his opponent, and he just suddenly...stopped.
Draken leaned back on his bed, watching his friend. "The hell is up with you recently, man?" Kenny couldn't take it. Especially when Mikey was over to hang out, he wasn't acting like himself. "What do you mean, Ken-chin?" Mikey looked up from the comic book in his hand. "Dude, you've been acting strange as hell." Draken threw a pillow at him. Mikey was the only one who hadn't noticed this change. He thought he was the same as always.
"Kenny!" Mikey straightened up at the cute voice, "I brought you and Mikey some drinks." Draken's little sister came in and set down a couple of drinks. She was only a few months older than Emma, and Mikey figured that if Kenny had a crush on Emma, then he could have a crush on Y/n. Dark eyes watched as she plopped down next to her brother, "And the ladies said that, when you have time, they need help moving a couple boxes."
"I'll get to it when I get to it. Damn." Draken rolled his eyes, "Don't they know I'm busy?"
Y/n giggled, and Mikey felt like his heart was going to implode. She was adorable. Unlike Emma, she had no desire to grow up fast, be more mature, or even dress like she had something to show. Mikey loved his sister, of course, but this girl... she was everything he wanted, and he couldn't help but compare and contrast the two the same way he did to himself and Kenny. Draken was mature and careful where Mikey was childish and impulsive. Was Y/n the same as him? He really hoped so.
"What about you, Mikey? Can you help?" Y/n turned to the shorter blonde.
Draken tugged on her ponytail, "Hey, don't start asking my friends to do your chores!"
"I'm asking for help, you overgrown lima bean!"
"Watch your mouth, you underdeveloped mouse!"
It was always weird when the two argued, hurling meaningless insults at each other that Draken would apologize for later.
For a second, Mikey wondered if she'd even be into a short guy. He was just around below average, but she grew up staring at the ceiling to talk to her brother. What if she couldn't stand looking eye level at him? Or what if she wanted someone with a deeper voice? Mikey wasn't exactly...gruff.
"Stop being a brat!" Y/n was pinning Draken down and jerking on his shirt, "I'm only asking for help, not for him to do everything for me!" Kenny could've easily thrown her off, but she was his baby sister. So, he yelled to Mikey for help. "Mikey, grab this deranged dust bunny!"
Mikey was careful to grab around her waist, no higher and no lower, to pull her away from her brother. He liked carrying Y/n, but he didn't want to hold on for too long and risk Draken seeing that he had a crush. "We should bring her along to our next fight and set her loose on the guys!" Mikey laughed, though he wouldn't actually let her anywhere near a fight. "I'll help you with whatever it is." Mikey smiled, ignoring the way Draken groaned and told him not to bother.
Despite her brothers' warnings to not help, Mikey followed her through the brothel and to her own little room. "I just need help moving these boxes to the room across from Kenny's." She crouched down and picked up a box, a box that Mikey quickly grabbed from her. "Alright." He grabbed another box underneath it, "Lead the way."
Maybe he would just confess to Y/n when Kenny confessed to Emma...
yes, the parallel is on purpose :)
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dairy-farmer · 2 days
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I call this the Highlander Au! >:Dc There can Be Only One! (Unless he REALLY enjoys the process and the world stops going to shit for like... FIVE god damned minutes!) (The second is sadly unlikely)
Tim? Fully Cis gendered male. Not terribly ATTACHED to this, physically, but certainly identifies as Male and has a male body.
Maybe it's been all the near misses. The "all my friends fuckin DIED on my and I mentally spiraled like you wouldn't believe". Could be him finally reclaiming his life. Or yet another horrible mental spiral. Who knows!
But he's decided.
He wants to be a Dad. *sound of various Bats choking and/or dropping things*
Is even seeing anybody? Nope. How the FUCK is he gonna get a baby?! Oh, normal, Bat Paranoid fashion. Cloning tube. Same way Damian happened. He just needs to figure out the maternal DNA and he's golden. Figure out where to hide his tech to stop Villainous Baby Snatching Plots.
Because that's a very real concern.
No you can't talk him out of this. Timmy want himself a baby. Is already designing a nursery and studying child development books. Parenting manuals, getting those little animal onsies, lazer death grids to ward of Ra's ninjas. The works.
Bruce is off to the side, quietly having an aneurysm and choking to death on his own spit. Baby boy? Fatherhood? OFFSPRING!? Alone and not going to LET HIM HELP!? But why would he help!? Bad idea! But. But he needs to BE THERE to TAKE CARE of TIM and the future BABY! Aaaaaaaaa-!!!!!
It's a... "Fun" time. Dick is nearing a nervous breakdown. Bruce not far behind. Damians having Feelings(tm).
Then! At a Wayne Charity Event(tm)? Small glowing child. Looks alien. Is getting upset. People backing away IN A HURRY because they just watched this child WARP REALITY to turn the nearest table into candy.
Tim is there as the face of the family. A hero. Already feeling generally Paternal. Upset baby is Bad. So he goes in, dispite clear protests. Gets low and talks soothing.
But the alien Wants Her MOMMY!
And? Oh. Well there goes the protective amulets JLA Dark made for him. Now he's in an alien dress and? Very much no longer Cis. Guess he would have and DID inherent from his dad's side of the family, no boobs. Tiny. At least he got his mom's killer legs.
And the kiddo isn't scared any more. Since he "looks like mommy".
Except not even remotely, because she warps into being an HOUR later, looking for her daughter and is made of pure light. Thanks him. Doesn't FIX anything. And just leaves. Gee, thanks lady.
There were REPORTERS there. Tim Drake has tits now. Front page news. Great. Ra's is GOING to know and get WEIRD about it.
Tim shrugs. Off to Leslie we go, though. Check up time!
Yep. Full lady bits action. And, hey! Shiny new spleen! So that's nice.
It DOES change his plan though. He didn't, you know, collect any "samples" yet. But? Does... does he NEED too? He COULD concoct a story of "rich person hires mystic to get penis back" after going and getting magiced back.... OR?
He could have someone put a baby in him! *simultaneous Bat Choking Noises*
MUCH easier to defend. THEN he could be changed back, after the baby is weaned. The problem is who to trust? Ra's is ABSOLUTELY going to do everything in his power to get his seed inside Tim new puss. So a seed bank is out. And-
*hands slam on the table*
Obviously! We can't trust anyone outside this house! Villian plots and Ra's specifically! Bat paranoia! W-we will just have to make this sacrifice for you!
.....Weirdly intense, but okay.
Objection! Says Tim's newly no longer Dead team mates. Tim tried to CLONE Kon! OBVIOUSLY it should be Kon! And Bart! Bro Threesome! Let nature decide! (Then kid number 2 is the other Bro, is only FAIR)
ALSO a good point. He did have that promise, if one of them ever got turned into a girl. And a Kon baby WOULD be nice...
Shit! Grayson pulls "last of my legacy and I have so much to make up for" cards!
Is betrayed by his OWN FATHER (Bruce! How COULD YOU!?) Who plays "you saved me from the time steam and nearly died for me, let me help(emotional)" to devastating effect!
Cheating! Howls the Speedster! You're CHEATING!!!
And Tim stands there... kinda confused but finding he's actually Really In To This as people argue over how much THEY want to be the one to put a baby in him? He's never felt this badly WANTED. Desired.
He may not want to go through the whole "actually carrying a baby for 9 months then pushing one out" thing more then once.... but the fighting over him thing? This might be awaking something.
And, well, Kon already made a good point. Why try to control it? Let nature decide~
Everyone can help.
The argument stops dead. For all of the seconds before "who goes first?" Occurs to everyone.
Sadly for THEM, Bruce is a bastard willing to play dirty to get what he wants. And his house his rules. He goes first. After all, he no doubt smirks, none of THEM have the... experience, to handle a virgin properly.
He refuses to allow Tim hurt on his watch.
Got it? Good talk. Tim, with him.
Which is what leads to Tim clawing at the bed and begging like his life depends on it, soaked in sweat, hours later. As Bruce STILL gently, teasingly, RUTHLESSLY eats him out. Puddles worth of lube ruining the sheets and easing his way, as he works calloused fingers DEEP to find spots Tim didn't know he had yet. As they rub and tease and fuck against those spots so relentlessly it feels like Tim's coming apart.
He didn't even know he could MAKE half these noises.
His hole is so wet and sloppy, it's like it's given up. Like his body can do nothing but quiver and twitch under Bruce's hands. Given how big he is? Probably the point. Because he crawls up to loom over Tim like a giant. Presses kisses to his whimpering, sweaty face. And rocks into his exhausted body, filling every inch of him.
It doesn't even hurt. Something that big probably SHOULD for his first time, but Bruce isn't a legendary playboy for nothing. And it just fills and Fills and FILLS. Rubs against everything in a way that makes his toes curl. Makes him want to gasp and cling, even though he's so exhausted.
Bruce just shooshes him. Pulls him close. He won't have to do a thing. He can just cling to Bruce and feel good. Bruce is here. He's got you.
And it's the best thing Tim's ever felt. Forget masturbation, sex is AMAZING. Bruce rocking then thrusting then pounding into his body. Holding tight like something precious. Hammering his good spots still he sees stars. Til he's nearly sobbing, hiccuping, from how good it feels to have his insides all messed up.
Bruce fills him up. All gooey and warm. Picks him up and carries him to a clean bed to get wiped down and tucked in. Cleans up then joins him. Fills him back up and tucks him close. He feels boneless and precious. Sleeps like the dead.
Discovers sex with a puss is AWESOME.
Next morning, he's barely out of Bruce's room before Dick is scooping him up and dragging him into his room. Almost franticly bending him in half as he presses him to the bed, kissing the air out of him. Holding his face as he whispers filthy praise into his lips. Hips relentless as they slam home, pounding at just the right angle.
Like he's trying to make for YEARS of mistakes by pouring it all into pleasure NOW. Clinging tight and trying to fry Tim's brain with how good he can make him feel. Dick buries his faces against Tim's neck and rutts like he's making up for lost time. Fucking Tim through orgasms, spilling again and again, like he's determined to drain his balls dry and wring every last bit of pleasure he CAN out of Tim's exhausted body.
Tim has to threaten to hit him with an alarm clock to let him up. Tim wants LUNCH damn it. They missed breakfast. By a LOT.
But then work calls. Damn it. So he has to get dressed. Double damn it. And he does it, but refuses to be pleased about it. Resolves things. Even gets ahead on work. Only for DAMIAN to walk stiffly into his office. Sus.
The gremlin hands him a frankly VERY well put together report on why he, Damian AL Ghul... should be allowed to fuck a baby into Tim. He has brought along a slide show and genealogical report.
.......Explain.
Damian does. He REALIZED some things about himself. When Tim was discussing becoming a Father. Using the same method as he, himself, was created. Went through a whole "go to the Kent farm and have a life change adventure" character growth arc, as you do. And? Now realizing that he potentially COULD be DIRECTLY involved in the Hypothetical Child's life instead of as an uncle?
He wants in. They could be glorious, combined. AND he firmly believes Tim will be a magnificent Mother. Let him Father your child.
It's a bad idea. Tim knows this. He literally JUST slept with Bruce yesterday and nothing good comes from sleeping with AL Ghul's. They Obsess. But? Fuck it. Maybe THIS is the thing that finally stops the Tim-Gremlin cold war and bring peace to house Wayne once and for all. He unbuckles his belt. Walks over to his resting room.
And Tim KNOWS, even as he's being urgently fucked into the fold out bed, that this is an AWFUL idea. No way in HELL, from the desperate and sloppy thrusts, clinging, panting and whines, is this NOT Damian's first time. He's utterly undone.
Pounding load after load into Tim because it feels too good to stop. All enthusiasm and no skill. Half the pleasure Tim's even GETTING is his own hand, relentlessly teasing his own clit. But? Oh. The feeling of being wanted so BADLY. Of cum, gushing and gushing into him. Knowing it's HIS hole that's so good, it's driving Damian incoherent.
He feels... sexy. It DEFINITELY does something for him. He may not be able to go back. Could see himself enjoying being a milf.
But of course. Business hours end. And he PROMISED! Is swept up by Bart for their threesome. Which, after several rounds and untold loads of near-no-refractary-period speedster cum dumped inside him? Is kinda spotty, in his memory.
All he knows for certain is he wakes up to his sheepish best friends, "Sorry we fucked you unconscious repeatedly" bribes, no voice, and a warm bath. He's also plugged up and FULL full of that premium speedster/half-kryptonian blend cum, because apparently his friend intend to WIN and nothing says victory like overwhelming odds. He'd call them fuckers, but they ARE and hold no remorse. He can't move.
Carry him you bastards.
When he asks where Cassie is, he learns she's apparently trying to harrass the magic users into a making her a temporary "turn me into a dude" amulet. Both as a gift AND so she can join the race for Father Of Tim's Baby. Huh. Interesting new options.
Obviously, throughout ALL of this, ninjas. Because Ra's has never wanted to smash so hard in his LIFE.
Instead, Tim is out here, on Jason's shitty couch. Getting lifted up and slammed down onto his cock. Called baby girl. Princess. Jason's never been harder. Already planning their kids graduation dinner and baby number three.
Tim feeling precious and taken care of and DESIRED. Like the young adult with a first shitty apartment he never got to be. Something so close to normal. Put a baby in him. Fuck him like you love him, like they do this every Saturday night, then eat pizza and watch trash TV. Fill him up.
