#<- isn’t diffusion fun like that????

[noctilionoidea]

Kinda meh Ashtart I worked on and off on during school. For the most part I wasn’t able to reference my design for her but I did get it close. I don’t like how the coloured pencil looks here though. Eh

[communistkenobi]

They put Tayy Dior’s name in quotes as if that was a fun little nickname her friends called her. It places emphasis on the fact that her name is ‘unofficial,’ and given that legal name changes in places like the US can be expensive, difficult & time consuming, the ‘unofficial’ nature of transgender peoples’ names is commonplace. Using deadnames of trans people in media reports is an endorsement of the difficult nature of this process.

It also highlights the absurdity of appealing to ‘official’ legal records of name and gender marker - which official records? even when you go through a legal name change process, it’s not a single application that changes it everywhere. At least in my experience in Canada, and I believe this is the case in other federated states, you have to separately change your photo ID(s), your birth certificate, your federal/national records, your tax records, your employment and tenant records, your bank records, your billing records, and so on. These are all separate applications/appointments. And legal name and gender marker are separate applications. I had to essentially obtain a set of permission slips from a provincial office that allowed me to change my name and gender marker on municipal, provincial, and federal records. There isn’t one single ‘official’ record that informs all other records of your ‘real’ name and gender marker, it is a collection of diffused departments & offices that do not communicate with one another and must be altered one at a time by the individual themselves. In many cases, states retain a record of your original name and gender marker even after applying for a change, meaning it is literally impossible to ever fully change your name and gender everywhere, administratively speaking.

So, which record is the ‘official’ record for trans people? Cis people treat ‘official’ records of legal names and gender markers as if they are uniform, centralised, and coherent in order to contrast the ‘unofficial’ nature of a trans person’s “preferred” name and pronouns, to highlight the fundamental fraudulence of our lives that go against the rational objective nature of the state, but there is in many states no single official record, for trans and non-trans people alike. That is because when cis people insist on calling trans people by their deadnames and ungender them, they are not actually referring to official records - as official records can conflict, and there is no agreement on which single record is the authoritative one - but are instead treating sex and name assignment at birth as if it is sacrosanct. This first ritual of naming, of gendering, and of recording the results of this ritual is the actual ‘official record’ they are referring to, a ritual that can never be altered or forsaken.

Tayy Dior’s name is not a nickname, it is not a quotation to insert into her “real” “official” deadname, it is not a preference. It is her name, and the media - even “trans inclusive” media - is making sure that it is, at best, the second thing they call her as they gleefully report on her violent murder

[pucksandpower]

Man’s World

Charles Leclerc x Ferrari engineer!Reader

Summary: Charles refuses to just stand by and watch as you get disrespected

Warnings: misogyny and lewd comments

You’re admiring the sleek lines of the red Ferrari F8 Tributo in front of you, running your fingers lightly over the glossy paint. The showroom is quiet this early in the morning, just a few employees milling about getting ready for the day.

Charles had to stop by to sign some merchandise for a charity event and asked if you wanted to tag along. You opted to wait out front and enjoy the eye candy while he took care of business.

You circle around to the back of the car, appreciating the aggressive styling and massive rear diffuser. As an engineer for Scuderia Ferrari who often extends your expertise to working on their road cars, you know every detail of this machine intimately. Your hands itch to pop the hood and inspect that glorious twin-turbo V8, but you resist.

This isn’t your workshop back in Maranello.

Lost in thought, you don’t notice the group of guys entering the showroom until one whistles loudly. “Hey baby, those legs look good enough to wrap around me real tight,” one calls out.

You freeze, feeling your heart rate pick up.

“Don’t be shy, we just want to get to know you better,” another says as they swagger over.

You press back against the car, sizing up the situation. Four of them, all clearly well-off based on the expensive watches and designer clothes. But their eyes are cruel as they look you up and down.

“What’s a pretty little thing like you doing in a place like this?” The apparent ringleader asks. “Hoping to sink your claws into some rich guy and take him for all he’s worth?” The others laugh nastily.

You lift your chin. “Actually, I happen to work for Ferrari.”

The man snorts in disbelief. “Yeah right, and I’m Michael Schumacher. There’s no way a woman knows anything about these cars other than where the passenger seat is.”

