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jupipedia · 8 months

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neither here nor there ! — h. brown. ↳ " face down, ass up, that's the way i like getting fucked ! " ↳ content warning : nsfw ( minors do not interact. ), unprotected s*x, marking, pet names ( lovie, sweetheart, etc. ), overst*mulation, multiple org*sms, forced org*sms ( ? ), cre*mpie, slight or*l ( fem. receiving. ), c*m eating, not proof read lol, etc. ↳ dedicated to: @starsoir !

you'd love to pretend that you don't know how you got where you were, but you knew exactly how you ended up in this position; face down with your ass in the air as hobie brown fucked you mindlessly.

you were dressed in one of the most revealing dresses ever made and had one goal in mind : fuck hobie brown.

you were more than the average groupie, having actually listened and enjoyed his band before you even thought of fucking him. your desire was sparked when you attended one of his gigs on a whim, wanting to listen to good music as you got a drink at your local bar. at one point, you made your way to the front of the crowd, careful not to spill your drink on anyone as you slipped through the dense ocean of bodies. once you reached the front, hobie brown stood in all his anarchist glory, shredding away on his electric guitar and quickly sparking your interest.

since then, you've made it a mission to be the hottest girl to ever touch the same sheets as the man. you kept up to date on his pop up shows, his appearances, and the new music his band would release every now and then.

tonight, you finally captured his attention when you stood at the front of the crowd, all dolled up and singing the lyrics to his songs. your dress left little to the imagination and piqued his interest once the two of you made eye contact as you continued to lip sync along to the word, smiling sultrily as you gazed up at him.

his set was barely finished as he removed his guitar from torso, jumped into the crowd, and made his way to the door with your wrist latched in his hold, loose enough for you to pull away if you weren't interested. he could barely keep his hands off of you as he pulled you into the back of the car, his driver raising the partition once his hands began to lower to the swell of your ass. his fingers wandered close to your heat, only to stop at your panty line, affectively teasing you as the two of engaged in a fighting kiss. his kiss was hard, having no care for the lack of air in his lung as he continued to pull you closer to him. your tongue pushed against his, marveling at the cold metal ball in the center of his appendage.

the car was not parked when hobie pulled you out of it, fixing your tousled hair before pulling you through the lobby of the hotel and into the elevator. the doors hadn't closed and his lips were already back on you, hot kisses being pressed into the crook of your neck.

his eagerness took you aback, surprised that such a simple act of knowing his lyrics was enough to rile him up so much. you knew the skimpy outfit had to play a grander part in things as he tugged on it slightly, almost as if he was holding himself back from ripping off of you right in the elevator.

"leng ting you are," he mumbled against your skin, kitten licking over the small bruises he created from him nipping at your skin.

"i try," your words are barely heard as you suddenly become breathless. this is the first time you'd really spoken, other than him ensuring that you wanted to spend the night with him. you'd been to preoccupied with each other's lips that you hadn't much time to ask any questions, let alone exchange compliments.

"you do a lot more than try, lovie. didn't know i had fans as beautiful as you. or as devout. 's cute watching my lyrics fall from your pretty lips," he replied, returning to task of marking every inch of your skin, hands grasping your ass in a bruising hold as he pulled you closer to him.

"what can i say, they're good lyrics," you mutter, words coming out breathless as he sucked on the spot just below your ear.

the elevator doors opened and he wasted no time pulling you in the direction of his room, wanting nothing but to have his way with you. he reached his room, opening the door and pulling you in. you'd barely finished removing your heels when he propped you up against the door, fingers making quick work of your dress and thong.

which led you to your current position, face pushed deep into the blankets as your ass was propped up in the air as hobie fucked your into cunt. his strokes were deep and forceful as you jerked forward each time he entered you. his veined cock scraped the walls of your tight pussy, evoking whines and moans from you and, surprisingly, hobie.

you imagined that he'd be a grunter or groaner but you were even happier to find out that he was a whiner. they weren't high pitched by any means but the whiny lilt in his remark heightened your already overspilling arousal. in your previous position, his mouth had been next to your ear, allowing you to hear the praise loud and clear. while this current position put a bit of distance between the two of you, you were still able to make out his whines when they weren't drowned out by your own noises.

"f-feel so good around my cock. so fucking good," he grunts out, angling his body differently, causing the head of his cock to bump against your cervix. you blindly reached back and pushed futilely at his pelvis, running from his deep strokes. "don't tell me it's too much for you, sweetheart."

"so deep! too deep," you mewled, still pushing him away without result. the pleasure was beyond overwhelming. your mind clouded as you continued to take the pleasure, too lost in it to speak or breathe properly. his cologne and natural musk lingered through the air, suffocating you in his presence.

your legs soon begin to mimic the twitch of your cunt as your orgasm began to build. your eyes welled with tears at the euphoric pressure filling your stomach.

"go on and cum for me, yeah?" hobie draped himself over your frame, whispering softly in your ear. the return of his aroused whines so close to your ear did nothing but push you closer to the edge, leaving you teetering on the edge of a release.

hobie's hand slid down your abdomen, using his fore and middle finger to draw circles on your clit and effectively bringing you to an earth shattering release. you cry out his name, tone doused in pleasure as you threw your head back to rest upon his shoulder. he continued to pump into you, prolonging your high. almost as if your orgasm was a catalyst, hobie's hips jerked and he stilled, pouring his cum into you warm pussy.

as your orgasm subsided, hobie wrapped an arm around your waist and pulled you up to rest against his chest before restarting his ministrations. you were overstimulated as you tried to escape his grasp, hoping for a quick break before continuing.

"you thought we were finished? nah, i could go all night with you," he said, holding you firm against his torso as he buried himself snug into your core. you dug your nails into his forearm, attempting to ground yourself as you melted due to the immense pleasure.

this position only allowed hobie to move minimally, but he sat snug against your cervix, each thrust pushing against it in a pleasurable way. he drew shallow gasps from you as you tried to steady your breathing. one of his hands groped at your breast, rolling your nipple between his fingers causing you to tighten around him. he chuckled into your neck as he fucked his seed back into you, relishing in the hot feeling of your vice.

"gonna give me another one, yeah. hmm, pretty girl?" he teased, pinching your nipple and quicken the pace of his finger on your clit. he smirked at the release of your pitchy moans before going back to kiss on your neck.

"'m gonna cum. please! gonna cum!" you wailed, withering in his hold as you began to release. you felt his nod and your entire body shook from the intensity of your orgasm. hobie whispered sweet nothings in your ear before he allowed himself to drown in his own pleasure.

"fuck, you feel so good. hmm. fuck, had my eyes on you since you stepped to the front of the crowd. leng ting singing all m'lyrics. nearly came in my jeans," he admitted in between whines. his grip tightened on you as his moans reached a crescendo and his seed spilled into you.

his hold on you loosened but didn't drop completely as he came down from his high. his breath tickled your ear as he tried to calm himself, savoring the warmth of your walls. he released you and you fell onto your chest, ass still propped in the air as he shifted to the foot of the bed.

"hobie, please," you begged, wanting nothing but rest as he inserted his head between your thighs and lapped at your core, determined to eat your mixed essence from your used cunt.