And if course~ it's a VICIOUS game of Fuck The Tim keep away, up until one day he starts to show. Then Everyone is loving and coddling and in a "No I Am The Father" cold war. The birth is a nightmare, because Tim is slender and more scar tissue then not. But?
Adorable quarter-Kryptonian! With the biggest blue eyes and Tim's porcelain doll face.
Tim is NOT doing that again. Ffffffuck giving birth. And being pregnant! Granted, the EARLY part? He loved. He glowed. Getting pregnant was AWESOME. But later stages? God awful. Clone tube babies from here on out.
Absolute Devastation in the Tom Fucking Community. Babe no! You can't MEAN IT!
Woah, hey! He never said he'd STOP. "Getting Pregnant" is very, VERY enjoyable. He's just refusing to carry SHIT. Birth control for HIM. Scooping that slurry of "leave it up to Nature" out and storing it. Now... Kon stop being smug and hold your son.
-🐼🐼🐼
😭😭😭 tim getting everyone to come to dinner and they all think it was alfred and are like 'this was a great idea alfred! we should all get together like this more often' only for tim to cough and say well actually i called you all here, i figured you all deserved a heads up since i'm going to be undergoing some serious life changes. everyone's confused and then tim says he's going to have a baby.
immediate panic and some disappointment from bruce because he thinks this is a teen pregnancy and he expected better from tim only for tim to have to yell to interrupt everyone and say there is no 'girl', not yet anyway. he's just announcing that he's GOING to have a baby. they're not yet conceived and now the family is dealing with whiplash of how of course TIM would do something like this now they're sitting their listening to him talk about the ideal gene pool given tim's family has a history of mental issues and he's going into some very detailed things like nurseries and everyone just wants him to slow down because tim is still a kid!!! dick is older than him and even HE doesn't feel ready. so everyone is trying to talk tim out of it while tim insists he's ready, he's been going to a therapist for 11 months trying to deal with his issues so he COULD be ready to be a parent.
which of course baffles them even more because???? dick has been trying to get them all into therapist for years and tim just???? went??? on his own????
bruce is of course the least welcoming of tim's ideas of teen parenthood. because what about highschool, college? at least ONE of his kids has to go to college!
tim however says no, says his GED is more than enough.
bruce tries finding other angles, asking what if he just sets tim up with babysitting gigs? make him see kids aren't that great and tim just huffs and said he already did a bunch of babysitting and volunteering at the children's centers in gotham as part of his adoption application!
which ???? just stressed bruce out even more?! because tim had tried to adopt a baby first? but apparently got rejected because of his age, lack of partner, and lack of job which tim loudly says is unfair because bruce was in his 20s when he took in dick and HE hadn't had a partner or a job!
so the family is protesting, despertly trying to get tim to change his mind,,, then tim gets a womb and suddenly the protests die down VERY quick.
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oldsargasso · 22 hours
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ficlet: under cover of the same night
four day weekend starts tomorrow!! and I can start it early today as soon as I process these payrolls so while I wait for the info to come in, I am thinking about a particular Way & Kenta-centric idea that woke me up in the middle of the night last night and made me scramble for notes.
like. what if Kenta's alpha power was bringing people back from the dead? but he has to take a life first.
There's nothing in-between dying and coming back. Way gets shot. He says his goodbyes, lets his life slip away, willing himself to embrace the cold and unknown. Way blinks his eyes open to the harsh artificial lighting that graces the room he finds himself in. He's blinded; his eyes water and he blinks rapidly. The air is ice-cold. The metal underneath him stings at his exposed skin. His jacket's vanished along with his shoes and socks, but at least his shirt mostly remains. It's stiff and thick with dried blood. The whole room stinks of bleach.
There's someone breathing by his side. Way's eyes finally obey his mind, and he turns his focus to the figure.
"Finally," Kenta sighs, crossing his arms over his chest. He looks bored, as much as any expression can be read on his face. "You took forever to come back."
An apology isn't really in Way's modus operandi, especially not to Tony's little lapdog (and especially not to someone with such history with Pete---it's not like Pete is Way's exactly, but he's certainly not for Kenta.) Instead he keeps his mouth shut and pushes himself up to sitting. Kenta unfolds his arms and hovers his hands but doesn't quite reach out to help. There's a deep pain in Way's shoulder when he moves; when he raises his hand to it, he finds nothing but smooth unscarred skin.
"Didn't I get shot?"
Kenta nods. "Yes."
Memory flickers back on in the back of Way's mind. He feels a little light-headed, unmoored in the steel and white expanse of the hospital morgue. "And I---Didn't I die?"
Another nod from Kenta. Like a puppet on a string. "Yes. I..." He sighs deeply, like this conversation with Way is so very tiring for him. A spark of irritation begins to warm Way's body. "I brought you back."
"Why?" Way is incredulous and unable to mask it. Of all people? There's no love lost or won between the two of them.
"I don't get a choice," Kenta says. "I take a life, I have to give a life."
How did you find that out? burns on the tip of Way's tongue, but he holds it back. Sometimes it's better not to know. "No other options laying around, I take it," Way says instead. The bitterness in his tone is for himself, but of course Kenta takes it as his own.
"I wouldn't have had to kill our father if you all had just---" Kenta cuts himself off, taking a deep unsteady breath. "Never mind. It doesn't matter. Can you stand? We need to go."
Way can stand, as it turns out, but only with judicious assistance from Kenta. They shuffle their way to the exit. Way's feet are bare; the heels of Kenta's shoes click on the shiny clean linoleum.
The car parked outside in the loading zone isn't one Way's familiar with. White, compact, nondescript. Kenta eases him down into the passenger seat and slides behind the wheel. He turns the car on and the radio comes to life as well, too quiet to make out anything but the general idea of music.
"Where do you want to go?" Kenta asks, hands neat and tidy at ten and two once he's pulled onto the street.
"What," Way says more than asks, "you don't have this all planned out?"
He watches with sick amusement as Kenta's knuckles go white around the steering wheel. "No little hidey-hole all stocked up and ready to go?"
"If you don't have anywhere to go---" Kenta says in a carefully calm tone.
"Pete's," Way cuts him off sharply. "I want---Let's go see Pete."
Kenta doesn't ask for directions. They don't speak again as they navigate the night-time traffic. Way wants to know what time it is. He wants to know everything that happened from when he clocked out, how long it's been exactly, how everyone is doing, if they're all okay. Somehow, asking Kenta any of it feels like admitting defeat. So Way sits in silence and shivers a little in his short sleeves and ignores the growing ache of hunger in favour of watching the way Kenta drives out of the corner of his eye. He doesn't anticipate other drivers enough, has to hit the brakes harder than he should at times, but he's defensive when he needs to be and aggressive enough to make the lights when he should, so. Serviceable, at best.
----
and then ??? how long HAS it been. how is everyone? what is Pete's reaction? is he happy enough to have them both there that he can ignore the way they snipe at each other? (how long until he has to call in reinforcements)
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starry-bi-sky · 2 days
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show me how to lay my sword down long enough to let you through - clone^2 ch2
[My parents don’t get up until seven, and they’re in the lab by eight. They typically don’t leave the lab until after I get home.] Danny says as he leads Damian into the kitchen, the automated voice of the translator AI cutting through the air easily. Damian stuck close to his side, eyes narrow and a snooty look of disdain stamped on his face like a printing press while his eyes flit around the room.
The kid had woken up immediately upon Danny shuffling out from beneath his desk, and he had to scurry back to avoid being skewered by Damian’s katana. He bumped into his desk in the process, and the muffled thud it made against the wall had Danny praying that his parents wouldn’t wake up from the noise.
(“I should’ve confiscated that.” He muttered, gripping the table with white knuckles and mouth pursed into a thin line. The business end of Damian’s katana staring him in the nose.)
(He should’ve expected the baby assassin to sleep lighter than a feather. His mistake, of course. Damian realized quickly after where he was, thankfully, so Danny didn’t have to fight him off in his room. The noise and mess that would make would have surely woken up his parents, and he still hasn’t come up with an excuse as to why Damian was even there.) 
So now with Damian awake, Danny decided to just go ahead and give him a quick tour of the house so that he knew where everything was. Fuuuck, it was only setting in now that he had to leave the kid home, alone, all day.
(Maybe things will be fine. Murphy screwed him over already with this, he has other people to torment, surely. Like the other heroes, for example.)
Wherever Damian’s ‘League of Assassins’ was situated, it was probably ten times nicer than Danny’s house. That is, if Danny’s assumption from the look on Damian’s face was correct. 
Breathing out through his nose, Danny leads Damian over to the fridge, his fingers digging into the phone screen again. [I don’t have an excuse ready for why you’re here, so please don’t get seen by them. They spend all day in the lab so you should be able to roam the house freely.]   
He feels like the butler from a period drama set telling the down-on-her-wealth noble lady the rules of the manor, while she was staying with a fabulously wealthy nobleman of higher standing. It felt ridiculous. But it was unfortunately necessary, he can’t imagine what kind of reaction his parents would have to Damian — and what kind of reaction Damian would have to his parents. 
Damian scowls at him and says something in Arabic, spitting it out like acid while his arms cross over his chest grumpily. Danny stops and turns to him fully, raising a deadpan eyebrow. Damian repeats what he said, looking at Danny like he wants him to spontaneously burst into flames. 
They stare at each other for thirty, uncomfortable seconds, with Danny keeping his deadpan steady, before finally he silently holds his phone out. Damian breaks their staring contest to look down, and his surly expression deepens. 
Grumbling under his breath, Damian snags it out of his hand. Danny counts his fingers as he pulls his hand away. 
(When he counts all five still there, he drops his arm back to his side.) 
[I will stay hidden, for now.] Damian spits out, looking supremely disgruntled. It’s kind of endearing, but endearing the same way a tiger cub was. Cute, but undoubtedly dangerous. Rather than handing back his phone, Damian speaks into it again. [But figure out what to tell them. I am above hiding.] 
“Planning on it.” Danny mutters, nodding sharply before taking back his phone and turning back to the fridge. Before he even takes the handle, Danny pushes his hair from his face and leans forward, pressing his ear to the door. The metal is cold on his cheek, but he barely pays it to mind. 
Ecto-contaminated food didn’t have nearly enough of a signature to fully trigger his ghost sense, but it did make a strange, buzz-humming sound that felt more internal than external. Like the sensation that Danny himself was humming instead.   
From his peripherals, Danny can see Damian staring at him with unconcealed bewilderment, his apparent surliness temporarily forgotten in favor of looking at Danny like he was an idiot. “Madha tafaeala?”
In lieu of answering, Danny just holds up a finger at Damian. Something the little dude really doesn’t appreciate, as he immediately scowls at Danny and makes that ‘myeh’-like expression that kids do when they’re trying to give someone they don’t like attitude without actually saying anything. The one that, as far as Danny is concerned, doesn’t have a real term for but everyone knows what it is anyway. 
Either way, Damian makes a face at him that does, briefly, succeed in irritating Danny. He says nothing and cranes his ears instead, trying to catch if there’s any internal buzzing coming from inside the fridge. His hand drifts instinctively to the counter, where he and Jazz had moved the knife block for this exact reason. 
…Will he have to hide this with Damian here? He hopes not, the last time the knife block got moved he forgot, and had to strangle a half-eaten chicken from the fridge after it came back with fowl vengeance. 
When he doesn’t hear or feel anything out of the ordinary, he leans back and swings the door open with ease. Rows upon rows of liquid-jellied-solidified-whatever-it-was-feeling-at-the-time ectoplasm sat in glass canisters, tupperware, and bottles on the shelves. Glowing green in between the stuff that was actually food, and washing a buzz over Danny like someone just draped him in a weighted blanket. 
(He should clarify. Ectoplasm does exhibit its own signature that’s too weak to signal his ghost sense, but that buzzing-humming feels more like the painless tingling of when part of his spine falls asleep. Except everywhere, and the feeling is heavier in his head. It’s oddly comforting. Nostalgic; like the smell after the snow’s freshly melted and the weather is warm. It is very much not like the ominous, buzzing-humming-intent of a partially reanimated chicken that’s regained some of its sentience and wanted revenge.)  
Behind him, Damian makes some kind of squeaking sound. Or maybe it’s more like a yelp. Either way, it’s alarmed and loud enough that Danny turns around with half a jumping heart and a ‘shush’ on the tip of his tongue. 
“​​Ladayk ma' lieazir!” Damian hisses, pointing behind Danny at the canisters behind him. Damian’s eyes narrow into slits, and he hunches up like a stray cat that’s been cornered. “Min 'ayn hasalt ealaa ma' lieazir?!”
Danny follows the point of his finger, and sees the ectoplasm canisters behind him. “The ectoplasm?” He asks aloud, looking back at Damian in bewilderment.
Apprehension tightens slowly in his chest. Damian used that word again — and Danny only catches it because it was what Damian had been calling him last night, in the warehouse. He thought it meant ‘stranger’ or something — but, he glances back at the ectoplasm in the fridge.
Was Damian calling him ectoplasm? 
He knows what ectoplasm was? 
What had been a steady tightening in his chest suddenly fastens like a noose. Danny reaches for one of the canisters just to make sure, and Damian watches him tersely as he curls a hand around one of the canisters and pulls it forward. He doesn’t take it off the shelf, but he does gesture slightly with it. “This?” He asks, “The ectoplasm. Is this what you’re talking about?” He knows he has a translator on his phone, but he doesn’t think he’ll need it for this. 