You clench your fists, biting back a scathing retort. The thought of educating these misogynistic jerks gives you immense satisfaction, but you know it won’t do any good. They’ll never change their prejudiced attitudes.

“Don’t listen to him, darling,” one says, giving you a lecherous look. “I’d be happy to take you for a ride, show you how a real man handles power between his legs.”

You’re about to tell him exactly where he can shove his stereotypes when a familiar voice interrupts sharply.

“That’s enough.”

You look over to see Charles striding angrily toward you, green eyes blazing. The men surrounding you look irritated at having their fun spoiled.

“Can we help you with something, pal?” The ringleader asks sarcastically.

Charles ignores him, coming to stand protectively beside you. “Are you okay, mon amour?” He asks under his breath.

You nod, relief washing over you now that he’s here. “I’m fine.”

Charles turns an icy stare on the men who’d been harassing you. “I’d appreciate it if you wouldn’t speak to my girlfriend that way,” he says coldly.

The leader looks Charles up and down dismissively. But then a spark of recognition crosses his face. “Wait a minute … you’re Charles Leclerc!” He elbows his friends. “The Formula 1 driver!”

The others’ eyes widen as they take in Charles with new understanding. “Whoa, seriously?” One exclaims.

The leader chuckles, clearly trying to recover his bravado. “Well, what do you know? The famous racer has a pretty girl on his arm.” His lips curl in a smirk. “Hate to break it to you, but it’s obvious she’s just using you for your money. No way she knows anything about these cars other than how much they cost.”

Charles crosses his arms. “As it so happens, my girlfriend is an engineer for Scuderia Ferrari, so I’d bet my entire net worth — and my car collection — that she knows more about the cars in this dealership than all four of you combined and then some.”

You have to bite your lip to hide a smile at the dumbfounded looks on the men’s faces.

“An engineer?” One sputters. “You can’t be serious.”

You level a challenging stare at them. “Deadly serious. I’ve personally worked on over a dozen projects for Ferrari, including the SF90 Stradale hypercar we just launched.” You point across the showroom. “There’s one right over there, in fact. Mid-front mounted 4.0L twin-turbo V8, delivering 769 brake horsepower combined with three electric motors. First plug-in hybrid Ferrari ever put into full production.” You smirk at the slack-jawed stares your technical rundown elicits. “So yes, I’d say I know a thing or two about these cars.”

Charles grins proudly and squeezes your hand. But the leader is not ready to back down just yet.

“Anyone can memorize a monologue,” he scoffs. “I don’t buy it. You’re clearly just clinging to this guy for his money.”

Fury rises in your chest. You open your mouth to retaliate, but Charles beats you to it.

“That’s my girlfriend you’re talking about,” he snaps, green eyes blazing. “I’d be very careful with what you say next.”

The man smirks, crossing his bulky arms over his chest. “Or what, tough guy?”

Charles takes a step forward, jaw clenched. The man towers over him but Charles doesn’t flinch.

Right as it looks like things might get physical, you quickly take Charles’s arm. “He’s not worth it,” you murmur.

Charles hesitates, nostrils flaring. After a tense moment, he relaxes his stance and turns his back on the leering man.

But it seems the group isn’t done provoking you yet. “That’s right, listen to your sugar baby,” one of them calls out. “Wouldn’t want you messing up that pretty face for the cameras.”

Charles whips back around, shaking with anger now. Heart pounding, you cling to his arm in an effort to hold him back. “Charles, please-”

“No, Y/N.” He shakes off your hand, stalking toward the men. “I won’t stand here and let them insult you.”

You watch helplessly as Charles gets right in the leader’s face, nearly nose to nose. “You need to apologize. Now,” he grits out.

The man narrows his eyes. “Apologize? For what? Stating the obvious?” He smirks coldly. “Face it, your little girlfriend is nothing but a gold diggin-”

He doesn’t get to finish the sentence. With lightning speed, Charles’ fist connects squarely with his jaw. The man stumbles back with a pained shout, hand flying to his face.

“Charles!” You hurry to his side, alarmed. Charles is breathing hard, staring down at the man doubled over and groaning. The man’s friends back away nervously.

Chest heaving, Charles turns to you. “I’m sorry. I couldn’t listen to him insult you for another second.”