"jus' cleaning you, pretty," he mumbled, mouth full and tongue busy. your hands made their way to his wicks as his tongue dove into your pussy. the wet muscle scooped his cum out of your entrance, rubbing perfectly against your walls. you felt a foreign pressure rise and you tugged lightly at the man's head, wanting to remove him from your core before you came.

"hobie, s'too much," you whined with no avail as he sucked on your clit, changing his mission from eating your cum to making you release once again.

this release was a bit different as short streams of liquid shot from your pussy and into his welcoming mouth. he hummed as he slurped into your cunt, ignoring your attempts at pushing his head away until he decided he was finished.

he left his position and crawled up toward the pillows, pulling you into his chest as he laid back.

"we can talk in morning, yeah? wanna get to know you a bit," he muttered, exhaustion prevalent in his tone as his spoke with eyes closed. you couldn't reply as you slipped into a sleeping state.

mission accomplished.

#*ੈ✩‧₊˚❕*∘∘˙˚༄💨 ( a jupiter production. )#hobie brown x black reader #hobie brown smut #hobie brown x reader #atsv smut #atsv x reader #astv x black reader #hobie x reader #hobie x black!reader #black writblr #x black reader #hobie smut

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metalineindustries · 1 year

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#Sheet metal stamping companies #Metal stamping parts #Stamped Parts #Oil Pan #Oil Sump Manufactures #Window Regulator #Crossmember #Fuel Tank Strap #stamped parts manufacturers #metal stamped parts manufacturers #fuel tank strap manufacturers #oil pan manufacturers in usa #oil pan manufacturers #oil pan under car

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sophiethewitch1 · 3 months

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What We Want - Chpt. 1 - Not Quite An Isekai

In Which A Romantic Breaks The Universe

(Yandere!batboys x f!reader) 18+ MDNI!

SUMMARY

Another lonely birthday, another empty year. You miss your family. You're late for your bills and rent, and even then, you got robbed last Tuesday.

Still, you buy yourself a cupcake, because you need it. I mean, hey. What's dessert for if not to get over cheating boyfriends and dead relatives?

As you blow out the candle, watching the clock switch from 11:59 pm to midnight of the next day, you make a wish.

And because the world doesn't like to make much sense, it comes true. Your life is suddenly flipped on a dime, and you're stuck trying to catch up with it. Fantasy becomes reality. You're a Wayne now, apparently. Or you used to be. You're loved, you're rich, you're talented and powerful.

Well, sort of. Careful what you wish for, right?

(TRIGGER WARNINGS AND MASTERLIST HERE)

PREV - NEXT

You awake to the sound of your phone ringing. You slap to the edge of your couch, aiming for the rickety side table. Your wrist smacks against the corner, and you hiss in pain. It’s a few inches too high, and wood, not metal. Seems you somehow got to your bed during the night, but you didn’t remember it. Still, you get your phone. Through squinted eyes, you find the screen, its 3:15, far too early for your drunken suffering- Wait no, it’s mid-afternoon. Still, you feel tired, and you want to sleep.

You answer the phone anyway, putting it on speaker and resting your head back against the pillow. Your head doesn’t hurt that bad anyway. God was smiling down on you today.

“Miss, are you awake?” a man’s voice rings through your apartment.

Who was that? Who called you Miss of all things? Your boss didn’t remember your name sure, but he just called you ‘intern’ instead. You’d been an official employee for six months now. Right, conversation, paying attention, replying like a normal person.

“Hm, yeah, I’m awake,” you say, fighting back the urge to yawn.

“You don’t sound very awake, Miss,” the man replies, his tone familiar.

“Who is this?”

He sighs, “Miss, are you being sarcastic?”

“What? No, I’m serious,” you confusedly answer.

“…This is Alfred, Miss. Now, Master Wayne has asked me to-”

“Master who now?” you cut this Alfred off, doubly confused now. Wayne? Like, the Wayne family? The rich, philanthropist one?

He sighs again, “I understand the relationship between the two of you is quite strained, and this is a personally difficult day for you, but he insists on seeing you. Your birthday gala starts at 7, as I’ve told you, and your assistant will be over at 4. I ask that you unblock both their accounts, as I would much rather I didn’t have to talk to you when you’re like this.”

“What?” you repeat, like the idiot you are.

“Good day, Miss. And happy birthday.”

He hangs up. You blink down at your phone. And then you roll your eyes, because oh my god are Molly’s pranks getting ridiculous. You never should have told her about your weird fascination with the Waynes, she was getting back at you hard for your drunken mistake.

You make a lot of those. Well, life goes on. You’ll put glitter in Molly’s car’s vanity mirror or something.

You turn off your phone, and let your face slam right back into your pillow. For a while, you try to go back to sleep.

…Something about this isn’t right. You, like the freak you are, take a deep inhale of your pillow. It smells like you, like the laundry soap you use, but it also smells like… Well, you don’t know. All you can think about is your new boss’s wife and her awful perfume that swallows the office space like noxious gas.

Your pillow… kind of smells like that. Your first ungodly thought is that, somehow, you spent a torrid night with your boss’s wife. The second is that Molly needs to die for her crimes.

You let your crusty, bleary, stinging eyes blink open.

Hm. Why is there a chandelier in your bedroom? You shoot upright in the bed, silk sheets falling to your lap. Silk sheets you can’t afford. You look around the room, eyes widening at the space. The bed is king-sized, while you had barely been able to afford your twin-sized mattress. The living room isn’t in the same space as the bedroom. You can’t see the kitchen and the bathroom to your right has shining marble tiles. And even then, the decoration’s are luxurious and clean, compared to your livable chaos.

You look to your left, and your mouth drops open.

A floor-to-ceiling window, showing the Gotham horizon with the morning sun. Fog and clouds twist around spiralling gothic towers, reaching down to the people down below. You’re looking out over the bay, and you can see the Narrows barely peaking through the mist, desperately clawing for any sunlight.

The sun rises on the right of your building, not the left. You don’t have a view, you’re on the fourth floor and there’s a brick building directly across from your window. You live in the Narrows.

You live in the Narrows. You press your face to the cool glass and look down. Oh my god, you can’t see the streetside. You’re too high up. You’re somehow on the opposite side of Gotham City.

Stumbling away from the window, you do your best not to touch anything, because you know it’s all too expensive for your peasant hand. Let’s start thinking… whatever was happening to you, through. Molly might kidnap you for a joke, sure, but she was barely any richer than you, and that was just because her boyfriend lived with her. She could not afford this level of fuckery.

So… so… is this, what? A big joke from the universe? Did someone else kidnap you? You have to have been kidnapped, right? Why the fuck would someone kidnap you?

Did the Joker kidnap you? Was he coming to finish you off? End your family line?

You reach down and pinch yourself hard enough you yelp. When the dazzlingly perfect apartment doesn’t disappear, it’s much harder to force yourself not to panic. Okay, okay, okay. It’s fine. This’ll be fine, and it could still be a dream. That whole pinching thing was a myth, right? Argh, maybe you should’ve listened to Molly when she was trying to get you into astral projection.

Wait, Molly!

You go back to your bed and pick up your phone.