He recalls the word Damian used, and frowns. “The- the lazeer? Laziere?” It’s an embarrassing attempt at trying to repeat it, but Damian understands what he’s saying anyways and nods sharply.  
“Niema, ma' lieazir. Kif lidayk.” 
Danny really doesn’t like that Damian knows what ectoplasm is, and he really doesn’t like the idea that his League of Assassins place knows about it too, and seemingly has access to the physical stuff. This feels too much like going swimming in the ocean and feeling something brush against his foot. 
Now he really needs to make sure that Damian never makes it back to the League. The idea of a bunch of assassins finding out that his parents can make ectoplasmic weapons terrifies him, just a smidge. (Just what has he gotten himself into?)
Putting the canister down and pushing it away from the ledge, Danny reaches for the milk instead, his heart beating uncomfortably in his ears. A discomfited “Hn.” comes out under his breath as he plucks the jug off the shelf and shuts the door, it closes a little more forcibly than normal. Danny reaches for his phone. 
The word ectoplasm doesn’t translate into Arabic, he checks before he says anything. Danny reaches over Damian to put the milk on the table as he types, still frowning uneasily. [It’s ghost stuff.] He says, and then says aloud: “Ectoplasm.” 
“Ec-to-plasm.” Damian repeats curtly, lip curling. Danny nods curtly.
Rather than repeating himself, Danny types into his phone again. [You’re not allowed in the lab without me. Don’t touch the ghost stuff in the fridge, it’s dangerous.] He says, [I was listening to the fridge because the food likes to come alive and attack, if you need food from the fridge, grab a knife.] He’ll try and show Damian how to listen for reanimated food later, it’s a little harder without a ghost sense but the food moves, so he’ll show him how to listen for that.  
Damian scoffs; “'Adhhab hayth 'urid 'ayuha almuhtal.” and reaches out to take the phone from his hand. 
Rather than letting him, Danny pirouettes away, holding his phone over his head, “Nah-ah-ah.” He says, watching Damian’s face twist indignantly into anger. [We’ll talk more later, I want breakfast and you’re probably hungry.] 
(Is he avoiding? Absolutely, he is. But it’s early, and Danny is much too tired to entertain the impending doom sinking into his chest like snow caving in a roof. He needs to do something about the information that a league of assassins has access to ectoplasm, but that something is… being put on the backburner for now.)
(Maybe he’s just catastrophizing — he’s gotten pretty good at that over the years. Maybe he’s putting too much weight on the idea; maybe he’s just sleep deprived. No, he’s definitely sleep deprived. Either way, he’s putting a pin in the murder group for now.)  
Danny turns for the pantry, and takes about one step before he remembers the phone in his hand. Twisting around, he plops it onto the table for Damian, and then marches over to the pantry for the cereal. 
The oven clock reads six-twenty-eight, and that doesn’t have Danny feeling all that great. He said earlier that his parents got up at seven, so they only have thirty-two minutes before then. Then another ten or so before his parents come down for breakfast. Mom takes the shower first, and dad comes downstairs to get started on breakfast. Sometimes it's cereal, but he likes making eggs if they haven’t been irradiated.
The pantry swings open and Danny pulls out a box of cereal, his brows furrowed in thought. Dad will want to talk to him if he sees him — so it’s for the best that Danny and Damian finish eating before dad makes it to the hallway. He turns and glances at the time again. Six-thirty. Thirty minutes. He puts the box onto the table and grabs their bowls and spoons. 
There’s a look of apprehension on Damian’s face as he puts everything down, his fingers curled around Danny’s phone. His eyes flick up to Danny, and then he holds up his phone. [Is this what you eat?] He asks, before eyeing the table again. 
Danny can’t stop the quiet snort that escapes him, his thoughts quieting for a moment as he slides into his chair, before reaching over and plucking the phone out of Damian’s hand. [Sorry bud, it’s all we’ve got time for before my parents get up.] 
Damian makes a disgruntled face, and sits down. 
(He idly makes a mental note to wrangle out of Damian later what kind of foods he likes. He’s not too bad at cooking. He’s better than Jazz, at least.)
—-----
They make it back up to Danny’s room by six-fifty-two, just as Danny hears his parents shuffling around in their room. They’re up a little earlier than normal. His mom’s limb, quieter footsteps already padding for the master bathroom. Danny is closing the door when he hears a familiar thud, and the low, sleepy groan of his dad sitting up and putting his feet on the ground. 
Damian bounds away and is already situated on Danny’s bed when he turns around, fingers snatching his katana from beneath the pillows before he turns and sits stiffly with it in his lap.    
It was a bit of a ridiculous sight: despite being awake for nearly an hour, Damian’s bed-head hadn’t changed a bit, with a tangled bunch of curls jutting out from one side of his head. Pair that with him still wearing Danny’s NASA tee (and being swamped in it), and the katana, and Danny was half tempted to snap a picture. Again, he was finding himself endeared.
He does end up sneaking that picture as he strides over to his closet to rummage for clothes. 
[I’ll try and think of a way to get you home.] He lies as he shifts through the shirts on the hangers, typing with his thumb, and tilted halfway with his phone jutting out for Damian to hear. [But that’s gonna take a while, so we should get you some different clothes soon.] There was no way he was letting this kid wear the same thing every day, this might take weeks. 
He yanks a yellow turtleneck that Tucker got him off the hanger and tosses it out onto the bed. It lands next to Damian with a quiet thump, and the kid shuffles away from it with a glare as if it's personally offended him. Danny stifles a smile and walks out, grabbing his hoodie-jacket from its spot on the door and tossing it onto the bed as well. 
Damian grumbles something, then holds out his hand for the phone. Danny hands it to him as he passes by, going over to his desk to pick up his gloves and grappling hook, before turning to his bag. 
[I am not worried about the time, Mother will come looking for me.] Damian tells him, sticking his nose up into the air and missing the cold seize of Danny’s heart and the tensing up of his shoulders. His mother. Who was probably also an assassin from the assassin club Damian was made from. 
(A blood rush sends stars spinning around in the corners of Danny’s vision, and he pauses in order to stare blankly at the top of his half-opened backpack. He quickly blinks it away, and unzips his bag fully to shove his gear into one of the larger pockets.)
He hums low, turning to look at Damian with a fake smile plastered on his face. “That’s great, bud.” 
(It should be a good thing, but he can’t quite shake the whole ‘assassins’ thing. Specifically… well, all of it. It’s all giving him a headache to sort through.) 
Damian scoffs at him, [I cannot understand you.] 
Danny snorts unwittingly, turning and shoving his gloves into an inside side pocket just as Damian throws his phone at him. He catches it before it can slam into the wall — or Danny’s head, and puts his grappling hook into his bag before typing into the translator. [I said that it’s good. I’m glad your mom is looking for you.]
That was another lie, and he felt bad that it had to be. Damian rolls his eyes at him, and Danny stuffs his phone into his back pocket and grabs his hook. 
When his bag is accounted for, Danny finally focuses on getting dressed. He moves out to the bathroom to change, admittedly hot-footing it a bit so that Damian is alone for the least amount of time possible. He passes a sleep-mussed Jazz heading for the stairs, and she pauses to mess with his hair.
“Did you stay up all night again?” She mumbles, her fingers catch on a few tangles, but slide out at the end easily. “You don’t have bedhead.”  
Danny pauses, half-distracted by the feeling of her hands in his hair and the urge to hurry through getting dressed. “Only a little.” He says, scurrying away and opening the door to the bathroom. “Was workin’ on a case.” 
Jazz frowns at him, and he closes the door before she can say anything. 
(He’s in the middle of brushing his teeth when he remembers that Damian will need other essentials than just clothes, and immediately starts compiling a mental list.) 
He’s got half an arm through his jacket when he leaves the bathroom, his attention split between getting it on and typing into his phone. When he opens the door, there’s quiet, rapid footsteps shuffling before he sees Damian hopping back onto the bed, staring at him stonily and like a kid who was acting like he hadn’t been doing anything. 
A smile tugs at the corner of Danny’s mouth, and he types into his phone to add something before hitting play on the translator. [I have to head out now, you can look around my room if you’d like. Don’t touch the brown files on my desk, I’ll be back after school ends. I should have a game plan by then. Don’t be seen by my parents.] 
As it speaks, Danny strides over and grabs his backpack. Damian’s eyes follow him the whole time, and Danny slings his bag over his shoulders and stuffs his phone back into his pocket. 
Damian nods curtly at him, and before Danny leaves he reaches over and plucks a hairband off his dresser, pinching it between his teeth. 
“Okay, I’m off.” He repeats, voice slightly muffled by the hairband as he starts pulling his hair up. There’s a huff from Damian and a knowingly annoyed look, and Danny’s smile grows a little out of amusement. He tugs the tie out from his mouth and twists it around his hair. “Be good, Damian.”
Green eyes narrow at him, and Danny hurries out of the room, closing the door behind him. 
(He was a little — no, scratch that, a lot apprehensive about leaving Damian here alone for most of the day. He was worried about his parents, perhaps a little too much, and he was worried about Damian recognizing the ectoplasm in the fridge. He’s worried about the whole thing with these ‘League of Assassins’ people, and he’s worried about how he’s going to explain Damian’s presence to his parents. And he’s most especially worried about how on earth he was going to convince Damian to not return home.) 
Instead of going for the stairs, Danny turns and hurries over to the end of the hallway where the ladder to the rooftop is. There’s a lot he needs to think about, too much for him to want to walk with Sam and Tucker.
The nice thing about people is that they don’t really ever look up.
—----------
Danny: hey i’ll meet you guys at school
Tucker: did something happen during patrol?
Danny: something like that
Danny: i’ll tell you in class
Sam: alright. Hop safe
[Danny liked Sam's message]
—-------------
(if continued)
“Dude.”
“I know.”
“Dude.”
“I know.”
“Dude!”
“I know!” 
Danny drops his head onto his desk with an unceremonious thump, groaning low with his nose smushed into the wood. Sam’s hands, buried in his hair and in the midst of messing with it, stills to let him. Some of the strands slip out of her fingers and pool around Danny’s face, causing a curtain. It tickles a little. 
Maybe he should have just walked to school with them, telling them about Damian probably would’ve garnered less attention that way. He can feel the gazes of their classmates — or at least, the ones not slowly filtering into the room — turning onto them, and burning into his head. 
But running over the rooftops, albeit only until the residential area ended, was sorely needed. It didn’t help clear all of his thoughts, or really much of any of them, but it’d chased away the worst of his anxieties about it. Like a breath of fresh air after being stuck in a stuffy room. 
(This has been, officially, the longest… five hours of his life. And he’s had many, many long five hours in the last two years.)
(Pariah Dark and his evil future self are tied for the record of being the longest twenty-four hours of his life. Finding out he was a clone doesn’t count — it was still ongoing, and distressingly permanent.) 
Tucker makes a noise, and Danny turns his head just in time to see him drop into his desk beside him, lifting his hat to run his hand over his curls with a look of disbelief. He’s staring unseeingly over Danny’s head for a whole of two seconds before looking back down. 
“So he just — what, popped out of the ground? Like a daisy?”  
Sam continues with her ministrations, and her fingers brush against his neck as she straightens his hair down his back. It’s soothing, enough so that the sleep-soreness of his eyelids becomes a lot more evident to him. 
“Hn. Something like that. If the ground was a once-in-a-lifetime portal and the daisy was a murderous six year old.” He mutters, blinking slowly to try and keep himself awake. Sam’s nails scratch behind his ears, gathering up his hair again to finger-comb out the tangles, and he sighs quietly in content. 
He sees Tucker suppress a smile, and he can practically sense Sam doing the same thing. Danny stares, did his ears do the thing again—? 
“You don’t think a ghost had something to do with it?” Sam asks him, her voice staying low as she tugged out the knots in his hair. “It’s really strange that…” She pauses. Danny can feel her lean against his chair, and he lifts his head slightly as Tucker leans in too. “..that Damian just appeared in front of you right after you got done with fighting a ghost.” 
Hrm. She was right. It was weird. “I hadn’t thought of that.” He says quietly, “I was too busy trying to get him to stop attacking me.” And after that he was busy trying to get them both home in one piece, and then after that was the whole identity crisis—
And he’s gonna stop there before his tired mind latches onto that spiral again. 
Sam and Tucker’s mouths press together worriedly, and Danny finds himself frowning too. “Maybe I can sneak into the Zone sometime this week and ask one of the Ancients.” Frostbite knew a lot about the Infinite Realms in general, but Pandora might know more about strange magic. 
He could try Clockwork, but finding the clocktower always feels like a scavenger hunt, and getting straight answers out of the ghost is like trying to catch the wind in a bag. Danny normally wouldn’t mind, he kinda likes the challenge, but now is not a good time for that. 
Either way, it was just another thing on his long list of things to do this week, on top of everything else he had to do since acquiring Damian. He could feel a stress headache coming in, and it was only — he takes a quick glance at the clock — eight-fourteen. Yeah, longest five hours of his life. And counting.
Hrrm. “I just can’t believe my luck.” He complains, of all people to clone, of all kids to end up being cloned. It had to be the one kid who, by technicality, was his biological son. That thought alone felt like a tsunami about to swallow him whole. It was confusing, and complicated.  
It shouldn’t have to be.