You meet his fiery gaze steadily. “It’s okay, I understand. Thank you for defending me.” After a beat, you add wryly, “And remind me not to get on your bad side.”

That startles a small laugh from Charles. The tension in his shoulders eases. He takes your hand, bringing it to his lips for a gentle kiss. “No chance of that, mon ange,” he murmurs. “You bring out the best in me.”

***

“Ow, ow, ow!” Charles hisses as he gingerly holds his right hand. His knuckles are bruised and bleeding.

You sigh, grabbing the first aid kit to tend to your dramatic boyfriend. “I told you not to punch him, Charles. You don’t know the first thing about throwing a proper punch.”

Charles pouts, wincing as you take his hand in yours to examine it. “I was just trying to defend your honor, mon amour. That man was saying such crude things about you.”

You shake your head, amused by his protectiveness. “My hero,” you tease. “Next time just walk away. I don’t need you breaking your hand over some entitled idiot’s comments.”

Charles hangs his head. “I know, I know. I wasn’t thinking clearly. I just saw red when he kept insulting you.”

You smile softly, touched by how much he cares. You start cleaning the wounds on his knuckles with a disinfectant wipe.

“Ow!” Charles cries out dramatically. “That stings!”

“Don’t be such a baby,” you chide. “It’s just a little antiseptic. I have to clean it so it doesn’t get infected.”

Charles pouts some more but stays still as you finish cleaning the abrasions. You apply an antibiotic ointment carefully before beginning to wrap his hand with a bandage.

“I really messed up my hand, didn’t I?” Charles mumbles dejectedly.

You nod. “You definitely did some damage. Nothing serious, but you’ll be sore for a while.”

Once you’ve wrapped his hand securely, you bring it to your lips and place a gentle kiss on the bandage. “There. All better.”

Charles gives you a lopsided smile. “My own personal nurse. How did I get so lucky?”

You grab an ice pack from the freezer and hand it to him. “Here, put this on your hand to help with the swelling and pain.”

Charles sighs dramatically but does as instructed, holding the ice pack gingerly against his injured hand.

You glance at his wrapped hand, the knuckles already starting to bruise beneath the bandage. “Does it hurt terribly?”

Charles considers the question. “Honestly? Yes, it really does. Punching someone is not as easy as it looks in the movies.”

You laugh. “No kidding. That’s why you leave the punching to trained fighters, not Formula 1 drivers.”

“Ugh, this is so embarrassing,” Charles mutters. “What will the team say when they find out I injured myself in a fight? And I’ll never hear the end of it from Pierre.”

You pat his leg reassuringly. “Just say you hurt it working out. No one has to know about your misguided attempt at honorable combat,” you tease.

Charles chuckles ruefully. “Good idea. The last thing I need is for this to become paddock gossip.”

You both sit in comfortable silence for a few moments, Charles icing his hand while you snuggle contentedly against him.

"Thank you for patching me up and taking such good care of me,” Charles gently brushes the hair from your face with his uninjured hand. “Even when I do stupid things."

You grin. “It’s a tough job but someone’s gotta do it. Especially since you did almost break your hand for me.”

You settle back against Charles comfortably. He may be reckless and impulsive at times, but you know he always has the best intentions at heart. And you'll always be there to care for him if those good intentions backfire.

For better or worse, this protective man is the love of your life.

[batfambyval]

okay. So.

Serious Red Robin theory coming.

Tim wasn’t put in the Lazarus Pit. But. That doesn’t mean they didn’t use it on him. The pit’s healing properties have been shown to work in small portions. Like, the healing is proportional to the amount of lw used.

The cave with the pit isn’t exactly a sterile environment. So either the pit was needed or it was an attempt to put Tim off balance, a psychological weapon. Though the White Ghost’s reaction to the assumption seems to dispute that. If the pit’s healing is proportional to the amount used it makes sense that the psychological effects are to, along with the duration of those side effects.