It’s… it’s not your phone. What was this? The iPhone 27? You didn’t keep up with those sorts of things, but it looked expensive. Everything here looked expensive.

You think you’re going to go into anaphylactic shock. Wait, no, it’s hyper-something. What was it? Argh, you can’t do this right now!

You press your thumb to the ‘on’ button, and luckily whoever this phone belongs to is not worried about their privacy because there's no password. Stupidly, you look for Molly’s name in your list of contacts.

BLOCKED - ‘Bruce Wayne’

BLOCKED - ‘Damian Wayne’

BLOCKED - ‘Dick Grayson’

BLOCKED - ‘Tim Drake’

‘Alfred :)’

BLOCKED - ‘The Wicked Witch of the West’

You drop the phone. Because the floors, even in the bedroom, are marble, it shatters like glass. You make a sound like a dying chicken as you watch the piece of technology make a bouncing break for the bathroom. It slides to a stop against the giant hot tub, and you pick it up and cradle it between your palms like a newborn.

The screen still works. Even if it’s cracked to high heaven and takes multiple attempts to turn it on, it still eventually does. Thanks God, won’t forget this. You hiss as you open the contacts again, pricking your fingers against the sharp edges.

As fate commands, you click on the ‘Bruce Wayne’ contact. The description is very simple.

‘Massive dickhead. Hope you jump off a building and fall like a rock.’

You go back. Click on ‘Dick Grayson’.

‘Massive dickhead’s beloved firstborn. Most annoying man on earth congrats.’

Again. ‘Damian Wayne’ this time.

‘Massive dickhead’s massive dickhead. Demon? Grinch? Somebody kill it with fire please.’

And finally, ‘Tim Drake’.

‘The only acceptable one.’

…Well, at least your kidnapper liked one of the Waynes. Maybe they kidnapped you because you were their opposite or something? You definitely wouldn’t call Bruce motherfucking Wayne a massive dickhead. Or maybe they wanted to kill you.

The Molly prank idea was becoming more sound. Maybe she won the lottery and didn’t tell you.

You click on ‘Alfred :)’. He’s the one that called you earlier and also called you ‘Miss’, for some reason.

It’s just a bunch of heart emojis. Coherent, sure.

You go back, and click on the final of the list, ‘The Wicked Witch of the West’.

‘Don’t listen to Alfred. She wants to eat you.’

She wants to what?

A knock at the door has you jumping a foot in the air and nearly banging your head on the bathtub’s lip. You hear someone call your name through the door, and you freeze. Who… how? They call your name again, this time their voice louder. They bang on the door.

You creep over to the door.

“Ma’am, if you don’t open this right now, I’m quitting! We both know Alfred contacted you this morning, and he’s going to be very upset if I do so. There’s only so many assistants in this city!” from this close, you can recognise the voice belongs to a woman. She rattles the doorknob.

You lean down, peering through the peephole. The woman has a harsh face, a perfect pencil suit and her blonde hair in a pretty updo. Her makeup is impeccable. You get the feeling this woman is also more expensive than you can afford, despite her calling your name.

Bewildered, you open the door. She slams through like a battering ram, strutting 6-inch stilettos into the space.

She huffs, and then turns around. You can see very clearly she’s trying to keep her calm, but you did leave her at the door for like five minutes. It wasn’t your fault, you thought you were hallucinating or something.

“Ma’am,” she stresses the word, “Please unblock me.”

You blink at her, “Uh, sure.”

She waits, her hands clasped together in front of her.

“Oh- oh, right now?” you stutter, pulling the phone out from your noticeably lavish pyjamas.

Wait had someone changed you in your sleep? What the hell was going on? Maybe you should be more concerned about that, honestly. Still, you do as she commands.

She watches you like a hawk as you stare at the cracked phone. Your eyes flick up at her, and then back down at the screen. Slowly, watching for her reaction, you unblock ‘The Wicked Witch of the West.’ She nods, not even commenting on what was apparently her name in ‘your’ phone.

You were still slightly concerned about the ‘She wants to eat you’ thing, but she seemed… alright. Kind of scary. But not cannibalistic.

Still, this was Gotham after all. A healthy dose of fear was what kept people like you alive.

“Ma’am, did you just wake up? It’s already 4 o’clock,” she gives you a subtly disapproving look, and your shoulders sink like you’re being scolded.

“Yeah- yeah, sorry about that,” you stammer, embarrassed for some unknowable reason. This really was just like a dream. You could tell something was very obviously wrong, but you were still going along with everything like it wasn’t. Everyday life.

You were going to focus on that, this had to be just a dream. Just go along with… this, and then you’d wake up. And if you could manage to get over the uncanny valley-ness of the very obvious wealth surrounding you, maybe you could enjoy it.

You had always wanted to be rich. This was just your brain spewing out random information. Better than the nightmares you usually get.

You’re abruptly pulled back into focus when the woman clears her throat loudly. Ah, shoot. Had she been talking? You definitely hadn’t been listening.

“We need to get you ready, Miss,” she says like she’s repeating herself. You nod, because yes, of course, getting ready.

Ready for what? You think if you ask her she’ll yell at you. So when she grabs your arm and tugs you along, you follow. She pulls you into the bathroom, sitting you down in front of the mirror on a stool. Because this bathroom has stools in it. You stare at your reflection warily, before glancing up at her behind you.

“The stylists will be here in about forty minutes, and the makeup artists in two hours,” she pauses, giving you a strange look, “I appreciate you being so cooperative today. I understand this is all a delicate matter, but I am under Mr. Wayne’s orders first and foremost.”

“Wayne… like Bruce? Bruce Wayne?” you ask, even though there’s really no one else it could be. Still, you have to check.

Because it’s impossible. Even if it’s a dream, it still feels completely impossible. There was just something inside you that said ‘that can’t be right’, even if you knew none of this was real.

You realise, quite late, that you don’t even know this lady's name. ‘Wicked witch’

“Yes, Ma’am. Bruce Wayne of Wayne Enterprises,” she answers you, pulling out her phone and flicking through it. She doesn’t even respond to what you have to assume is an inane question. Maybe ‘dream you’ often asks stupid questions.

‘Normal you’ certainly does.

“Oh… okay…” the conversation drifts off, and she makes no attempt to fill it. Aren’t P.A.s supposed to… you don’t know, fix that? Or maybe she’s not your personal assistant, just an assistant. Silly you, making assumptions.

This bathroom deserves assumptions. You wonder if the gold frame of the mirror is, y’know, real.

The blonde woman walks out of the room without speaking another word to you. You think maybe you should follow her, but instead you just sit there with your hands on top of your knees. Your leg bounces up and down, and you glare it into submission, ignoring the way your muscles jump.

You look at yourself. You look… different. The bags under your eyes are worse than usual, and your gaze sunken into your face. Your hair is sad and oily, knotted in places. Your skin is almost waxy.

You look sick. You look like… you remember, you look like…

In the light of the day, you refuse to think about it. You’re not allowed to, you’ll break if you do.

You just don’t. Even if your reflection just confirms that you have to be dreaming.

Instead, you turn your gaze to the tub. You raise your hand to your hair again. Back in your apartment, you’d had a shower. It was a surprisingly good shower because you’d invested in a showerhead with better pressure. Still, it wasn’t a bath.