The thing is, Danny doesn’t view Damian Wayne as his son. Not by a long shot. Damian Wayne was Bruce Wayne’s son. But just like how Ellie isn’t Danny, and Danny isn’t Bruce; Damian is not Damian Wayne. And Danny still doesn’t view him as a son, and obviously Damian doesn’t view him as a father. But it all feels like a strange gray area, like a merry-go-round that’s not turning off, and it wouldn’t have to be if his parents hadn’t been fucking careless with their DNA samples— 
It’s been four months why does he still feel so raw— 
Tucker snorts roughly, bringing Danny out from his head. 
He breathes in deep, blinking quickly, as Tucker leans back into his chair. Sam starts sectioning off Danny’s hair. “Yeah, fair enough,” he says, “bad luck is my schtick though, Danny, so don’t go start encroaching on my brand.” 
“Your brand?” Sam repeats, voice lilting upward. Danny can imagine she’s raising an eyebrow at him, and he snickers both at the thought and at Tucker. 
Tucker’s eyes light up at the sound, and he grins like he’s won a prize. “Yeah, my brand! You know, Bad Luck Tuck?” 
Danny snickers louder, adjusting to sit more comfortably. “I thought your brand was Too Fine Foley.”
“I can have more than one brand.” 
Sam snickers this time, in the midst of braiding Danny’s hair. It feels fantastic, Danny hums lowly, sinking like putty into his desk. “I’m pretty sure that’s called a monopoly, Tuck.” 
Danny laughs quietly, blinking lizard-like. “Tuck Driver.”  
Sam barks out a harsh laugh, and it trails off into stifled chuckles as Tucker’s jaw drops. The wide grin on his face betrays any potential upset he might have though. “That’s the mania setting in.” He says, voice thick with laughter, “That’s the fucking sleep mania talking right now. Take a nap, dude, we’ll wake you up when class ends.” 
Sleep sounds great actually, and he’s gonna do it soon anyways with Sam still doing his hair. But— “I’m not done talking about Damian.” He protests, but his eyes are closing on their own, as if all they needed to hear was him agreeing to sleep to do it. 
Tucker waves his hand, “It’s not like we can’t talk about him later; nap first. Your eyebags can’t get any darker.” He assures, “Don’t worry, we’ll take notes for you.”
“Hnn… fine.” Danny says, and lets his eyes close. He’s out like a light in minutes.  
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Round 2, Match 59: Fukuzawa Yukichi vs. Optimus Prime
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Submitted kids:
Fukuzawa Yukichi: The entire detective agency (in order of acquisition— Ranpo, Yosano, Kunikida, Dazai, the Tanizaki siblings, Kenji, Atsushi, Kyoka)
Optimus Prime: Bumblebee, then depending on continuity, Cliffjumper, Smokescreen, Arcee, Sideswipe, Sunstreaker, the Aerialbots, Sari Sumdac, Jack Darby, Miko Nakadai, Raf Esquivel, and possibly others
Propaganda under the cut!
Fukuzawa Yukichi:
1. “At about 32 he used to be an bodyguard for hire who only works alone then he met this 14 year old (Ranpo) who had no parents and was kicked out of the police academy. He ended up feeding him (I think Ranpo was homeless at this point not 100% sure tho. He is also a genius estimated iq as high as 200) and said he would help him free of charge (bodyguard) if he called. He ended up getting called and investigated something with him. Ranpo saw the world very plainly and cried to Fukuzawa about how scary it is. Fukuzawa helped Ranpo realize that not everyone is pretending not to know things they literally don't know what he does (big issue with Ranpo partly what he was crying about too i think. They have an entire episode (i think it's the first one in the 4th season) devoted to their backstory together which is black, white, and gray when it's from Ranpo's perspective until Fukuzawa helps him realize this and it turns colored. Fukuzawa ends up deciding he wants to create a detective agency (working with others!) with Ranpo not yet tho we still have one more kid first. Later when Fukuzawa's doing a bodyguard job he along with Ranpo end up rescuing a girl (Yosano!) from the man he was guarding (future mafia boss currently a doctor). Yosano ends up becoming a doctor for the detective agency when it's created. After it's created he ends up taking in another 14 year old (Kenji).
He also loves cats and has shoujo anime-esque cherry blossom flashbacks with his old childhood friend who asked him if he wanted to go to fight in war with him, Fukuzawa denied his request. They also have a like 15 min soft-lighting conversation while watching their memories of their childhood together in the latest ep.”
2. “This man literally created a whole detective agency for this one really smart boy (Ranpo) and taught him that he wasn't the one in the wrong but everyone else when he couldn't understand people. Then, he saves Yosano from the trauma this other guy was inflicting on her and brings her to the Agency. The Agency basically becomes the place where all his kids are. His special ability lets those in the Agency control their abilities so Atsushi and Kyouka don't have to be afraid of their out of control abilities anymore. He cares so much for all of them and during the Cannibalism arc when his life is literally on the line, they do everything in their power to save him.”
3. “My guy just CANNOT stop adopting kids. He went from lone wolf assassin to Dad of Many. His first (adopted) child, Ranpo, basically forced him to adopt him (he was like “I’m a teenager with no family or home. You GOTTA adopt me. Because I say so.”) From there he kept accidentally adopting every orphan he came across. Honestly the detective agency is more like a glorified orphanage except they let their kids carry guns.”
4. “A former Goverment assassin who stopped once he realized he was starting to enjoy killing people, Fukuzawa is looking for a job when he bumps into Ranpo, a genius capable of figuring out any mystery, who can’t understand how the world works. Taking Ranpo under his wing Fukuzawa tries a white lie that Ranpo has a special ability and manages to let Ranpo interact with the world without fear for the first time in years since he can know understand the problem wasn’t everyone acting like they couldn’t figure out things but that no one was as smart as him. They found the Armed Detective Agency specifically to use Ranpo’s abilities to help people and to have jobs.
He then saves Yosano from Mori, his ex something who after using her special ability to heal any injury as long as the person is about to die during the War, wanted to use it take control of their local mafia. Instead Fukuzawa and Ranpo rescue her and let her recover from her trauma and come into herself.
He then goes on to provide a place for Kunikida to fulfill his ideals, Dazai a place to do good after his own past in the mafia, Kenji a place to help people, Tanizaki and Naomi (siblings that don’t seem to have any guardians) work to support them, and Atsushi a place to work on his own trauma by protecting people. Fukuzawa later let’s Kyouka, another defection from the mafia, stay and work at the agency so she can help people and not have to kill them anymore. The entire Armed Detective Agency live in dorms that Fukuzawa provided. He also is very protective, putting everything on the line to help members of the Agency escape any danger he knows of. Like when Atsushi is kidnapped he bribes Ranpo to find him and sends Kunikida to rescue him. He sees any danger to the agency and its members as something for him to stop.”
Optimus Prime:
“#VOTE OPTIMUS HE'S THE DAD OF ALL TIME AND HAS ISSUES”
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tigerdrop · 3 days
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figuring myself out feels like ive flipped a light switch on. i really truly thought i was into cis dudes and i dont really.....know.....why. i look at the stuff i used to make and dont feel anything at all.
i think there was a lot of dissociative headiness for me - i didnt really like the bodies i was looking at or hooking up with or drawing, but i could fantasize about the ideal of being a cis guy who likes to get fucked and zone out. i dont really think i was mentally present 95% of the time i was having sex or beating off. to be honest i just retreated into my own head and thought about fanfic b/c the reality of my own body and the other persons body was a complete and total turnoff
it always felt like pretending. i was pretending the other guy wasnt just seeing me as a kind of ugly girl and i was pretending i was somewhere else and someone else the whole time
but now i know what its like to not be zoned out the whole time and it mystifies me that i tried so hard to pretend i liked it. b/c the idea of having sex with a dude in my own body disgusted me. but i still wanted to be one. and i still got agonized crushes on them that i knew wouldnt go anywhere b/c i didnt want to be a girl to them. so i forced myself to pretend that i liked topping guys and i forced myself to pretend that i enjoyed anal and sucking dick and playing with some dudes sweaty balls and i denied literally everything that i actually wanted
i was pretty into all the stuff i made over the past few years but not really for the reasons people expect. i just wanted to be fucked so bad but without all the trappings and politics of my own body in relationship to the people doing it and fantasizing is a pretty fun way to relieve that pressure
and it turns out that thats not really how people feel about having sex if they actually like it . did you know you can let girls top you and it doesnt make you want to kill yourself. i did not
anyway in case you were wondering i did have a crystal clear moment of clarity while scissoring somebody. like, Oh. this is what being gay actually feels like. and not just the feeling of desperately trying to prove it, despite every bone in your body telling you otherwise. Is anybody hearing this. Is this thing on. If yuou dont like having sex with cis dudes all that much you should really try this shit
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yueebby · 6 months
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how i met your mother  — gojo satoru
contents. fluff, meet ugly, established relationship, highschool!gojo in flashback, gojo just loves his wife and everyone is sick of it
notes. this is apart of my indulge me series but everything can be read as a standalone!
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“you forgot to give me a kiss this morning,” your husband pouts from your lap before puckering his lips out, “i’ll need a thousand more to compensate!” 
just a couple meters away from you, paper crinkles harshly as nanami, your fellow colleague, flips the page on the newspaper he’s reading. you hear a heavy sigh leave his lips.  “i missed it when you both hated each other,” he readjusts his glasses with one hand tiredly. he’s disappointed, but not surprised with satoru’s behavior.
this comment causes itadori, who happened to be hanging out in the teacher’s lounge to perk up.
“gojo-sensei and gojo-san hated each other?” he sits up straight on the couch. the pink haired boy looks between you and satoru, who is purring happily as you play with his hair. “i can’t imagine that..” he mumbles quietly. he was, unfortunately, a first hand witness of gojo’s love for you.
the white haired male that was comfortably nestled in your lap looks up at you, “ah! she tried so hard to resist my charms, but this handsome face won in the end!” his loud boast leads you to cover his mouth with the palm of your hand.
“that couldn’t be farther from the truth,” you press your palm harder against his mouth, determined to silence his protests. 
nanami easily ignores his senior’s muffled whines while itadori looks at his sensei in pity. marriage must be tough, he thinks.
you only lift your hand off of his mouth with a shriek when satoru decides to lick your palm. he smirks proudly at himself causing the other two males in the room to grimace at the strange display of affection. 
“darling, you hated me?” his eyes blink up at you innocently, blue eyes on full display. you purse your lips together, resisting whatever game he was playing at. from the moment you stepped into the lounge with him, he insisted on taking his blindfold off. he argues that he has to see you with his own eyes or he’ll die. you argue that he’s dramatic. nonetheless, satoru was cute so you’ll let him get away with it. 
“hate is a strong word– i just didn’t like you very much. we got off on the wrong foot, might i remind you.” 
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2005 — year one at tokyo jujutsu tech
meet at 1 chome-1-1 dogenzaka, shibuya city, tokyo
that was written in the letter addressed to you from yaga. the bustling streets of tokyo, filled with the cacophony of hundreds of conversations and the rush of oncoming traffic, were a stark contrast to the serene country life you had enjoyed. 
the sheer mass of people in the street made it nearly impossible for you to spot your teacher and future classmates, but the heavens above must be on your side because you spot a dark uniform in the corner of your eye, similar to the one you’re wearing.
a jujutsu tech uniform! without wasting a second, you weave your way through the crowd to the tall figure. upon closer inspection, you find that it was a boy with snow hair, a juxtaposition to the dark fabric of his uniform.
“excuse me, but are you by any chance from–” you tap on the abnormally tall frame from behind.
“not interested.” he doesn’t spare you a glance before walking away. it takes you a minute to process what had just happened. did he just–? that must have been a figment of your imagination. you feel as though you were shell shocked.
another voice joins the conversation, “oh, gojo, you found her.” it was another guy with a uniform just like the white haired boy and yours. he has notable bangs, you think. 
“did i? she must be a real weakling. i couldn’t even sense her cursed energy,” gojo now turns back to look at you.
a surge of irritation courses through you, your grip on your skirt tightening. this guy must be some spoiled brat that came from a special lineage. you shoot him a sharp glare from the corner of your eyes, only to find out that he too had a sharp gaze on you.
a low whistle comes out of his mouth. 
 “oh,” there is a noticeable change in the tone of his voice. from your peripheral vision, you notice him take off his round sunglasses. “hey.”  you want to laugh.
out of pure pettiness, you recycle his previous comment, “not interested.”
thankfully, another student arrived, this time it was a girl with short brown hair. she waved at you politely, to which you happily smiled. it was nice to know that there were some people left in this world with manners.
soon after her arrival, yaga comes.
“hello, i’m [last name] [first name] from kyoto. please take care of me!” you bow before everyone but gojo or whatever his name is. you come to find out that mr. bangs is actually geto and the pretty girl is ieiri.
“you didn’t tell me she was hot,” gojo not-so-quietly whispers to geto. the hand over his mouth is in vain because you can still hear him clearly. both ieiri and geto make a distasteful face. 
you look around confused. it’s not everyday you receive such a brash compliment, “...thank you?” 
there’s a slightly horrified look on gojo’s face when he realizes that you had heard him, but he recovers quickly, replacing it with a cheshire grin.
“say, have you been to shinjuku? i’m sure a country bumpkin like you wouldn’t know, so allow me to–” 
there’s only so much patience in your body. with a deep breath and your best passive aggressive smile, you utter, “no thanks.” 
he blinks. once. twice. you assume he is not used to rejection with the way he has yet to process it. 
a soft chuckle leaves his mouth, “playing hard to get, i see. i like a challenge.”
“that’s not really the case.”