Ra’s had serious reasons to use the pit on Tim, between the additional room for emotional manipulation and Tim’s life threatening injury which wasn’t immediately treated and was in fact exacerbated like, a lot… yeah. Tim lost a lot of blood. He lost was stabbed in the organ that filters blood: meaning all your blood passes through your spleen. He was bleeding out, he should have died, he dragged himself and another person to a car, drove said car back to the city, and got them both up to the penthouse. Recovering from that would take a long time, he shouldn’t have survived at all. But he healed quickly and well, it isn’t an issue, it happened and it was over. I know we as a fandom like to have fun with Tim’s missing spleen and what that means but… canon didn’t and looking back I feel like there was a lot pointing at the pit being used in a much more insidious was, not just in the logistics of Tim’s recovery.

Ra’s was insanely trusting of Tim. Not just in his ability to do what he wanted but in his belief that Tim would ultimately come around to his way of thinking. Now, I can obviously see that Tim was in a very vulnerable position and if Bruce hadn’t actually been alive Ra’s could definitely have succeeded. But it feels like more than that, especially with Tim’s ensuing behavior. A lot of his time with the league is glossed over or seen from Tam’s perspective, but Tim was acting different. It’s easy to attribute this to the objectively terrible situation and the year he’s had, but his behavior isn’t the same as it was at the beginning of the run either. And the difference in behavior fades. As Red Robin Tim is more ruthless and pragmatic, mostly due to necessity. Even stealing from a museum and fighting for it makes him incredibly uncomfortable. He still did it. But he was still acting like Tim, making jokes and doing his best to diffuse the situation and keep everyone alive. After the surgery his focus gets even more single minded. He barely puts up a fight about leading the league. Of course partly for Tam, and he tried to keep killing to a minimum but cmon. He was leading the league of ASSASSINS. There were assassinations happening. People died when he blew all the league bases and he barely registered that beyond thinking that the council of spiders probably made it out, implying part of him knew death was a possibility and he didn’t care. But he didn’t think about the moral implications of that in a way that was very reminiscent of Jason’s selective morality. If he had stopped to think about it he wouldn’t have done it, but he was focused to much on beating Ra’s, on not compromising, that the complexity of the situation didn’t sink in. The obvious effects of his actions, the possible deaths and injuries of anyone inside a league stronghold wasn’t acknowledged while the underlying message sent to his opponent was the only thing he could think about. Just like when Jason attacked Tim at Titans Tower to send a message to Bruce despite his hardline stance against hurting kids.

So. The League did use the pit on Tim, just a little. Maybe two tablespoons in the wound to accelerate recovery and weaken his morals a bit. It would certainly make a lot of sense. And the writer did change when Tim came back to Gotham so it’s entirely possible that it was meant to be touched on later but was discarded.

[50cal-fullauto-astarion]

horny, sulky, kinda mean, kinda roughhousing könig thought bc it's my birthday, it's 2:50am, i have been horny like a fuckin werewolf for like a week now. f!reader ig for talk about pussy.

So our man König doesn’t keep normal hours—not that you do, but dude is two days back from KorTac and pretty much strung out on the “fun” amphetamines KorTac req officers pass out like candy if you even wave smth that looks like a form at them. So kind of out of the worst of it, exhausted, but wired and feeling kind of shitty and toothy and wound up.

He wants to fuck. Easiest way to diffuse, decompress, and he’s hard as shit by the time he lumbers his way into bed with you—over you—all around you. You were reading off your kindle, not anymore. He plucks that shit right out of your hand and puts it behind him, tangling those long, heavy limbs around you like a boa constrictor.

“Was wondering when this was going to happen,” you say, hissing when he’s none to kind in nipping the skin of your neck, wrapping his arms around your torso, pushing your breasts up under your t-shirt. “Shit, you’re moody,” it’s half a laugh, and a grapple at not immediately just folding and giving into him. You like to bite, too.

“Give me your mouth,” he grunts, nose pushed into the spot behind your ear. He’s pushing down your underwear, singlemindedly stripping you down. His words make your skin humid, “Gonna play with your pussy, want you fucking wet for me.”

You give that little bit, turning your head over your shoulder, smirking into a kiss that drives deliriously deep as soon as contact is made. König isn’t a prim kisser, but a primal one. It’s not a clean act; sloppy, yes, and somehow tinged with something kin to restrained violence. Challenge? Dick swinging? Maybe something more biblical in nature—gluttony, or greed.