You missed bathes. You get up, close the door, lock it, and sink inside the tub. You take off your silky pyjamas inside the bath, and then you toss them on the floor beside you. Sitting there, you watch through the giant window at the world down below. At the ravens and pigeons that fly through the fog, at the few people you can see through the windows and balconies.

You press your cheek against the glass. It’s cold. You’re cold.

You’re sitting in an empty bathtub naked. What are you doing?

Rubbing at your eyes, you reach over to what you think are the controls. They all look very complicated, but there’s a switch that goes from blue to red, so you turn that. It takes another button press for the water to start flowing out. Steam fills the room, and you let out a sigh of contentment.

“Ma’am! Ma’am, the stylists will be here in ten minutes, and you need to get out. Ma’am? Ma’am!”

You shoot up in the bath, splashing water over the overflowing sides. Blinking, you turn your head back and forth and then sink back down. Oh. You’re still here. You went to sleep, but you’re still here. Maybe it’s one of those dreams where you think you wake up, but you haven’t. Or, ah, something similar.

You feel so tired. You really, really didn’t miss this feeling.

Quickly, you wash your hair and body, scrubbing furiously at the oily sweat on your skin. You stumble out of the bath on shaky legs, dry yourself off, and almost trip in your haste to get out the door. Showing off your negligible intelligence, you only realise you’re still wearing just a towel till she manhandles you towards the closet.

A walk-in closet, because of course it is. You think it’s bigger than your apartment. It has a flat bench in the centre because evidently all the walking around you’ll be doing will require a fainting couch.

The woman gives you, horrifyingly, a set of lacy, racy underwear. When all you do is just gape at her, she sighs, takes them from your hands and gives you a simple black set with no frills. You look down at them clasped in your wet hands. They’re clean, and they seem to be your size.

Still, this is a bit…

“Are these… new?” you ask, because there’s no tag or anything.

“Yes, Ma’am. But if you want, we do have some sets still unpacked at the back of the closet,” she says, going along with your weirdness. Even if she was a bit scary, you were grateful for that, at least. You guess celebrities were usually quite eccentric, so maybe this wasn’t out of the ordinary for her.

“Yes, please.”

She gives you a pair of Victoria’s Secret bra and underwear, plain beige and still in their plastic packaging.

“Cool, sweet, thanks,” you say, and she shakes her head just slightly.

She puts a white bathrobe down, and leaves the room, closing the door behind her. You lock it, and then you put on the underwear that you did not buy. The whole experience is strange, but still, you just go along with it. You’re a go-along-with-it kind of person.

You were… you were starting to not like that all of a sudden. Still, out of your depth in an odd dream is no place to start doubting your entire personality. You put on the bathrobe too. And the fluffy slippers that are tucked under them, with great pleasure.

You hear the many voices before you open the door. When you step through it, you feel like you’ve stepped onto the set of a movie. Or well, the backstage at least. Women and men are flittering about the chic apartment in the sort of rush you’d only seen working at BatBurger.

The woman from before spots you and you feel like a rabbit under a hawk's gaze when her brown eyes narrow on you. She strides over to you and then, once again, clamps her grip around your wrist and drags you over. You wonder as you stumble after her if she’s got some meta-human in her because no slim, perfectly put-together lady should be this damn strong.

She pulls you towards a set of three people. You can immediately tell they’re the heads of the operation, with an aura that squashes you like a pancake. Two women, one man. They’re all dressed to the nines, in their own unique ways.

They all look at you with assessing glances. You fear you do not measure.

“I’m surprised, Jeanine. You actually got her this time,” a woman with a black bob and a rocker look comments, her red lips twisting into a grin. You realise, with a start, that the blonde woman who was not incorrectly nicknamed ‘The Wicked Witch of The West’ was actually called Jeanine.

Lovely, you were getting the hang of things.

“Yes, she was very agreeable this afternoon. I’d like to apologise once again for any past issues,” Jeanine says, all business. You still have no idea what’s going on, and definitely no idea what they’re talking about. But what you assumed was the jist of it… was that ‘dream you’ wasn’t a very harmonious person.

Lovely, lovely, lovely. This was a bit of a personal nightmare for a people pleaser like you. Actually, it was a literal personal nightmare. Lovely.

“The disrespect I’ve faced is immeasurable. But, Monsoir Wayne pays exceedingly well. Still, it’s nice to actually have our dear client before us,” the other woman says, appraising her french tip nails. Which, considering she said ‘monsoir’ and the whole accent, would make a lot of sense. She’s closer to a classic beauty than her punk rock friend, with brown hair coiled and beautiful pearls across her neck.

“I don’t know, I thought I’d be getting paid for doing no work tonight. Ruins my plans,” the man teases, and you’re relieved at the kindness in his gaze. He’s wearing a suit with a dazzling but trendy red tie. His tie has an odd metallic sheen to it, a fabric your peasant mind couldn’t place.

If Molly were here, she’d jab you in the stomach with an elbow and whisper “One of those homosexuals, me thinks” even if she was bi herself.

You wish Molly were here.

“Yes, well, I’d like it if we could all work together tonight. And get to it quickly, the drive to the Wayne Tower isn’t a quick one with the evening traffic, so, if you’d please.”

And that was that. No introductions, no extra pleasantries. You were swept away in a whirl of fabric and hair products.

They stuff you into a gorgeous evening gown, its colour reminding you of a sparkling midnight sky. Rhinestones dot down the sides, coalescing at the bottom. You hope they’re not real diamonds. Gloves, a bracelet, a necklace, and dripping pearl earrings. It was all impeccably put together, and you felt uncomfortable with such items on you. You didn’t dare ask how much it all cost, despite being desperately curious.

They slip towering 6-inch stilettos on you despite your protests, cake your face in enough powder to make you sneeze. Dramatic liner and eyelashes that felt heavy on your face, a lipstick that had to be coated twice because you chewed on your lip with nerves.

And then you’re done, dizzy and confused but thoroughly made up.

You get one quick look at your reflection before Jeanine is pulling you up and out of the seat.

They’d gotten rid of the signs.

You ignore the part of you that desperately wants them back and follow Jeanine out into the elevator.

Despite the fact that it is, in fact, a very long drive to the Wayne Tower, she does not seem inclined to say a single word to you. The ride is awkward and quiet, broken only by the sound of you pressing buttons in the back of limousine, and even that stops when you get an unimpressed look from her.

So you just sit there, vibrating at frequencies unseen by man.

When you finally arrive at Wayne Tower, the crowd shocks you. There are so many paparazzi, nearly overflowing the flimsy barricades and onto the carpeted marble entryway. The tower itself is a display of outrageous wealth, towering over the rest of Gotham City easily. You think for a while it’d been the tallest building in the world, but you couldn’t remember your elementary school education all that well.

It wasn’t like this information would’ve been useful at any point in your life. You still don’t think it will be, as this is all a very vivid dream.

The door opens, and immediately you’re overwhelmed by the camera flashing. You hunch away from the lights like a vampire, but Jeanine pushes you forward.

“We’re already very late, Ma’am. No time for faffing around,” she says from behind you, hand placed squarely against your back.