“one date,” he announces with a playful smirk, raising a single finger in emphasis.
you’re on the verge of shaking your head in rejection, but before you can, yaga intervenes, swiftly and unceremoniously slapping the back of gojo’s head.
“kids these days,” he mutters under his breath while gojo rubs the wound painfully. you snicker.
gojo straightens up when the sound of your laughs reaches his ears. his eyes track the sound waves back to your face, only to be disappointed when he sees that your attention is on geto. 
unlike gojo, geto was trying to salvage what was left of a good first impression. the black haired male smiles awkwardly, leading you away from his strange friend, “so you’re from kyoto? why didn’t you attend the jujutsu tech there?”
from behind you, there’s an incredulous, “eh? and lose a beauty like that to the kyoto guys?” 
you’re nearly certain that a blood vessel is about to pop. but you swallow your frustration, choosing to answer the only sensible boy you’ve met today.
“i’m trying to avoid clan matters, so kyoto is the last place i want to be,” you explain to geto who nods understandingly. 
what you don’t see is the sneaky wink he sends back at a fuming satoru.
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2018 — present day
your recollection must not have been accurate, because your husband is sulking by the end of your story. 
“hmph. that’s not how i remember it.” he crosses his arm with a huff.
“how do you remember it? do tell.” you look down at him. there’s a cheeky glint in his eyes, like you’ve just walked into his trap.
there’s a cheeky glint in his eyes, like you’ve just walked into his trap. “i remembered cherry blossoms falling and more hearts floating around,”
you smack his shoulder.
“be serious!”
he waves his hand in the air to stop your playful attacks, “fine, fine!” 
you know that he’s secretly enjoying the attention.
“well, i’m quite the looker so it was common for girls to constantly gush over me y’know?” he grins. you did not find that amusing, retracting your hands from his hair. he immediately grabs your hand and places it back on his head.
“let me finish!”
you resume your handiwork on his head reluctantly. “go on.”
there’s a content smile on his face, “i thought you were just trying to hit on me! it was only after i took a good look at you, i realized that you were totally hot.”
“i can’t believe i married you.” you roll your eyes, but there is no malice behind the action.
“hah–” his mouth is wide open. “i’m a total catch, ya’ know?!” 
“mhm, yeah. you are a catch toru,” you coo while pinching his cheek and he blushed furiously. 
the two of you are too engrossed with each other to notice the horrified look that has settled on nanami’s face. one peaceful afternoon, he thinks. one peaceful afternoon is all he asks for.
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extra notes- 
yuji respects gojo as his teacher, but he still can’t believe that gojo was able to pull you.
there have been multiple occasions where you had forgotten to give satoru a goodmorning kiss, each time he finds you and forces you to actually give him a dozen to compensate. it doesn’t matter if he was on a mission or teaching (he’s annoying like that).
gojo’s the pride of the gojo clan so he was spoiled rotten, hence the reason why he was so sure you were into him.
this is only the start, as your high school years go by, he only falls harder.
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when the subject of "why do people believe things that are seriously wrong and harmful" comes up it feels like you kinda hear one of two perspectives:
"oh, that's easy! it's because they're fundamentally Bad people who want to hurt others and choose their beliefs to justify that! :) hope this helps"
or
"they just don't have access to the same information we do. look at this person who was raised in a cult! don't you feel sorry for her?"
and like, yes, fine, some people were in fact raised in cults, but what i wish people would understand is that the bulk of it is just normal human flaws, like:
they want to believe stuff that makes them feel smart and cool and like they've figured everything out (you also do this)
they want to believe stuff that makes them feel like their emotions are justified and grounded in reality, and that the people they want to hurt deserve to be hurt (you also do this)
they form conclusions before they've processed all the relevant information, and cling to that first impression even when new info comes to light (you also do this)
they pick up beliefs from the people around them because they want to be liked and fit in, not because the beliefs are good or true (you also do this)
they come up with reasons that the stuff that benefits them (and the people they like and identify with) is actually overwhelmingly best for everyone and obviously the right thing to do (you also do this)
they pay more attention to stuff that supports what they already believe and avoid looking in places that might show them otherwise (you also do this)
they listen to people who talk like 'one of them' and ignore others (you also do this)
they come up with reasons to dismiss people with conflicting viewpoints as obviously in bad faith or ignorant or a shill or evil (you also do this)
they fail to take their own beliefs seriously sometimes, and take their beliefs way too seriously other times, in a selective way that lets them do the things they already wanted to do (you also do this)
the very ways they construct the ideas of 'knowledge' and 'wisdom' and 'belief' and 'understanding' are biased so that what they don't want to believe comes under lots of scrutiny and what they do want to believe receives less (you also do this)
you, dear reader, are presumably right about everything and were correct to die on every hill you've ever died on, but the difference between you and someone who's wrong about important stuff doesn't look like "well they're inherently evil and i'm not", it probably looks like a combination of:
natural environment (they would have been exposed to different information than you regardless of their choices)
being in the right place at the right time (your particular profile of flaws and virtues happened to be what was needed to lead you to the right conclusions, they had the opposite experience)
random luck (you doubled down on what felt right to believe but wasn't, but it turned out to be inconsequential, or even right for different reasons, while they doubled down on what turned out to be a horrible mistake distorting their entire worldview)
you do less of the things in the previous list, and over time the difference between you and them adds up
and, look, i also do these things. the nicest and most thoughtful people i've ever met do these things. if you meet someone who never does any of these things, i dunno, give them a fucking medal or something.
i know you're doing your best. we're all doing our best.
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UPDATE What's up, it's the proposal guy. You said you wanted to know how this turned out, so I figured I'd tell you. First some context though, because I'm mean and I wanna keep you in suspense longer.
1- I don't wanna doxx us so I'm not telling you where we live, but suffice to say, neither of us are American, and gay marriage has been legal here for less than five years. For both of us, this is the first relationship we've had where marriage was even an OPTION, and I think that's where we've been getting some of that whole 'this has to be a REAL proposal with EVERYTHING' idea.
2- I gotta figure out how to explain this properly. So, I'm pretty used to being the GUY guy in relationships? I was always the one who did the nice gestures, not the one they got done for. Before I met my dream guy, I didn't really notice or care that it was such a thing, I just assumed that's how shit worked. Also, I promised I wouldn't talk a lot about his stuff here, but his last boyfriend before me SUCKED. Anyway point here is, it turns out we both REALLY like feeling swept off our feet sometimes, and a big part of finding each other has been getting to feel special for once? That's a stupid sappy way of putting it the point here is I think all that's what morphed into "I need to be the one getting proposed to, also it has to be completely perfect", and then our Petty & Extra genes got involved.
So I'm sitting in bed thinking about all that up there, and watching all the comments coming in basically being like "Dude, you are BLOWING this" on repeat, and telling me to compromise, and I look up and see him flossing in the bathroom and making all these doofy faces at the mirror, and it's like a switch just flips in my brain, and I'm like "Oh, I'd rather he gets to have his perfect proposal than we both have an okay one". I'm gonna do it.
Morning rolls around, and while I'm 'out for my jog like normal' I hit up a pawn shop for a temp ring (the ring pop thing is cute but NOT HIM). I found one I was at least confident wouldn't get ruined the first time he got his hands greasy (he fixes old machines as a hobby it's hot as hell), got back home, and hid the box in the toe of my nasty ass workout shoes in the bedroom closet, since I figured he'd check there last.
He was still asleep, because he stays up late no matter what and then is SHOCKED he's tired the next day, so I called and booked a table at our usual anniversary spot. (Side note about the 'he picks bad restaurants' thing. This isn't an 'I like Greek, you like Chinese' situation, dude's just BAD at finding places. He either assumes pricey is tasty and I get to eat some overrated gourmet bullshit, or he'll try and find something hip and underground and risk giving us food poisoning again, and he REFUSES to give up and pick somewhere we've been before when it's his turn to plan date night. I'm obsessed with him <3.) Date was set, I'd propose on the 21st.
Some of you might have noticed this, but fun fact! It's currently the 16th.
Last night I'm doing dishes and he's been sent to our room for mug collection duty, and he's taking FOREVER, so I go check just in case he found the ring, because the man's a gift tracking BLOODHOUND. Turns out he hasn't, he's found my Angry Box.
I assume other people have an Angry Box? Basically, we had this huge messy fight right when we first moved in together, and I never wanna let it get that bad again, so I have this shoebox where I keep a bunch of our stuff I can look at if we're fighting and hopefully cool off. There's one of those photo booth roll things, letters we wrote when he moved back with his parents for COVID, the wine cork from our first date, shit like that. Anyway, he's just sitting on the floor staring at it, and I explain about the Angry Box, and then he! Proposes!!! Kind of.
He definitely didn't have anything prepared, because by 'propose' I mean 'ugly cried & rambled at me for several minutes before I figured out it WAS a proposal', but once I got on the same page it was amazing. I said yes, and he had to admit he didn't have a ring for me because he was CONVINCED he'd win and I'd do it, so I grabbed mine because, yeah, he was right. He was like "this is the ugliest ring I've ever seen" and I was like yeah well the plan is to replace it later and he went "No. You can pry this off my cold dead fingers. After I'm buried with it." So I guess it's not a temporary ring anymore.
I'm just gonna go ahead and skip to this morning. I pointed out we still have the reservation, and he said I should propose there anyway because "We can get a free dessert. They have those creme brulee shot glasses you like. And for love, or something" and I said ok deal, but that means you gotta get me a ring to keep it fair, and his eyes LIT UP. When I swung by his work for lunch he was still on the phone with a jeweler and he had a whole page of notes on three other ones. Pray for me.
OH PS: I was RIGHT that he'd been the one behind the cat biting me, but it wasn't about the proposal stuff, it's because I paid my baby sister three dollars to shout 'fuck you' every single time he enters a room she's in for (if you ask me, he should be madder at my sister for charging so little), and he did it by giving her a bunch of treats for biting his hands too, so now neither of us can pet our baby girl without oven mitts on. HOLY SHIT I love this man.
Oh my goddddddd I love everything about this <333 I awwww'd out loud on a voice call, like, six times while reading. You two are friggin perfect for each other and so obviously smitten with each other and I wish y'all all the happiness in the world
PS Are y'all planning to have a big wedding? If so oh boy I can't WAIT to get that one in the inbox
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emberwhite · 2 months
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I spent the last 11 months working with my illustrator, Marta, to make the children's book of my dreams. We were able to get every detail just the way I wanted, and I'm very happy with the final result. She is the best person I have ever worked with, and I mean, just look at those colors!
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I wanted to tell that story of anyone's who ever felt that they didn't belong anywhere. Whether you are a nerd, autistic, queer, trans, a furry, or some combination of the above, it makes for a sad and difficult life. This isn't just my story. This is our story.
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I also want to say the month following the book's launch has been very stressful. I have never done this kind of book before, and I didn't know how to get the word out about it. I do have a small publishing business and a full-time job, so I figured let's put my some money into advertising this time. Indie writers will tell you great success stories they've had using Facebook ads, so I started a page and boosting my posts.
Within a first few days, I got a lot of likes and shares and even a few people who requested the book and left great reviews for me. There were also people memeing on how the boy turns into a delicious venison steak at the end of the book. It was all in good fun, though. It honestly made made laugh. Things were great, so I made more posts and increased spending.
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But somehow, someway these new posts ended up on the wrong side of the platform. Soon, we saw claims of how the book was perpetuating mental illness, of how this book goes against all of basic biology and logic, and how the lgbtq agenda was corrupting our kids.
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This brought out even more people to support the book, so I just let them at it and enjoyed my time reading comments after work. A few days later, then conversation moved from politics to encouraging bullying, accusing others of abusing children, and a competition to who could post the most cruel image. They were just comments, however, and after all, people were still supporting the book.
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But then the trolls started organizing. Over night, I got hit with 3 one-star reviews on Amazon. My heart stopped. If your book ever falls below a certain rating, it can be removed, and blocked, and you can receive a strike on your publishing account. All that hard work was about to be deleted, and it was all my fault for posting it in the wrong place.
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I panicked, pulled all my posts, and went into hiding, hoping things would die down. I reported the reviews and so did many others, but here's the thing you might have noticed across platforms like Google and Amazon. There are community guidelines that I referenced in my email, but unless people are doing something highly illegal, things are rarely ever taken down on these massive platforms. So those reviews are still there to this day. Once again, it's my fault, and I should have seen it coming.
Luckily, the harassment stopped, and the book is doing better now, at least in the US. The overall rating is still rickety in Europe, Canada, and Australia, so any reviews there help me out quite a lot. I'm currently looking for a new home to post about the book and talk about everything that went into it. I also love to talk about all things books if you ever want to chat. Maybe I'll post a selfie one day, too. Otherwise, the book is still on Amazon, and the full story and illustrations are on YouTube as well if you want to read it for free.