He’s a fearsome thing, and he may only be beautiful to you. A needful thing, too, twisting nest of starved serpents—6 feet 10 inches and pushing-300-lbs of fucking muscle, battering-ram-body housing more than thirty years of neglect-crushed memory out for retribution.

But you never were a target. He didn’t have a choice in that matter. You both know good and goddamned well that you picked him. Everything he gets away with is at your allowance, and good fucking Christ, he loves you for it.

His cock throbs against your bare ass through his boxers as his arm wraps around you, craning his hand to pump two big fingers into your sopping cunt, angling his wrist so he can press and rub your clit with his thumb.

Man’s got his perversions, and he’s the most physical person you’ve ever met in your life. He’s had a fraction of the sex he’s fantasized about, but you’ve covered hectares of that ground since you’ve gotten together. He’s a quick study, and his mind’s a nightmare of steel trap memory. He never forgets what you like.

Two fingers turn to three, and he almost pushes it to four—assured torture, too much stretch too fast—before you snap a hand around his wrist and buck hard back against him, seething his name in warning. “Don’t fucking dare.”

“Ja. Ja, Schatzi,” he mumbles, breathing hard and too collected. You’re both sweating already, and the bed feels too damn warm, but neither of you shift. The spooning position is perfect as-is, only needs acted upon. In the mean time, he draws his slicked fingers up, leaving them in the air before your mouth in question. He groans and shudders harshly when you take the digits into your mouth, almost laughing at the ever-fresh amusement of your own taste. Salt and cold coins, your own metallic tang a complement to the one on his skin. His voice shakes as he warns, “Time, now. It’s time, bitte, aw, fuck.”

Just like that, he sinks right into you, to the base, balls pressed tight against your lips due to your body’s contortioning to meld against his form. An ungodly moan bellows out of his throat, rattling from his chest into yours, arms tightening around you. You meet the fuck-weird noises, turning your head to keen into your pillows and pressing back against him. Your hand anchors behind you on his hip, as if pinning him in place, affixing your bodies together.

You both hang in a moment of suspension, hearts pounding, minds blank, stomachs rising as if careening over a hill with momentum not sparing you a moments reprieve.

When that finally snaps, you have to force him to focus, to fuck, and he’s slow about it, grinding into you as your cunt sucks him deeper.

That huge hand you know so well drops between your legs, right back to toying with you. Oh it doesn’t take long to get you off, bent in half on your side, holding onto him and gasping as you’re hit with wave after wave of pleasure.

He’s not subtle to signal when it’s his turn. He pulls you back up and clamps his teeth into your shoulder, biting down hard through the fabric of your shirt, fucking you rough, now, and unheeding, like an animal in heat. When he finally finishes, spasming and jolting all over now that his balls have been emptied into you, he leaves his heavy arm over your waist, keeping you close. “Good shit,” he mumbles, throat sticking to itself it’s so dry as he pants, parched, “we split a smoke?”

You’re not much better, even though you’ve bravado to fucking spare. “I smoke. You go the hell to sleep now,” you try to sound stern and dismissive, but there’s a laugh in your tone some place. And fondness, undeniably. You feel his grin against your neck, his body purring mhm in question. “Feel better?” you ask, at length, stroking the hair on his forearms.

“Yes,” he says after a moment, weak and sweet with relief, “can sleep now.” A pause, you can hear him thinking. “Won’t, though. Because you were an asshole and had to bring it up first.” His laugh wheezes, low and susurring.

[party-hearses]

don’t be a brat, baby | joel miller x f!reader

sequel to relax, baby

pairing: joel miller x f!reader (NO USE OF Y/N)

rating: explicit, 18+ MDNI

wordcount: 7.2k

summary: in a desperate attempt to get back into Joel’s arms, you brave a night at the bar with your coworkers.

series warnings/tags: porn with some plot (oops), explicit smut, unprotected piv, creampie, pet names (princess, baby), language, size kink, praise kink, public sex (kinda), bulge kink, joel and reader being a menace to everyone around them. lmk if I’m forgetting anything!

author's note: thank you so much for all the love on relax, baby! i honestly can’t believe how many people requested a part two. i had so much fun writing this. comments, reblogs, asks, feedback, etc. are SO SO SO appreciated! i swear i don’t bite. 🫶

🖤 dedicated to @nostalxgic forever and always

Monday morning comes both too quickly and not quickly enough.