What? But all you’d done was rush around all afternoon! You know, if you’d just taken one of the trains or even the Skyrail you’d have been able to avoid this. Still, you’re out the door, up the steps, not given a moment to react to the questions thrown at you.

“Miss! Miss, are you here to celebrate your birthday? Don’t you think it’s a bit callous to ignore the tragedies of today?”

“Miss! Is it true you’ve been disowned?”

“Miss, miss, about your family…!”

Oh, well, even if what they’re saying is awful, it’s a relief. It’s your birthday again. You think the guy who had called you said happy birthday. That meant none of this could possibly be real. See? It had to be a dream. Had to, had to… You decide to ignore literally everything else they say, letting the words float through your very hollow brain.

Life’s a lot easier when you play it a little stupider.

The heels and the stairs are an awful combination, and if it wasn’t for Jeanine’s herculean strength you’re certain you’d be tumbling down them right now. Your assistant… secretary… lady is careful not to let that happen, however.

Maybe you judged her too quickly. You appreciated anyone who made sure you didn’t fall flat on your ass. It was a good quality for a person to have.

You don’t get to appreciate the Wayne Tower all done up. You don’t get to stare at the lights and flowers strung into the art deco rafters. You don’t get to stare and gape and look like an idiot, because Jeanine wants you to look like an idiot elsewhere.

In the middle of all these fucking random rich people you don’t know. Hurray!

You’re shoved into a group of people, with Jeanine at your back. She starts rattling off names and titles and relations, and you can’t make heads or tails of any of it. You turn to look at her with what must be a genuine deer-in-headlights fear, and she stops and then starts speaking slower.

Thank God for that. Well, since she’s making an effort, you do too.

“This is Lianne Jenkins, wife of Senator Jenkins,” Jeanine whispers into your ear, and you nod. You knew him, you’d voted for him, in fact. How the fuck were you here talking to his wife? She’s not looking at you, instead talking to someone beside her. She turns, and you put on the best smile you can.

The socialite physically startles when she sees your face. Great.

“Oh- oh my!” her voice stutters over your name like she can barely even remember it, “I didn’t know you’d be here tonight, it’s a pleasure to see you!”

It… it was your birthday party, right? Your name was on a giant banner at the back of the room, so you had to assume it was. Dream logic. Just- just blame it on dream logic.

“Oh, look it’s Gerald! I’m sorry my dear I really have to-”

And she just ditched you. At your birthday party. You blink at the space she just evacuated and then turn around to Jeanine. You probably give her some sort of weird Kubrick stare, and she winces. She then looks around for someone else for you to talk to. From the growing despair on her face, you can assume she doesn’t find anyone.

“I don’t want to be here,” you say.

“I said I’d quit, remember?” she replies. You think she’s lying to you. She looks about as desperate as you feel, which is a lot. You were seeing a lot of sides of ‘The Wicked Witch of the West’ today. She seemed less wicked and more generally insane. Hey, at least the two of you had something in common.

You turn away from her, eyes roving over the party. You recognise some people, because you know, they’re all rich and famous. That guy over there was in a movie you pirated recently. The one on your right seems to be someone important in online tech spaces. You think he did NFTs or something, which made you sad because you did not want that sort of person at your birthday party. Oh, the woman on the other side of the room eating canapes is an Instagram influencer, you think. The fantasy of a Wayne party gala is fading fast, falling out of the sky like a comet of fire to bring doom and death to mankind.

You are so out of your depth.

You turn back around to Jeanine.

“I really, really don’t want to be here,” you repeat, and Jeanine, shocking you, grabs your hands in hers.

“Please stay. Just for thirty minutes, please,” she begs you, her dark eyes pleading. And because you are the living personification of a doormat, you sigh.

“Alright. But only for thirty. And I’m getting very, very drunk.”

“Thank you, thank you. I’ll be right beside you the entire time-”

You decide, oh so kindly, that you are totally ditching Jeanine, too. Spinning in your dress, you make a grand effort to get away from her, but she dogs you loyally. The goliath-like heels you’re wearing don’t make it any damn well easier. Still, you don’t stop trying to outrun the tiny, control freak of a woman. Because while she definitely seems to desperate to stay near you, you are also very desperate to not be near her.

Your hand itches. Randomly, it itches quite a lot. You don’t know why you only notice what must be a bug bite inside the gala, but you do. Awkwardly, you scratch your palm with your other hand, staring down at the skin. It doesn’t look red yet, but it honestly it’s getting kind of annoying.

You sigh again, and turn to ask Jeanine if she had any lotion or something, because you assume that’s what stalking personal assistants are for and… she’s not there. Somehow you lost her, without even noticing.

You throw your arms into the air. Yippee! Now, it’s time for alcoholism, as is the answer to all problems in life. It’s what the loving and maternal arms of Gotham had taught you, after all.

You stumble your way to a wall where there’s a set of food, and a server with a silver platter carrying a bunch of champagne glasses. You stop the guy before he moves again, your hands in the air like you’re trying to soothe a scared animal.

You point at the tray, “I want that.”

He looks at you with mild horror. You thought rich people were weird, like he’d be used to something like this. It wasn’t like you were asking for the shirt off his back or cocaine or something. If it wasn’t obvious, you really didn’t know anything about what rich people did.

“It’s my birthday. It’s totally cool. I asked Bruce myself,” You bald-faced lie, like you’d ever even met the man. Like a predator, you watch the man carefully put the tray down next to the rest of the food, and then he slowly backs away from you. Well, okay, you could admit that was kind of weird. This night is getting to you. God knows this loud-as-fuck party was more overstimulating than anything you could usually stand. And so bright. What a shitty fairytale ball.

You grab one of the flutes of champagne and swirl it, sniff it, and then once you’ve gone through the polite checklist of drinking you throw it back like it’s a shot of vodka. There were people watching after all. Wait, they’d probably seen you corner that poor server boy.

Hmm, this requires cake. You choose a random slice that looks like it might be strawberry something, and dig in eagerly. It tastes fucking fantastic. The cream is sweet and soft, and the jam has a pop of flavour you totally weren’t expecting. And the cake itself was a lovely, spongy texture.

Grand. Maybe if you just sat here like a wallflower and ate food and drank liquor you could handle this. It wasn’t any different from how you behaved at Molly’s college parties.

So, you decide to work your way up and down the buffet table. Most of it’s delicious, but when you try things you can’t quite recognise, there’s a twenty-percent chance it’ll be disgusting and you’ll have to spit it out to avoid poisoning. You’re careful not to try the caviar, despite your own curiosity. You’d heard that it just tasted like salty water, and that didn’t mix well with whatever you were currently putting in your stomach.

You look down at your hand. It’s another piece of the sponge cake, wedged between a napkin so your dirty fingers didn’t touch it and you didn’t have to bother with another plate. You giggle, because it really is that good.

Ah, this is great. You could do this forever, screw thirty minutes. You eye the entrance the servers keep coming in and out of, and wonder if Jeanine would get mad if you tried to follow them into the kitchens. Probably, probably…

The question was, was it worth it? You’re debating the merits when the sound of someone's shoes stops next to you. You think it’s a man, and you consider barking at him to get away from the buffet, but decide you’ve tried everything and can probably share again. It takes great strength, though. You decide you deserve some more champagne for the kindness.