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roach-works · 1 year
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new heresy that makes the bible way funnier:
god genuinely had no idea that people would be able to disobey him, when he made them. angels couldn’t! everything in the universe was just an extension or a reflection of god himself, operating in perfect mechanical order. then he put a spark of his own creative consciousness in an animal and it turned out it could disobey him.
like, that’s why he told adam and eve not to access a perfectly accessible tree. nothing else in the universe up until that point would have done something he told them not to.
that’s why he asks cain a perfectly ridiculous question, given that he would have watched the murder happen right in front of him: where is your brother? what did you do to him? he didn’t know cain could lie. even when adam and eve disobeyed him, surprising absolutely everyone involved, they hadn’t figured out lying yet. cain figured out lying.
that’s why god decides to destroy humans and start over only a few centuries later. he has no idea what to do. not only are people disobeying and lying to him, they’ve started completely ignoring him, too. he can control the wind, the water, the plants, the animals, the angels, the heavens, the earth. but he cut a part of himself loose and gave it to this totally unique new critter and now he can’t get it back. he can’t make anyone do anything, and now they know it. he had to carve humanity back down to the one family that actually, for whatever reason, still listened to him, and he had to ride them pretty fucking hard from that point onward to make sure they didn’t just..... stop. because at any point basically any human, ever, even the ones who liked him, could just randomly decide to fuck off and do their own thing.
then like, according to christians, god thought maybe he could get a handle on whatever the fuck was going on with how bad humans were being by making another human who had even more god in him than all the other humans, and that didn’t work either. and also even jesus himself didn’t know what humans were going to do next, which was kill him young. like, god had to break the news to him based on an educated guess, and it was a big surprise to him! he was really upset! there’s a whole scene!
like, i think this is hands down the funniest fucking thing to conclude about god ever. he didn’t know it was going to turn out like this when he started and he didn’t know what to do when it did. he’s been basically scrambling to stay on top of the situation for six thousand years and he’s totally beefed it repeatedly.
god the omnipotent lord of creation knows everything, except what you’re going to do next. god the supreme ruler of the universe can do anything, except stop you. you have a little piece of god inside you and it lets you defy the most fundamental machinery of existence basically whenever you like.
if that’s not funny, i don’t know what is.
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proxima-writes · 6 months
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𝐠𝐫𝐚𝐛 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐛𝐮𝐥𝐥 𝐛𝐲 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐡𝐨𝐫𝐧𝐬
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pairing: pre-outbreak!joel miller x female reader
rating: explicit
word count: 4.1k
summary: joel agrees to go out to tommy’s favorite bar, where he watches you ride a mechanical bull and wishes you would ride him.
warnings: explicit sexual content (18+ minors do not interact), no use of y/n, dual POV, no defined reader age or physical appearance besides outfits, alcohol use, joel getting slapped, tommy is a little shit, first date anxiety, oral (m receiving), dirty talk, praise, pet names, girl on top, couch sex, unprotected p in v, teasing, deep throating, more men whimpering and begging 2k23. let me know if any warnings are missing!
author’s note: look, i know i’m in the middle of my spooky specials but i saw two very specific tik toks that left me with the need to write this 😵‍💫 also this post layout is inspired by @bits-and-babs, whose works and aesthetic are chef’s kiss.
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“Why did you pick this place?” Joel grumbles, hand wrapped around a sweating bottle of beer. People keep jostling him as they squeeze past, forcing him to keep his elbow tight to his side to avoid having his beer be collateral damage.
“You’ll see,” Tommy says with a cryptic wink. Joel rolls his eyes.
Tommy has dragged him out to a saloon style bar, complete with swinging wooden doors and longhorn skulls decorating the walls. Everything is shiny dark wood and western motif, down to the saddle style barstools. Most of the patrons have leaned into the theme, too — tassels, leather, cowboys hats, and ostentatious belt buckles.
“Alright, ladies and gentlemen!” A man’s voice calls out over the speakers. “The show is about to begin!”
“Show?” Joel asks dubiously. Tommy only grins at him, dragging him by the arm towards the back of the bar.
He weaves through the crowd until they’re only behind a few rows of people that have gathered around a mechanical bull riding ring, of all things. The floor of the ring is inflatable and in the middle sits the brown bull figure. Joel catches his first glimpse of you, a gorgeous woman in denim cut offs standing beside the bull. Your black leather halter top plunges low to expose your cleavage and stops short of the waist of your shorts, a tantalizing strip of your stomach on display. The black leather of the top matches your black leather boots and the cuffs snapped around your wrists.
“One of Salty Saloon’s very own has stepped up to take the bull by the horns tonight!”
You lift a hand to wave, bright smile on your face as you take in the crowd. Your eyes land on Joel and for a brief moment he swears he stops breathing. He can’t hear anything the emcee is saying, all the noise around him just a dull buzz as he watches you swing yourself up onto the back of the bull.
“Alright, alright, alright! Our rider’s goal is to stay on for one minute using only one hand! If she falls before the buzzer, y’all get nothin’. But if she makes it, shots are half off for the rest of the night!”
A cacophony of cheers erupts around Joel and you straighten your spine, holding your hand out with a thumbs up. The music starts, some pop song he’s heard on the radio in the morning when he’s taking Sarah to school, and the mechanical bull turns in a slow circle. You have one hand twisted in a leather strap, the other raised above your head as the bull bucks and swings, your hips moving smoothly with the machine.
“Goddamn,” someone says from behind Joel. “I ain’t ever wanted to be a bull so bad in my life.”
Me, too, he thinks.
Your thighs press tight against the sides of the bull as it swings around, turning you to face the section of crowd Joel stands in. You release the hand grip, both hands in the air now as you rely solely on your legs and core to keep you up on the machine. When the machine turns again, you manage to lift your body and swing your legs around to reverse your position, now seated facing the back of the bull.
“Alright, ten more seconds!” The emcee calls out. The crowd starts to cheer your name and Joel can’t help but join in, eyes glued to you as you continue to swing and sway like all the movements are nothing but second nature to you.
“Three! Two! One!”
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A cowbell goes off, signaling the end of your ride. The bull slows to a stop and you sit there for a moment to catch your breath, waving at the crowd. The bar owner, Johnny, comes out onto the crash pad with a huge grin on his face.
“Great job up there, kid. Now go sell some half priced shots,” he says with a good natured pat on your shoulder.
You return to the bar, where the other two bartenders scheduled tonight field the after-show rush, lining up shot glasses and filling them in quick succession with the requested liquor. When you get behind the bar, a familiar head of curly hair catches your eye.
“Tommy!” You call, excited to see one of you favorite regulars. He shouts your name as you stop in front of him.
“This is my brother, Joel!” He says, slapping the back of the man beside him. You’d seen him in the crowd, a handsome guy with broad shoulders stretching a dark blue t-shirt, warm tan skin, and messy curls that speak to the family resemblance between him and Tommy. You reach a hand across the bar, Joel’s calloused fingers dragging against your palm as you greet the man.
“It’s nice to meet you, Joel. Can I get y’all anything?” You ask. Tommy grins.
“Let me get this man a slap shot!” He yells.
You glance at Joel. “That okay with you?” You ask.
His eyes are comically wide as he nods. You step back to ring the bell behind the bar, your fellow bartenders whooping and cheering, a chant of “SLAP SHOT! SLAP SHOT!” echoing around you.
Haley sets a glass of water on the bar for you and you grab a pint glass, filling it with ice and two ounces of Jim Beam and amaretto. You smack the steel shaker on top, grabbing both glasses and shaking them vigorously over your shoulder.
You strain the contents of the shaker into a shot glass, amber liquid flowing to the brim. When you’ve got everything ready, you leave the back of the bar and squeeze your way through the crowd until you’re in front of the two brothers and can hoist yourself up onto the bar.
“Alright, Joel, are you ready?” You shout. He looks a little confused, brows pinched tight over kind brown eyes, but he nods anyway, holding his hand out for the shot glass. Tommy watches with a shit eating grin. “Three! Two! One!”
Joel takes the shot and you follow it with a glass of water to his face and a slap across his jaw in quick succession. Tommy is howling with laughter and Joel’s face is one of pure shock, red blooming across the skin of his cheek. He turns to his brother.
“Tommy, what the fuck!” Joel shouts. His hand wraps into the neck of Tommy’s shirt. “You little fuckin’ shit!”
You have the sinking realization that Joel wasn’t prepared for what a slap shot entails. You had just assumed this was something Tommy had told him about, having been to the bar so much the last few months.
Joel looks mad as hell, his shoulders tense and you worry he may actually throw a punch at Tommy. You hop from the bar and get between the two men, pressing a hand to their chests and pushing them apart.
"You, come with me," you say, pointing to Joel. "And you," -- you jab a finger into Tommy's chest -- "are on my shit list."
You take Joel by the hand and guide him to the back office, shutting the door and muffling the noises of the bar beyond it. His face is still dripping wet and the water dripping from his chin has gathered into a sizeable spot on the collar of his shirt.
"I am so, so sorry," you start, rifling through the storage cabinet for a bar towel. You hold it out to him, avoiding his gaze. "Tommy comes here so much that I just thought he'd told you about what a slap shot was. I should have told you, oh my god."
"Hey, it's okay. I ain't mad at you," Joel says, running the towel over his damp face. "Tommy, though. I'm gonna kick his fuckin' ass later."
"Still," you mumble, twisting your hands together nervously. "I'm sorry. Is your cheek okay?"
He rubs the towel over his head to dry his hair a bit, the action leaving him adorable mussed, curly strands sticking up in every direction. You're staring at him, maybe a little too much, but who can blame you? The man is hot.
"Yeah, trust me. I've had worse," Joel replies with a laugh.
"You get slapped by women often?" You tease.
"The number of times ain't just one."
"Oh, a bad boy. Mama warned me about guys like you."
He laughs again, long and low, running a hand through his hair. "Well, thank you for the towel."
"Right. And your next drink is on me. As an apology," you tell him.
"I'd rather get your number," he says. "You know, as an apology."
You raise your eyebrows at him before turning to the manager's desk, grabbing a marker and tugging the cap off with your teeth. You slide a hand down his arm, lifting his forearm up so that you can write down your number across the smooth, tan skin.
"I'm off next weekend," you comment when you've recapped the marker.
"I'll keep that in mind," Joel replies with a grin.
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Joel's nervous as he waits outside of your apartment building in his truck, fingers tapping a nameless tune against the steering wheel. It's Saturday night and he's here to pick you up for dinner at a restaurant in downtown Austin, one that required he dig out the old black button down he keeps shoved in the back of his closet for parent-teacher conferences and funerals.
The front door to your building opens and you emerge, dressed in a pretty red wrap dress and black heels. Joel gets out of the truck and jogs around to the passenger side to open the door for you and he's surprised when you lean up and kiss him on the cheek.
"Hey," you say in greeting, climbing into the truck and settling into the passenger seat, your purse on your lap. Joel can't help the dopey grin that's surely stretched across his face.
“Hey, yourself. You look nice,” he replies. He shuts the door and jogs around the the driver’s side.
“You don’t look so bad either,” you tell him as he starts the truck up. He can feel his cheeks get warm and he hopes that you can’t see him the proof of his nerves in the dark cab.
At the restaurant, the host leads you both to a small table towards the back of the restaurant, pristine white tablecloth topped with a small vase of flowers and a flickering votive candle. A waiter in a white button down comes by to take your drink orders before disappearing the the kitchen, leaving the two of you regarding each other in silence.
“Look, I gotta be honest about somethin’,” Joel says, leg bouncing beneath the table. “I’ve got a kid. Sarah, she’s thirteen. Light of my life, you know?” He takes a deep breath before finishing with, “And I don’t think I’ve even been on a date since she’s been born, so this is just…a little new to me.”
“You have a kid?” You ask. For a moment Joel worries that he may have ended this before it could even get a chance to begin, but then your face lights up with a sweet smile and you ask, “Will you tell me about her?”
Joel does. In between ordering and eating your delicious meals, you and Joel discuss anything and everything. He tells you about Sarah and his contracting work, while you tell him about your full time job as a pharmacy technician, the gig at the bar a part time thing on some weekends. He nearly makes you snort your water out of your nose with a story about rescuing Tommy from the bathroom of the girl he’d been seeing when her long distance boyfriend, who Tommy didn’t know existed, showed up at her apartment.
“Oh my god,” you exclaim breathlessly. “And he just jumped out of the bathroom window?”
“To be fair, she had a first floor unit,” Joel confirms. “His royal pain in the ass still made me take him to urgent care because he thought he broke his ankle.”
“You’re a good brother,” you say with a smile. Joel feels the warmth of it in his veins.
After dinner, the ride back to your place is quiet, the comfortable silence filled with the low music from the radio. In a moment of bravery, Joel reaches over and lays a hand on your low thigh, just above your knee as he drives. He refuses to look over at you, but from the corner of his eye he sees you look down at his hand before looking back out the window.
He counts that as a win.
He pulls up the curb outside your apartment and kills the engine. You speak before he has a chance to agonize over what to say.
“Will you walk me to my door?” You ask.
He feels relief and anxiety in one fell swoop. He agonizes internally over whether to kiss you goodnight as he follows you up the stairs to your apartment, the buzzing in his brain momentarily silenced while he watches your hips sway as you climb the steps.
You stop on the second floor, guiding him down a long hallway to a door marked with a black metal number three. You turn to face him, looking up at him through your lashes.
“This is me,” you murmur. Joel swallows nervously.
“Right. I, uh…I had a really great time tonight,” he says.
“Would you…want to come inside?”
Joel’s brain short circuits. “Would I—? Yeah.”
You turn to unlock the door, pushing into your apartment and Joel follows you inside. The apartment is dark but you quickly turn on the lights as you move further inside, illuminating an open living room with a dining nook. There’s a door off to the right that he assumes is your bedroom and an open kitchen to the left. It’s small, but it’s cozy, bursting with colors and fabrics and mismatched furniture.
“Well, this is home,” you say with a shrug. You set your purse down on the small circular dining table. “Can I get you anything to drink? I’ve got beer, some liquor on the bar cart over there if you want to have a look.”