Declining all invitations from friends over the weekend, you had been all too content to remain in your bedroom, hands shoved down the front of your underwear, the film reel of Joel’s hands on you a constant replay in your mind. Joel’s everything, if you’re being honest.

A mixture of excitement and anxiety coils in the pit of your belly, overflowing into your extremities. You flex your fingers against the steering wheel in an attempt to diffuse some of the nervous energy, but the knowledge that you’re walking — falling — into unknown territory sits at the forefront of your mind.

Can he fire you for fucking in the office? Even if it was him you were fucking?

When you arrive, Joel’s truck isn’t in the lot, but that’s standard for this early in the morning — he’s made it clear he’s not an early-to-rise, early-to-work kind of guy.

There’s some comfort in knowing if he shows up at all, it won’t be until later in the day. The ability to shove off the inevitable strangeness, whatever shape it may take, allows you to actually get out of your car and get moving.

But as you unlock and open the door, the celluloid frames of your memory catch fire — burning the imprint of Joel’s body hovering above yours, the thick ropes of the muscles in his neck drawn taut, into the spaces that burst with color behind your eyelids.

A heated flush creeps across your collarbones, the distinct recognition of arousal blooming in your chest.

You shove the feeling all the way down to your toes, sweeping your gaze across the surface of the desk.

It does look somewhat neater than it had when you’d left, everything stacked in the appropriate piles, the receipt book tucked away in the drawer. Credit where credit is due, you think, wondering how defiled the paperwork actually is, and if Joel would have even noticed.

Settling in to try to determine if any of it is salvageable (it is…regrettably), you do what you can to ignore the pavlovian-like wetness pooling at your core. Just being in the office, being seated in the chair, makes it difficult not to drop your fingers between your thighs at the memory of it. For a split second, you consider if it’s something you could get away with.

Pushing back from the desk, stretching the lengths of your arms against the lip of it, you drop your head back, releasing a long, slow breath. Get it the fuck together. You will not masturbate at work to the thought of your boss. Even if your boss had let slip that he masturbated to the thought of you…

Oh, god.

Caffeine. You need caffeine. Of course you need caffeine, because coffee fixes everything — including your need to have Joel’s cock jammed into the furthest reaches of you as soon as possible.

Grateful for something tangible and decisive, you rush out of the office, barely remembering to lock the door behind you.

Your blood now buzzing with the first few sips of an iced latte, you push the door to the office open with your hip, the already too-hot morning sun pouring into the room around you.

“Mornin’, princess.”

You freeze, fingers gripping the sweating plastic cup in your hand. Cunt throbbing at the deep baritone of his voice, a dull ache pulling across your lower half. The realization that you hadn’t needed to unlock the door dawns on you.

He’s seated at the desk, pushed back with both feet kicked up on the surface of it. Arms bent at the elbow into acute angles, fingers laced behind his head. The sun paints him in a silhouette, hiding his strong, angular features.

If you weren’t practically salivating just from the sight of him, you’d wonder why the fuck he always seemed to need to have his dirty work boots all over your paperwork.

“Joel,” you whisper breathily, “didn’t know you’d be here this early.” Any irritation you feel is washed out by arousal. Goddamnit.

Mechanically, you kick the door closed behind you, the click of the latch settling into your bones.

Joel hums stoically, leaning forward on his elbows.

“Get anythin’ done this mornin’?” he asks, pointedly.

Dragging your lower lip into your mouth with your teeth, you shake your head slowly. The anxiety you’d been feeling all morning flares, threatening to spill over.

Can you file for unemployment if you’ve fucked your boss?

“Nah, me either.” He slaps the palms of his hands spiritedly against the flat of the desk, pushing himself up off the chair. “Been a little…distracted.”

His face relaxes into a dangerous smirk, eyebrow quirked, gaze burning into you.

Arrogant motherfucker.

You plant your free hand on your hip. “Really? Playing the fucking ‘boss’ card?”

“Yeah, I’m playin’ the fuckin’ boss card.”

He laughs, his dark eyes glowing with what you can only call depravity — a commanding acknowledgement of what he knows he’s doing to you. Like he could swallow you whole, if given the chance.