It’s after a moment that you realise he’s not taking anything.

“Oh, so you actually showed up? Colour me surprised,” a familiar, calm, masculine voice speaks from behind you. Your mouth drops open, and you spin on your heel. If you hadn’t been clinging to the table cloth you’d have fallen over, but still, you drop the champagne flute, and it bursts in a spray of liquid and glass against your dress.

It also splatters on the dress shoes of one Tim Drake.

First the phone, now the delicious drink. You really wished you’d stop dropping things.

MASTERLIST - NEXT

#Series:WWW #yandere batfam #yandere dc #yandere batfamily #yandere batfam x reader #yandere x reader #dick grayson x reader #nightwing x reader #jason todd x reader #red hood x reader #tim drake x reader #red robin x reader #damian wayne x reader #robin x reader

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ikarakie · 1 year

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one of the known, undisputed rules of riding in steve harrington's car: passenger seat gets music privileges.

if you brought your own tape, and won the usually vicious battle for shotgun, there was a 100% chance that the drive would be backed with music of your choice. hell, there was even a small collection growing in steve's glove box of music that wasn’t his, because people left them behind either on accident or on purpose. no one really knew what steve liked to listen to- maybe minus robin- but he always seemed happy with whatever the passenger put in.

until one day, when dustin and lucas and mike climbed into his car. dustin had won passenger seat privileges, after a rather tense game of rock, paper, scissors, and instantly reached for the tape player.

steve smacked his hand down. "paws off, henderson." he scolded, not unkindly. all three kids stared at him like he'd grown a third limb as he pulled out of the wheeler's driveway. electric guitar played at a semi-low volume.

"what the hell?!" dustin squawked. "why can't i change the tape?" steve rolled his eyes, fingers tapping along to the rhythm of the beat on the wheel. none of the kids recognised the song, and it certainly didn't seem the kind of thing steve harrington would willingly listen to.

"is it so surprising i want to listen to my own tape in my car?" steve asks. dustin shouts an affronted, 'YES!' to which steve just shakes his head and continues driving.

the man on the track sings over heavy drums and guitar, talking about how he needed someone to 'show me the things that make true happiness' and 'he must be blind.' then, there's a guitar solo that steve smiles at.

"who are you?" mike asked, suspicious. "what did you do with our steve?"

"oh, shut up, wheeler." steve meets his eye in the rearview mirror. "next one to complain loses tape privileges for their next three turns."

that does shut them up. they make idle conversation over a couple more songs before they pull up to their destination. mostly threatening each other over high scores and making bets. steve waves them off with the usual 'don't be stupid' lecture and pulls out of the arcade parking lot, the bass of whatever the next track had been audible even through his closed doors and windows.

after that, steve retains ownership of his stereo every now and then, always playing some form of heavy metal. it just becomes the norm, though never fails to confound whoever's in the car. (because, seriously? polo shirt wearing steve harrington and heavy metal?)

they only ever hear anyone else listen to it after they join hellfire. eddie invites them to his trailer to create their characters together, and when they walk in one of the songs from that dumb tape is playing from a record in the corner.

"woah! you like this music too?" lucas asks. eddie nods excitedly.

"yeah, man! you a fan?" his smile dims a little when lucas shakes his head, but dustin is quick to jump in.

"our friend steve is always listening to a dumb mixtape with this sorta stuff on it." he explains, missing how eddie's eyes light up and his smile turns a little bashful. "he used to let us play whatever we want, but ever since he got that tape he makes us listen to it sometimes when he drives us around."

"well," eddie sighs, fiddling with one of his chunky silver rings. "seems this steve knows someone with very good taste in music." there's a warm look in his eyes before he claps his hands and diverts their attention to the character sheets he printed out.

later that night, steve gets a call.

"you told me you only listened to that tape once." the voice on the other end drawls. it's low and teasing, but it's undercut with obvious wonder and fondness. steve doesn't even bother pretending to be confused.

"well, it's good." (it makes me think of you) he replies, like it pains him. eddie giggles, and steve eyes the tape in question. sat on his bedside table, 'for my stevie' scrawled across it in eddie's neatest handwriting. shitty little hearts drawn around his name and an even shittier skull at the end. "how'd you know?"

"recognised my mötörhead record." eddie coos, "told me how you revoke their music privileges to listen to it." a pause. "you're so fucking cute."

steve can't help the dorky smile that spreads over his face. the way he twirls the phone cord like a fucking lovesick loser. he cracks a joke about making eddie a mixtape featuring the likes of duran duran and tears for fears, which makes him fake retch. they chat for a little while longer, whispering 'i love you's through the phones like it was their first time saying it.

the tape stays firmly in the bmw's music rotation.

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mingyannews · 6 months

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#cars #robots #sheet metal fabrication #sheet metal manufacturing #sheet metal design

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sunniskyies · 3 months

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𝐒𝐭𝐨𝐫𝐦 𝐂𝐥𝐨𝐮𝐝𝐬 || 𝐂𝐥𝐚𝐫𝐢𝐬𝐬𝐞 𝐋𝐚 𝐑𝐮𝐞 𝐨𝐧𝐞-𝐬𝐡𝐨𝐭

𝐑𝐞𝐪𝐮𝐞𝐬𝐭: "Clarisse x reader where readers emotions control weather? If that makes sense" 𝐒𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: Zeus sees Percy being claimed by Poseidon as an act of war, and decides to retaliate by claiming a child of his own 𝐏𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: show!Clarisse La Rue x Zeus!fem!reader 𝐖𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: Swearing 𝐂𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐚𝐢𝐧𝐬: Smitten Clarisse ofc (>ᴗ•) ! 𝐖𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 3.1k 𝐀/𝐍: Thank you so much for your request, I adore this concept !! I tried my best to replicate the reader’s emotions in the weather through the story, not just after she’s claimed. I hope I did it justice !! Enjoy <3

Terrified tears are streaming down your face and your heart is pounding in your chest. The rain is pelting against the windows now, and thunderclaps seem to shake the earth.

"Dad? I don't understand, what is that thing?" You choke, staring at the pair of red headlights out the back window, censored by the sheen of rain on the glass.

Except it isn't a set of headlights. It's a pair of eyes. Red, glowing, blood-thirsty eyes.

"D/N, are we almost there?" Your mother cries, her knuckles pale as she grasps the fabric of her pants.

"Yes," he grunts, foot hard down on the accelerator. "Y/N, do you see that hill ahead? With the pine tree?"

You squint into the darkness, just about making out the landmark your father is referring to, lit up by the high beams of the car.

"Yes, Dad. But I don't underst—"

"Listen, you must get to that tree no matter what. Don't look back, don't stop. Get past that tree and you'll be okay."

A sob escapes your lips, a crackle of lightning lighting up the sky. Behind the car, the light illuminates the beast chasing the car. A truck-sized mastiff, dripping saliva from a lolling mouth adorned with yellowing teeth. A scream peals from your throat as darkness swallows it once more.

"What is that?" You wail. Before either of your adoptive parents can respond, something large slams into the back of the car.

You're sent spinning, but the Hellhound doesn't let you hit the side of the road. It immediately stops you with a paw, tearing a hole in your car.