“Beer is fine,” Joel says, taking a seat on the comfy looking couch. You return with a bottle of beer, passing it to him before settling in beside him, kicking off your heels and drawing your legs up beneath you.
He takes a sip, fortifying his nerves. He wasn’t lying when he said it’s been a long time since he’s been on a date, but even sex has been a distant thought for the last year or so. He doesn’t want to mess this up.
“So,” you start, your elbow pressed into the back couch cushion while you lean your face into the palm of your hand. “You wanna know what I think?”
“‘Bout what?” Joel asks.
“You.”
“You got a report card ready for me already?”
“I think” — you take the beer bottle from his hand, setting it on the coffee table — “you’ve spent a long time being a caretaker. Right? You’ve got Tommy, who was already a handful. Your daughter, who’s obviously priority number one. You’ve got a business to worry about, workers to care for.” You shuffle closer on your knees, swinging a leg over his and settling yourself onto his lap. “This okay?” You ask.
“Yeah,” he replies, probably a bit too enthusiastically. His fingers curl into the couch cushions and he wants to reach up to wrap his hands around your waist but he’s not sure if he should.
You play with the collar of his shirt. “What do you think about having someone take care of you for a change?”
Joel’s stomach flips, cock jumping in interest as the blood in his brain rushes south and leaves him only capable of responding with a mumbled, “Oh?”
“I just think you deserve someone treating you real nice,” you say with a shrug. Deft fingers work at undoing the buttons of his shirt. “Especially when I was so mean when we met, slapping you across the face like I did.”
“Told you not to worry ‘bout that,” he replies, head dropping against the back cushions. “S’not like I didn’t like it.”
“You like to be roughed up a little, Mr. Miller?”
“Maybe.”
Your grin is wicked as you drag your nails down the now exposed skin of his chest. He hisses at the sting of it.
“Interesting,” you murmur. You lean close, chest pressed against his, hands coming up to frame his face. Your nails scratch through his beard now and he groans his appreciation.
“Can I kiss you?” He asks. “Please?”
You respond by pressing your lips to his, chaste as first. Your mouths move together slowly, feeling each other out. It’s you that takes it deeper, tracing your tongue over his bottom lip and dipping it inside to tangle with his. He wraps his arms around your low back, holding you tightly in his lap as he consumes you, drunk on the feeling of your breath in his lungs.
You drags yours lips away from his with a slick sound, trailing them along his jaw and towards his ear. You nip at his earlobe, teeth gentle and breath hot before whispering, “Can I suck your cock, Joel?”
A whimper claws it’s way up Joel’s throat as he nods, already unable to form words. He’s no stranger to turning into a puddle for a pretty woman but he’s certain this must be a new record.
You slip from his lap and kneel on the floor, pushing his legs apart so that you can settle in between them. Your hands reach for his belt, tugging on the buckle and pulling it loose so that you can pop the button of his jeans and tug the zipper down, the metallic sound loud in the quiet room.
Your fingers curl into the waist of his jeans and Joel lifts his hips a bit to aid you in tugging them halfway down his thighs. His cock tents his boxers in an obscene way, a wet spot already staining the fabric. You run your palms up his thighs before bracketing his member between your hands, lightly running your thumbs up his length.
“Christ,” Joel says, teeth digging into his lip.
“That feel good?” You ask.
“Uh huh.”
You smile beatifically before leaning forward, warm breath on his covered cock as you press gentle kisses through the fabric. Joel’s hips twitch and he lets out a deep groan.
You tug the elastic of his boxers over his length, tucking it beneath his balls. He’s practically vibrating with need but you continue to take your sweet time, pressing more kisses along his shaft, tracing the tip of your tongue over the prominent vein.
“You have a pretty cock, Joel,” you say, wrapping your hand around the base of him to hold him steady. It’s a struggle to keep his eyes open but he doesn’t want to miss the sight of your tongue lapping at the bead of precum gathered on his flushed tip, or the way your own eyes flutter shut as you let out a little moan of appreciation.
You wrap your lips around his cock, taking him inch by agonizing inch into your warm mouth and Joel feels any semblance of sanity disappear from his lust clouded brain. Your eyes stay fixed on him as take him in as far as you can, throat fluttering around the sensitive head when you swallow before pulling up, twirling your tongue around the tip, and plunging back down.
“Christ,” Joel groans, reaching out to cup your cheek. “You look so goddamn good like that.”
You lift off his cock and take it in your hand, moving it across your lips as you ask, “Like what?”
“Chokin’ on my cock, sweetheart,” he growls.
“That was nothing.”
Joel’s about to ask what you mean when you lower your mouth over his length once more. He can feel you flatten your tongue, your throat and jaw relaxing enough to take him to the very base, your nose tickling the wiry curls on his pelvis. He moans as you swallow around him, breathing through your nose and holding yourself there for a moment before coming up with a gasp, tears gathered in the corners of your eyes and spit making your chin shiny in the low light.
“So…I could keep doing this,” you tell him, “or…”
“Or?” He asks.
“Or…you could let me make us both feel good.”
You stand up, your hands untying the knot that holds your dress together so you can push it off your shoulders, letting it fall to the floor in a heap. You push your panties down your legs and unhook your bra, leaving you gloriously naked in front him, every inch of you like a piece of art meant to be admired. Joel’s hands, greedy and unfulfilled up until now, reach up to grip your hips and pull you onto his lap, your pussy hot and wet against his cock. He lets his hands wander over every inch of exposed skin, relishing the way your ass fits in his palms and the way you hiss when his thumb caresses a tight nipple.
“You’re so fuckin’ pretty,” he moans, his lips against your rapid pulse, teeth ghosting the thin skin of your neck. “Need you so bad, baby.”
“Don’t worry, I’ll take care of you,” you whisper, reaching between your bodies to hold his throbbing cock steady, notching it at your soaked entrance and beginning a slow slide down.
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Joel is panting against your sweat slick chest, mumbling desperate words into your skin as you take him inside of you as slowly as you can, thighs burning with the effort. When you’ve finally seated yourself on his lap, his head drops back to the cushion, eyes squeezed shut tightly and fingers nearly bruising on your thighs.
“Don’t move, don’t move, don’t move,” he begs. “Oh, fuck, feels so good.”
Where he’s desperate for you to stay still, you’re already desperate to move. His cock is perfect, thick and long with a slight upward curve, pressing up against your g-spot with stunning accuracy. You’re certain this won’t last long for either of you.
You rock slowly, forward and back, little movements of your hips. Joel lifts his head, looking down at where your bodies are connected with dark eyes. You wrap your arms around his shoulders, tangling your fingers in his hair and giving it a sharp tug that has him hissing your name.
You start to move more quickly, rolling your body in smooth waves over his. He’s panting as he looks up at you, sweat gathering at his temple, and his hands grip your ass and follow your movement reverently.
“So fuckin’ good,” he moans, “you’re gonna make me come, baby, goddamn.”
You speed up, bouncing on his lap now. Your couch creaks the slightest bit, protesting your movements, but you don’t care — all you care about is the man beneath you and the desperate little noises spilling from his lips as you make good on your promise to take care of him.
“Touch me,” you command. “I’m so close, Joel, please.”
He’s a good listener, your Joel, his thumb immediately finding your clit and circling it with messy movements that drive you wild, that tension in your muscles coiling tighter. Joel’s hips flex into yours with each drop down his length, the room echoing with the lewd sounds of skin against skin and the chorus of whimpers that spill from both of you.
“Joel, Joel, Joel,” you chant. He wraps his arms around you, really thrusting into you now as your own movements falter and you collapse forward, head buried against his neck as you come, trembling with the strength of it.
It’s not long after that he goes still, cock pulsing inside of you as the aftershocks of your orgasm wash over you. You stay slumped against each other, catching your breaths and waiting for your racing hearts to come back down to earth.
“That was…,” Joel says with a breathless laugh that shakes his chest. His fingers play up and down your back, soothing and gentle. “Goddamn, that was amazin’.”
“Yeah?” You ask, lifting your head. You smooth his messy hair back from his forehead. “You weren’t so bad either.”
He nips at your neck in retaliation, making you laugh and squirm away from him.
“Do you have to get going?” You ask.
“No,” he replies. “Tommy’s watchin’ Sarah for me tonight. He owes me one. Besides, I’m ain’t done with you yet.”
“No?”
“Not even close, darlin’.”
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inkskinned · 1 month
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most writing advice is good as long as you know why it is good, at which point it is also bad. the hardest thing (and most precious thing) about being an artist is that you gotta learn how to take critique. i don't mean "just shut up and accept that people hate your work," i mean you need to learn what the critique is saying and then figure out if it actually helps.
i usually tell people reading my work: "i'm collecting data, so everything is useful." i ask them where they put the book down, even though it's too long for most people to read in 1 sitting. i ask them what they thought of certain characters. i let them tell me it was really good but i like it more when they look a little stunned and say i forgot i was reading your book, which means they forgot i exist, which is very good news.
sometimes people i didn't ask will read my work and tell me i don't like it. and that is okay, you don't have to like it. but i look at the thing that they don't like and try to figure out if i care. i don't like that you don't capitalize. this one is common, and i have already thought about it. i do not care, it's because of chronic pain and frankly i like the little shape of small letters. you use teeth and ribs in all your work. actually that is very true. i don't know what's up with that. next time i will work to figure out a different word, thank you. you're whiny, go outside. someone said that to me recently and it made me laugh. i am on the whine-about-it website as an internet poet. you are in my native habitat, watching me perform a natural enrichment behavior. but i like the dip of whiny, how the word itself does "whine" (up/down, the sound out your nose on the y), but i don't know if i want to feel whiny. maybe next time i will work on it being melancholy, like what you would call a male writer's poetry.
repeated "good" advice clangs in a bell and doesn't hold a real shape, dilutes in the water. like sometimes you will hear "don't use said." you turn that around in your head and it bounces off the edges of your brain like it is a dvd screensaver. it isn't bad advice, but it feels wrong somehow, like saying easy choices are illegal! sometimes i will only use "said." sometimes i will just kick dialogue tags out to the trash. sometimes i make little love poems where the fact that i do not say "said" is very bad, and makes you feel bad in your body, because someone didn't say something. i am a contrary little shitbird, i guess.
but it is also good advice, actually. it is trying to say that "said" sometimes is clutter. it makes new writers think about the very-small words and very-small choices, because actually your work matters and wordchoice matters. "i know," you said. "i know," you sighed. "i know." we both know but neither of us use a dialogue tag, because we are in a contemporary lit piece.
it is too-small to say don't use said. but it is a big command, so it gets your attention. what are you relying on? what easy choices do you make? when you edit, do you choose the same thing? can you make a different choice? sometimes we need the blankness of said, how it slides into the background. sometimes we don't.
i usually say best advice is to read, but i also mean read books you don't like, because that will make you angry enough to write your own book. i also mean read good books, which will break your heart and remind you that you are a very small person and your voice is a seashell. i also mean you need to eat books because reading a book is a writer's version of studying.
my creative writing teacher in the 7th grade had a big red list of no! words and on it was SUNSET. RAZORS. LOVE. GALAXY. DEATH. BLOOD. PAIN. I liked that razor and love were tucked next to each other like birds, and found it funny that he believed we were too young to know the weight of razor in the context of pain. i hated him and his Grateful Dead belt, where the colored teddy bears held up his appraisal of us. i hated his no list. it is very good/bad advice. i wasn't old enough yet to know that when you are writing about death you are also writing about sunsets and when you write about love you are tucking yourself into a napkin that never stops folding.
back then my poetry was all bloody, dripped with agony when you picked it up. i didn't know there is nothing beautiful about a razor, nothing exciting about pain. i just understood sharpness, which he took to mean i understood nothing. i wrote the razor down and it wasn't easy, but it was necessary. that's what i'm saying - sometimes it's good advice, because it's not always necessary. and sometimes it is very bad advice, because writing about it is lifesaving.
hang on my dog was just having a nightmare. i heard that it is a rule not to write about dogs - in my creative writing mfa, my teacher rolled her eyes and said everyone writes a dead dog. the literature streets are littered in canine bodies. i watched the rise and fall of his ribs (there is that word again) and had to reach out and stop the bad dream. when he woke up he didn't recognize me, and he was afraid.
it is good/bad advice to say that poems and writing have to mean something. it is bad/good advice to say they're big feelings in small packages. it is better advice to say that when my dog saw where he was, he relaxed immediately, rubbed his face against me. someone on instagram would make fun of that moment by writing their "internet poetry" as a sentence that tumbles across a white page: outside it is sunset and my dog is still in a gutter, bleeding a galaxy out of his left paw. or maybe it would be: i woke the dog up/the dog forgot i loved him/and i saw the shape of a senseless/and impossible pain.
the dog is alive in this one, and he is happy. when i tell you i love you, i know what i said. write what you need to write, be gentle to yourself about it. the advice is only as good as far as it helps. the rest is just fencing. take stock of the boundaries, and then break them. there's always somewhere else you could be growing.
i love you, keep going.
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honnelander · 7 months
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go fish! part 2
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guyssss i did NOT expect this little series to blow up. y'all are amazing! i'm turning into a Sanji writing blog and am i mad about it? no lmao i received a couple of requests and i'll work on them as soon as i can. i'm really in the zone rn so i'll ride this wave as long as i can. if you want to be a part of the taglist for whenever i post new Sanji content, lmk. i hope you enjoy!