You’d let him, you think.

“Can’t be here long,” he says lowly, eyes roving over you — devouring you. “Have a few sites to be at this week. Only stopped by to make sure everything here was…goin’ okay.”

The invisible addendum hangs in the air between you: to torture you.

His long legs bring him to stand in front of you in just a few short steps, his heady scent all-consuming. Clean, comfortable, him. There are only a few inches of space between your bodies, and the tips of your fingers tingle with a need to run them over the solid plane of his chest. To drag them through his unkempt waves.

His presence is imposing — commanding the room, even when it’s just you inside it. Looking down at you, chin angled, he curls his fingers into the plush of your cheeks. It makes the electricity crackling between the two of you that much more real, the doubt you had earlier melting away beneath his touch.

“Baby,” he growls darkly, leaning in to trace the shell of your ear with his nose, “thought about you all fuckin’ weekend.” His free hand snakes around your waist, dropping to squeeze the flesh of your ass through your shorts. “Looked at that picture ‘f you full ‘f my cum so many times.”

Your eyes widen, pupils dilating at the thought of him jerking off to the thought of you, just like you had him. It’s an almost jealous feeling that rolls through you — how unfair that he got to have a visual reminder of it, when all you had was your thoughts.

But it emboldens you.

“Joel,” you pout, speech lilted by his fingers pressing into your flesh, “don’t want you to leave.” You’re not used to being so forward, but you’re also not used to spending entire weekends giving yourself orgasm after orgasm from memories alone.

He gently pulls his hand away from your mouth, the sting of his grip still firm across your face. He doesn’t let go completely, and dragging your bottom lip with his thumb, he juts his own out in mock sympathy. The speed of your heart picks up.

“I’m the boss, remember, princess? Got shit to do.”

Your cheeks burn, eyes narrowing. A reminder that he can be such a fucking dick.

Catching your expression, he laughs again, before dropping his head to kiss up the length of your neck.

“My poor baby. Has to actually get work done today.” It’s a whisper against the hollow of your throat, sending chills rippling through you.

You’re not that naive, despite the way he has you under his spell.

“Fuck off, Joel.” You push your hand against his solid chest, but he doesn’t budge. Instead, he catches your wrist in the smooth palm of his hand, pulling you to meet his mouth. The arm that’s still wrapped around your waist drags you further into his body, and you have to stand on your tiptoes to match the intensity of him crashing his lips to yours.

He doesn’t wait for permission before rolling his tongue against yours, taking everything you have to offer. Tracing up the lines of your neck with the rough pads of his fingers, he wraps the thick length of them just below your ear, tipping your head back with his thumb to open you up for him. As he deepens the kiss, you can taste the robust richness of his morning coffee. You briefly consider what it would be like to be the one to make it for him every day.

It’s easy to lose yourself in him, the hypnotic rhythm of his mouth against yours, so it catches you off guard when he pulls back delicately, large hand still cradling your jaw.

“Really have to go, baby,” he says in a murmur against your mouth.

You whimper against him, but acquiesce by untangling yourself from his grip. The ice in your latte has long melted, and you move to chuck it in the trash next to the desk.

Before you can, Joel shoots one arm out across your chest, nuzzling into you to run his nose along the line of your jaw, up to the curve of your ear.

“Still have the panties I ripped off you,” he purrs. “Filled those with my cum, too.”

The rest of the week is much of the same, except you can’t actually get Joel’s hands on you at all. Even in passing.

He’s in and out of the office, finding and filing paperwork, taking and making phone calls, dropping crumpled receipts into your waiting hands. Business as usual.

Seemingly just as frustrated by it as you are, the most you get is a quick nip to the slope of your shoulder as he argues with a supplier.

“Asshole,” he mouths, pointing to his cell phone with his other hand.

You would be a little less tightly wound if it was just Joel, but it almost never is. There’s a steady stream of his guys dawdling around the office at almost all times, your brother being there most consistently. As if he possesses a sixth sense to crowd you out of any chance at revisiting the best dick you’ve ever had.

On Wednesday, he’s picking his fingernails in the chair across the desk, while you work through a spreadsheet of the past month’s expenditures. Mumbling to yourself, eyes focused on the totals, half-listening to him complain about how expensive a wedding is.