The beast's jaws snap eagerly at you, and you scramble backwards. In the front seat, your parents are reduced to slumped, motionless silhouettes. Terrified, you fumble for the door handle behind you, falling backwards onto the concrete and feeling your skin scrape.

You struggle to your feet, jumping away as the dog's fangs tear the car into a pile of coleslaw.

"Stop!" You shriek. Another lightning bolt reveals the landscape around you, and you see the hill towering above you, the pine tree adorning it rocking around in the hurricane-force winds.

Your father's words echo in your mind as your legs pump desperately up the slick, wet grass. They'll be okay, they got out, you think when the Hellhound turns away from the shredded metal, scarlet gaze now trained on you.

You're still nowhere near the top, and now the monster is practically upon you. It runs towards you like an excited puppy, gangly legs crossing meters of distance in seconds.

You're just about to squeeze your eyelids shut and say your final prayers when an explosion of light scorches the ground in front of you, knocking you hard backwards.

You feel your head collide with something, and then it's all dark.

A faint buzz is whining in your ears.

Where am I?

Your eyelids feel glued down when you try to pry them open, and when you manage it you're met with a kaleidoscope of white sheets and plain walls.

Your vision is swimming, but you make out the figure of a girl standing in the doorway. She has dark, coily hair and an unreadable expression on her face.

"Where am I?" You croak, your throat dry and scratchy, probably from all the screaming.

But the girl doesn't respond, just turns and leaves.

Exhausted from the effort, blackness envelopes you again.

"And this here is Cabin 4, Demeter," the boy with black hair says, gesturing to the building.

You sign inwardly, body still tired and aching. In the last few hours you have woken up, been told your parents are dead, gotten told everything you thought about the world is wrong and now you are being given a very in-depth tour of 'Camp Half-Blood'.

The sky is overcast, and you wearily listen as the boy goes on.

"And here is Cabin 5, Ares—" Luke is cut off by an olive-skinned girl storming out of the cabin's door, practically colliding with you.

"Fuck— watch where you're going, idiot!" She growls. When she looks up at you, a flicker of something swims through her eyes, but is replaced promptly by a glower.

"Newbie," she snarls. Behind her, a group of kids seep out of the cabin after her. At her words, they don menacing scowls and jeer.

"She looks awful!" One laughs.

"Push her over, Clarisse!" Another crows.

Clarisse cocks an eyebrow, looking you up and down pointedly. "You guys think I should teach this runt her place?" She asks. She's responded with cheers.

You step back hesitantly. Luke sighs.

"Clarisse, I'm just doing my job. Do you have to be difficult?" He says exasperatedly.

"That's okay, Castellan. You can go now, I'll look after the newbie," she grins, stepping forward to wrap her fists in your collar. She drops you, letting your exhausted body hit the earth with a thud. "Comfy down there, Darling?"

The all-too-fresh memory of falling out of the car escaping the Hellhound resurfaces, and angry tears spring to your eyes.

Your lip curls as you look up at 'Clarisse', her smug smile towering over you.

"Listen," you spit, standing up. "I've just been attacked by an actual Hellhound. It killed my parents. I'm exhausted. I'm just trying to get through this tour so I can get to whatever stiff sleeping bag they give me and go to sleep."

The overcast sky has darkened, heavy black clouds groaning with thunder threaten to release rain.

"I don't need some tough girl who thinks she owns this—apparently—magical fucking circus to tell me 'my place.' My place is back home with my parents. That's where I belong. But they're gone, so shove off back to kindergarten and learn some manners!"

Your voice cracked at some parts, and you know tears are threatening to fall from your eyes. But the dark look on your face gets the message across.

Clarisse's eyes glimmer with that look again, a tiny thing only you can see. But for everyone else, they just see her shrug.

"Whatever, Darling. Just watch where the hell you're going, m'kay," she states, spinning on her heel and sauntering off with her band of Ares kids scurrying behind her.

You sigh, letting your tense shoulders sag. The rain clouds give a shudder and release a light drizzle. You wipe a small tear from one eye.

This is definitely the hardest day of your life.

Your feet glide over the pine needle soundlessly, a hefty Xiphos clutched in your hands.

It's been a week since your arrival at Camp Half-Blood. A week full of training, lessons and camp activities. You have found yourself rather handy with a sword, and you're even warming up to the kid in Hermes' cabin.

Ahead of you, Clarisse La Rue and her band of sheeple are wandering back towards their flag. You're stealthily following them, the chocolate-eyed girl none the wiser.

The sky is bright and blue, flocks of cheerful clouds frolicking around on the sweet summer winds. You feel a thrill of joy pass through you. It's a beautiful day, you've finally settled in, and you are about to beat that bully La Rue.

Well, you would have if, in your excitement, you hadn't carelessly stepped on a twig.

Gods, didn't that only happen in the movies? You wince as the pack of Ares kids whip around, spears and swords brandished.

"You!" Clarisse says when she sees you. "Trying to find our flag, are you?"

She smirks, stalking forward. You step back slightly, heart pounding. Yes, you are quite good with a sword now, but you are no match for Clarisse. Even you can admit that.

She leans in close. "You should know better," she says, her voice honeyed.

A couple of her teammates move forward, teeth gleaming and swords hungry for skin. Clarisse's eyes flash, and she holds up a hand.

"No, go on to the flag. I'll deal with her," she orders. Some of the kids look doubtful, so Clarisse gives you a shove for emphasis. "I'll deal with her."

Reluctantly, the kids peter out. Turning back to you, Clarisse holds your gaze for a moment, before shaking her head with a scoff. But there isn't much venom in it.

"Just stay out of it, newbie," she grunts, swinging her spear leisurely over one shoulder and turning to leave.

You frown in disbelief. "That's it?"

Clarisse pauses, looking at you over one shoulder. "What, do you want a fight, Darling? Because we both know that would just end up with you in the infirmary."

You tilt your head, observing the brown-haired girl. "No, not at all. You're just... not what I thought."

Clarisse scoffs again, but there is even less malice in it. You think you must be imagining the warm glow around her cheekbones.

"Just, stay out of it," she mutters, turning and jogging off into the trees.

You stare after her, cheek tingling where her breath had brushed it.

Of course, you didn't stay out of it. You had followed after her, the girl too flustered to notice you slipping in and sneaking off with the flag.

After your win, the whole camp accepted you fully. Ares still shoots you glares, but no one has dared push you over again.

And yet, no God or Goddess has claimed you. Many campers are after a week or two, but it has been months and still not a sign.

"She's too smart for an Ares," someone guesses.

"But she's too tough for Athena," another had argued.

"What about Apollo? She's alright with a bow."

"Definitely not, have you heard her sing in the shower block?" Someone laughs.

"I mean, that would explain why Apollo hasn't claimed her!"

Every day begins to feel worse than the last, every time you prove yourself worthy you are rewarded with nothing. Even the weather seems to agree, the sky gradually getting gloomier and wetter. Campers have been grumbling about this being the 'bleakest summer ever.'

The only spark in your life, unbelievably, is a certain fiery girl from Cabin 5.