WARNINGS: none
word count: 2.8k
pairing: opla!sanji x fem!reader
summary: after being humiliated by Usopp earlier, reader stays in her room to decompress. however, she gets a visitor.
prequel part 1 part 3 part 4 masterlist
taglist: @smolracoon25 @mischiefmanaged71 @jovialcat123
Mortified. That’s how you felt. Still. 
Ever since you ‘forfeited’ from finishing your Go Fish card game with Usopp a couple of hours ago, you had taken your glass of water that Sanji had poured for you and boarded up in your shared room with Nami, refusing to come out due to “heat exhaustion”. 
Poor Luffy, ever the golden hearted captain, was immediately worried for your wellbeing as soon as he heard that but after multiple reassurances from you and getting up off of your hammock multiple times to prove you were in fact, just fine, he relented from wanting to stop by the nearest island so he could find a doctor for you. Usopp had managed to convince him as well that all you needed was some water, alone time, and that you would be fine by dinnertime. 
You rubbed your eyes as you let out a sigh, vowing to yourself that the next time you wanted some time by yourself, you should just take a bath or something, since any other excuse would cause someone on the crew (Luffy) to lose their mind at the thought of someone not feeling well. 
You readjusted yourself, sitting more upright, as you downed the last of your water, it being warm by this point since it had been poured by Sanji hours ago. 
Sanji. Ugh.  
Your heart fluttered once again at the mere thought of him, but that flutter was immediately replaced by a wave of crashing embarrassment at the thought of the afternoon’s sequence of events. What had happened earlier wasn’t even anything that groundbreaking or special, but to you? It was everything. It wasn’t common practice in your life for the object of your affections to be so kind towards you, so thoughtful, to read and anticipate your needs before you even knew they were even there. But Sanji? He was all of that and more. And you didn’t even know him for that long! You’ve all been a part of the straw-hat crew for 5 months at this point and it felt silly to admit to yourself that you had developed a crush on one of your crewmates in that short amount of time. 
And having feelings for your crewmate? Someone who you literally couldn’t get away from since you all were trapped on a ship together (not that you would ever want to be away from him or anyone else for that matter, besides Usopp, but still), it felt morally wrong. You guys were all a team. Sure, you all were off to sail around the world and chase dreams, but achieving all of that required teamwork and trust, and that was hard to do if two of those people were caught up with matters of the heart every hour of every day. 
Like, what if things didn’t work out in the end? Would you really want to put the crew’s dynamic at stake just because you thought the blonde guy was cute? No, you wouldn’t. It would be selfish so you would never dare to put yourself or Sanji in that position. No matter how much you liked him. 
So as much as it pained you, you could never tell Sanji how you feel. You would never cross that line of being a ‘professional pirate’ into something more, like a pirate wife. Or a pirate chef’s wife. 
It definitely didn’t help that freaking Usopp of all people on the crew knew about your affections for Sanji. Ugh, you groaned. He was the absolute worst person to know about it too. Why did he have to figure it out? Why did he have to be the one that had put two and two together to equal four? That your random bouts of awkwardness and shyness plus ‘heart eyes’ and blushes whenever Sanji was around equaled to you having a forbidden crush on the crew’s chef? It was embarrassing. And complicated.  
He loved to stir the pot too, so whenever he could tease you for it when you both were alone or in front of a clueless Sanji, he would. You remembered the kiss he had shared with Kayla back when the straw-hats had acquired the Going Merry, so you definitely jabbed him right back when you had had enough, since part of you felt guilty for it since Kayla was thousands of miles away and Sanji lived on this ship with you. Your situations were slightly similar but completely different.  
Also, completely different in the way that him and Kayla were basically dating at this point, albeit long distance, and had shared a kiss while you could barely sustain eye contact that lasted more than 5 seconds with Sanji. 
You were hopeless. 
“Knock, knock,” a familiar accented voice came through the closed door. “Y/n? Are you awake?” 
"Sanji?” you blurted out in complete surprise.  
Shit. You weren’t mentally prepared to see him just yet. At all. You were still replaying the interaction you both had earlier in your head, your overthinking mind going over every minute detail to figure out if Usopp’s careless teasing had given away your affections.  
Usopp, you mentally ground out. You were going to kill him. Sanji had never stopped by your room before so what on earth was he doing here now?  
Suddenly, a thought struck you like a bolt of lightning and made your stomach drop fifty miles below sea level: if Sanji had specifically stopped by your room just to gently let you down, that no, in fact he did not feel the same way about you, that he only thought of you as a member of the crew and nothing more....then yeah, you were definitely going to kill Usopp and throw him overboard. 
Before you could mentally plot out more details on Usopp's murder, the door opened and the straw-hat chef’s blonde head appeared. His eyes quickly scanned Nami’s empty hammock on the room’s left side before turning his head to the right, his blue eyes immediately finding your surprised ones, a (relieved?) smile lighting up his face at the sight of you. 
“So, I take it you’re awake?” Sanji asked in a light, teasing tone but not making an effort to move himself away from the doorway. 
“Uh, y-eah,” you stuttered out in surprise as you just stared at him dumbfounded. You still couldn’t figure out why he was here. 
Sanji continued to lock eyes with you, making your cheeks flush the longer you both stared at each other, and your palms sweat as the silence stretched on, making the tension in the air become thicker by the second. He blinked, his eyes darting to the side in confusion, raising an eyebrow as he asked, “May I come in?” 
“OH! Yes, of course- sorry,” you stuttered as you waved him inside, sitting up in your hammock and mentally face palmed yourself. Of course, Sanji was waiting on you to invite him inside. Like always, he was acting like a true gentleman. “Please, come in. Have a seat. Sorry, that was rude of me. Make yourself at home.” 
Sanji stood up to his full height and walked into your room with an easy smile and a small laugh, closing the door behind him. “Ah, don’t ever apologize y/n. You could never be rude to me,” Sanji rebuttalled and waved off your apology as he looked around and took in your very plain and basic shared room with Nami.  
Your room, or side of the room more specifically, wasn’t much to brag about considering you really didn’t have much to your name but for now, it was home to you. Your side consisted of your hammock, a wooden barrel next to it to act as a makeshift nightstand that housed your only book, a journal, and a lamp, along with an empty wooden crate to act as a makeshift seat and another to hold some of your other clothes and small travel bag. Nami’s side was similar to yours but had a touch more personality as she hung up some maps she found at various markets and drew up herself on her wall. 
You swallowed, suddenly feeling a tad self-conscious about the lack of things in your room considering your current guest was dressed, as usual, to the nines in his signature black suit and blue and white striped shirt complete with a skinny black tie. “Sorry for the sad state of my room-” 
“Sad?” Sanji stopped admiring your room and snapped his gaze to look at you. His eyebrows pulled together as another confused smile adorned his features. “Why would you say that? Your room isn’t sad, I like it. It’s a reflection of you,” his next words came out softer, “and I think that’s beautiful.” 
You could feel heat crawling up your neck at his words as you busied yourself with placing the empty glass in your hand on your barrel nightstand. There was no way Sanji was calling you beautiful, he was just commenting on your room. With Nami. On your shared room that owed any ounce of ‘personality’ to the ship’s navigator because it was obvious you literally brought nothing special to this room whatsoever.  
You stopped yourself from spiraling into ‘I don’t bring anything special to the straw-hats, I don’t know why they keep me around’ thoughts because now wasn’t the time to think about any of that. Those dark thoughts were reserved when you couldn’t sleep in the middle of the night.  
As you placed the glass on the nightstand, you asked, “So, what brings you all the way to my room? Aren’t you usually prepping for dinner around this time?” 
Sanji’s eyes followed your hand and lit up when he saw the sole book on your nightstand. “Oh, a book? I didn’t know you liked to read.” His megawatt smile lit up a couple of notches as his eyes sparkled, he looked like he had just learned one of the universe’s greatest mysteries as he took a seat near you on an empty crate. “What book is that?” 
“Oh, that?” You mentally deflated at the fact you now had to tell Sanji about your favorite book, “It’s Pride and Prejudice.”  
You weren’t ashamed of having that book specifically, you loved it and it was your favorite book of all time, you had lost count at how many times you had read it at this point, but it was the fact that you now had to share this part of yourself with the guy you fancied. Guys normally scoffed and turned their nose up at romance book and romantic things, so you were bracing for Sanji to scoff and laugh at you like all the other guys did (like even Zoro and Usopp did when they first saw you reading it) but it never came. 
Instead, Sanji’s smile remained bright. “Ah, so you’re a lover of classic romances? Pride and Prejudice? Romeo and Juliet?” 
Immediately, you smiled, finding yourself instantly comfortable suddenly whenever you got to talk about one of your favorite things. “Absolutely. I don’t think there’s a problem big enough out there that love can’t solve. Family backgrounds? Wealth and status? At the end of the day, none of that stuff matters. What matters is if two people love each other.” 
Sanji stayed quiet for a moment, looking into your eyes with a twinkle of an emotion that you couldn’t decipher. It made your heart skip a beat. “Yeah,” he agreed quietly, never breaking eye contact. “I agree.” 
You swallowed. “You like this stuff too? Have you read Pride and Prejudice?” 
Sanji blinked and that indescribable emotion he had in his eyes was gone. His smile remained, however, and became sheepish as he held up his hands, “Ah ok, you caught me. I’ve never read the full thing, but I know the main parts of the story. My favorite part that I did read though, was the first dinner with Mr. Collins and he complimented the Bennets on their ‘excellent boiled potatoes’.” 
You couldn’t help but laugh at that, shaking your head slightly as you teased, “I should’ve known that the chef of the Going Merry’s favorite part of the book is when food is discussed!” 
The blonde cook held his hands up again with a good-natured laugh, “Ah, you got me!” His face softened as he asked, “What about you?" He nodded towards the book. "What’s your favorite part?” 
You paused for a second as you mulled the question over. “Well, I'm not sure if you know about this part since you never read the book...” 
“Try me,” he encouraged softly. 
Your face turned to the side, your eyes looking at the wooden wall to your right, unable to bring yourself to look at Sanji as you told him your favorite part of your favorite book. You took a deep breath to steady yourself and calm your nerves, your voice becoming quiet as you told him, “My favorite part is...when Mr. Darcy barges in on Elizabeth for the first time, while she’s at her friend Charlotte’s house writing a letter. He had come to practice ‘conversating’ with her since he admitted that it wasn’t something he was good at and she had told him to practice it. So, Mr. Darcy just barged in and they had one of the most painfully awkward conversations ever...and he did all that just because he loves her. He did something he hated and was bad at, and opened himself up to embarrassment just because he wanted to improve and be better for her. It’s so romantic and beautiful.” 
The air was quiet after your mini monologue and for a moment, nothing could be heard except for their quiet breathing and the occasional crash of the ocean from outside your small window. 
Part of you worried that your little rambling had bored Sanji, so when you finally looked at him, imagine your surprise when you found him leaning in towards you, hands clasped, elbows resting on his knees and his eyes watching you, completely engaged. It was like he was hanging onto your every word. 
Sanji scanned your face for a moment, the corner of his lips curling upwards as he said, “Yeah, you’re right. I’m not familiar with that part in the book,” and before you could open your mouth to bring yourself down, he continued, “but, that doesn’t mean your answer is wrong.” He leaned back and slapped his hands against his thighs, “Hell, it’s a much more insightful answer than mine!” He laughed. “I just liked how they were poking some fun at boiled potatoes.” 
You laughed with him because yes, that part in the book also made you laugh as well. But at the mention of food, you realized that you still didn’t know why Sanji was here in the first place. Wasn’t he normally prepping for dinner at this time? He had to be running behind schedule at this point. 
“Why are you here, Sanji? Isn’t it almost time for dinner?” 
“Yeah, it is actually but I heard you weren’t feeling well so I wanted to check in on you, make sure you’re feeling alright and see if you have any special requests for dinner?” 
You couldn’t help the slight smile that overtook your face, trying to hide the blush at the fact that he was kind enough to check in on you and offer to practically be your own personal chef for the evening. 
You hummed for a moment, acting like you were deep in thought before asking with a raised eyebrow, "And what would you say if I requested some boiled potatoes?”  
The smile that lit up the chef’s face was priceless. He had never looked more beautiful. “To that, I would say ‘Absolutely. If that’s what the missus wants, then that is what the missus will get.’” 
Missus. There it was again. You felt all warm inside whenever he called you that, it made you feel like he was your husband and that you were his wife. But that wasn’t the case. Sanji definitely must have called other women that before. You weren’t special to him, he was just being polite.  
You swallowed down your emotions, putting your sudden wave of sadness away for later, putting on a small smile. “Then that sounds perfect. I would like to formally request some ‘excellent boiled potatoes’ as a side for dinner, please.” 
If Sanji noticed your sudden change in mood, he didn’t show it. Instead, he grinned as he said, “Excellent choice, Madam. Boiled potatoes, coming right up.” As he stood up and made his way towards your door, Sanji did one of the most unexpected things that nearly knocked the wind out of you. With his left hand on the doorknob he said, “And don’t worry, Madam. I’ll sprinkle in a little bit of extra love in there,” he turned and winked at you, “just for you.” 
With that, Sanji left your room, gently closing the door behind him, leaving you completely dumbstruck in your room, your mouth agape and body frozen. 
Did Sanji just say he loved you? 
You shook your head, because there was no way he did, right? He said he’d ‘sprinkle in some extra love’ into your potatoes, not 'I love you". You weren’t a chef, maybe that was a euphemism for something. 
You sighed.  
Those better be some good boiled potatoes. 
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