You've been entertaining yourself by trying to worm your way into the stony warrior's heart, your suspicions about her proving correct with every blush and scoff you are gifted with when you manage to sneak through a crack.

The clouds seem to part, letting a beam of rare sunlight through, whenever you're with her. When you're without her, you find your hands itching to touch her, a playful shove or a flick.

A few shoves and flicks later, you find yourself standing in the middle of the training Arena, clad in sweaty bronze armor being asked out by a flushed Clarisse La Rue.

A warm trickle of sunlight sinks into the space between you, both panting from the private spar you were in moments before. You can see every freckle, every dark eyelash on her face.

"Go out with you?" You breathe, lowering your sword from where it was raised. "Like, with you?"

Clarisse scoffs —her nervous habit, you've found— and removes her helmet, resting it on her hip. "Yes, with me, Darling. But if you're already set on Castellan, lift that sword again and we can forget about this—"

"Fuck Castellan, of course I'll go out with you!" You cry, letting your weapon clatter to the ground and wrapping your metallic arms around her.

You don't know what the other campers meant when they called it the 'bleakest summer ever.' All you know now is sunshine and blue-sky days, days filled with summery winds and strawberry picking and secret dates with your tough girl. You hardly ever think about your unclaimed status anymore, too in love to care. You can't even remember before Clarisse.

She's awfully protective of you, always standing up to anyone who tries to push you around. You did wish she wouldn't pick on the newbies, though.

"Clari, he's only 12! Give him a break," you protest. You're sprawled out in Clarisse's sheets as she sits on the end of the bed polishing her spear for Capture the Flag that afternoon.

"Nope. I hate liars," she states simply.

You roll your eyes. Always so stubborn. "Clarisse, he's barely put his foot in the door. Let the kid adjust."

Clarisse shakes her head. "No! He lied about killing the minotaur, he soaked me and my friends—" you snort "—and now he's walking around here like he's better than me! I ought to show that runt—"

You've sat up and pressed a kiss to her lips. Clarisse falters, flustered from the touch. For a girl who isn't afraid of anything, you've found her to be very timid when it comes to affection.

"No one's better than you, Clari," you murmur. Her face sets ablaze. "But, you don't have to prove that, we already know it."

Clarisse hums thoughtfully, leading into your touch for a moment. Then she springs up abruptly, leaving your lips cold. "Sorry, no can do. Reputation and all that. See you in battle, Darling!"

You flop back down onto the bed with a groan as she eagerly sprints off. That's right, you're on the opposite side.

"You really think he's the one, Annabeth?" You whisper to the patch of air beside you. You're crouched behind a bush watching the 12-year-old arch nemesis of your girlfriend dozing on a log after a very strenuous afternoon of dancing and playing with geckos.

"Yes," the patch of air replies. You sigh, shifting uncomfortably. You can't believe you let Annabeth rope you into this.

"Can we please go help Luke and Chris? I'm sure Percy can look after himself," you mutter. "And I'm bored!"

"Well, you won't be bored for much longer," invisible Annabeth says.

You turn back to Percy to see none other than your girlfriend stalking towards him brandishing her red-hot spear. Of course, you groan internally. She does look really good in those camo pants, though.

When the Ares pack start chasing the boy, you're about to step out of your hiding spot, but Annabeth's arm stops you.

"Not yet," she orders.

You may not be as formidable as Clarisse, but you are far from puny. You let her protect you because that's Clarisse's love language. But you can handle yourself perfectly well, one stormy glare of yours can send a camper fleeing for the hills. On top of that, you hate being ordered around, especially from a child.

But you listen, because you're reluctant to be as stubborn as your girlfriend. So you stay expertly hidden as you and Annabeth follow the pack down to the lake. But a flash of anger shoots through you when you see the young boy knocked to the floor.

"Sorry, Annabeth," you grunt, stepping out onto the gravel. "Clarisse! Leave him alone!"

Clarisse doesn't stop her tussle, just glancing over at you. "Stay out of it, Darling."

"You always say that," you growl, picking off one of the Ares kids and combatting him with your sword, and you quickly have him disarmed and on the ground. Suddenly, your head shoots up when you hear a bloodcurdling scream.

"Clari!" You cry, stomach clenching when you see the severed spear in her hands. Her gift from her father.

"Clari, stop. He's not worth it," you plead, running up to her when she hefts the scrawny boy into the air. Your arms wrap around her waist, and you guide a fuming Clarisse back towards the cabins. Percy will be okay, Annabeth will look after him.

Well. You thought she would, but you turn towards a 'splash' to see that the girl has pushed Percy into the lake.

"What the hell, Annabeth!" You begin to call over, but the words dry up when you see his bloody wounds knitting themselves over. Your jaw drops open when you realize what that means moments before the trident appears above the boy's head.

Poseidon, Poseidon, the Big Three, Poseidon, you hear kids all around you whispering. The poor boy looks shell-shocked.

"Fuck that kid," Clarisse says disbelievingly. You rub your hand on her back, once again leading her to the cabins.

"It's okay, Clari. He's just going to get slaughtered by Hades' monsters now, you know they're on the brink of war. You don't have to trouble yourself any—"

You falter when Clarisse stops walking, a look of horror in her eyes. You frown and look around confused when the rest of the Blue Team start staring at you too.

"What?" You ask, following the gaping camper's gaze to the space above your head.

The wind is knocked from your body. Above your head, an icy-white lightning bolt marks you. Daughter of Zeus.

Your insides churn—you're not an idiot, you know what this means. Zeus has seen Percy being claimed as an act of war and decides to retaliate by finally acknowledging his daughter.

The stares, the whispers, the complications, it all stirs in your gut like a hurricane. In the sky, a storm cloud has begun brewing and crackles with lightning.

"Stop staring!" You cry at your teammates, a bright lightning bolt lighting up the sky. Tears well in your eyes, and rain begins to pelt down on the gravelly shore.

When the campers don't move, you shoot them one of your deadly glares. "Scram!" You growl, the following grumble of thunder making them scatter. Only Clarisse stays.

"Don't you understand?" You sob to her, rain mixing with the tears on your cheeks. "He doesn't care about me. He hasn't cared about me for months! I'm just a bargaining chip to him, a plaything to through at his stupid brother!"

You turn to storm off, and the sky growls at you. "Is this me, too? Am I doing this?" You shout, gesturing manically at the sky. Clarisse crosses over to you.

"Screw Hades, screw Poseidon, screw the lot of them!" Clarisse hisses, grabbing your hands to stop you from leaving. "Zeus doesn't deserve you, Darling. Don't let him use you, don't give him the satisfaction."

You sniff, the rain softening to a shower. "I don't want to be like this," you croak, your foreheads touching as you look at your intertwined hands. Tiny sparks are erupting at the contact.

"I don't know, Sparky. It's pretty cool," Clarisse grins.

You laugh, the tension easing from your body. The dark clouds in the sky above blow away. "Yeah, I guess you're right. Why should I let them control me? I'll just explode them if they try."

Clarisse grins, brushing a wet strand of hair from your face and kissing you on the side of your mouth. "That's the spirit, Sparky."

( 𝐁𝐨𝐧𝐮𝐬 𝐒𝐜𝐞𝐧𝐞 !! )

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