“Adam,” you interrupt, breaking your gaze away from the laptop screen. “Obviously weddings are fucking expensive. If you were gonna bitch about it nonstop, why did you even get engaged?”

A beat of silence.

“Damn, what’s your problem?” he sneers after a moment, brows knitted together in what you can assume is annoyance.

I need to be dicked down by our fucking boss, you think, but roll your eyes at him, instead.

“I’m busy.”

Adam snorts.

“Molly would be pissed to hear you talking about your wedding like that, anyway. I’m just doing her a favor.” The end of your sentence tapers off quietly, as you switch your stare back to the screen.

You are partial to Adam’s fiancée, if not for her bubbly personality, for letting you crash with them between semesters every summer.

“I see where your loyalty lies,” he scoffs, raising himself out of the chair. “Thought we were family.”

“Yeah, Adam, me not letting you talk shit about your upcoming wedding is disloyal,” you respond with a single, hollow laugh, distractedly typing a figure into a blinking cell.

He chuckles, running the toe of his boot along the worn carpet.

“Guys’re goin’ out Friday. I can tell Molly that you two can have a girls night. Drink wine and shit. Since that’s who's back you have.”

Keeping your eyes fixed to the screen, you’re desperate to play it casual, despite the intense prickle of your skin. Will Joel be there?

“Or I could come bug the shit out of you, since you love to do that while I’m trying to work.”

“You’re always invited, princess,” he drawls.“‘M sure the guys would love to see you.”

Every part of your body shudders. Typical Adam, upping the ante of disgusting. You choose to ignore it.

“Your boss usually go to these things?” you ask instead, words measured. You don’t dare glance over at your brother, fearing he’d read the intent all over your face.

But he shrugs, unfazed. “Sometimes. Depends, I guess.”

“On what?” This time you do look at him, but his eyes are fixed on his phone screen, thumb scrolling lazily.

He mumbles something that you don’t catch, obviously distracted by what he’s seeing. Useless.

Knowing he’s moved on from the conversation, you sigh with a certain air of disappointment. You could go, you know, on the off-chance that Joel does show up, but the idea of being there alone with your brother and his work friends makes you wrinkle your nose.

Adam turns to leave, throwing a quick see ya over his shoulder as he pulls the door open.

“Hey! Let me know about Friday!” you call after him, raising yourself up on your arms, a half-assed attempt to make sure he hears you.

He’s already on the other side, door whipping shut behind him.

Aggravated, you sink back into the desk chair, raising your fists to settle your chin on them. You feel like a petulant child, continuously denied the thing you want so bad.

There’s a whole part of you that wants to kick and scream until you get it, until Joel is soothing your angry tears with his mouth pressed to your flesh, smoothing out the knots in your limbs, reaching into the most tender recesses of you to undo you.

Ruined, you think, as you draw your knees together tightly in an attempt to relieve the throb of your cunt.

It’s Friday when you’re eating lunch (the saddest salad you’ve ever seen and the dredges of your iced coffee at the desk) when he texts you.

> J Miller: going w your bro tonite?

Your stomach flips. The restlessness that you’ve been feeling all week suddenly dials up to a 10 — an elastic compulsion that weaves itself into your lungs, your breath catching in your chest.

It’s the first time he’s texted you for non-work related things, which, much to your annoyance, should have been immediately after he made you see stars with his cock.

Either way, you’ve never texted anyone back faster.

> Me: are you?

Logic tells you to play coy, to make him wait, but it’s been an entire week since the cosmic shift of the most intense orgasm you’ve ever had, and you’re going out of your mind trying to get another one. There’s no use in pretending.

>J Miller: i am if you will b

Dragging your bottom lip between your teeth, you suppress a grin.

It’s starting to look like you’re not the only one who’s ruined.

The bouncer eyes you up and down, and you’re half-tempted to lean over just a little to showcase your cleavage. The stretchy black dress you’re wearing barely covers your ass, but leaves just enough to the imagination.

You have a feeling that Joel will want to tear it off you, too.

“You alone?” the bouncer asks, gaze flicking between your ID and you.

“My friends are inside,” you coo. “Just gotta meet them.”

He grunts, nodding his head and handing you back the flimsy piece of plastic.

“Gimme a shout if anyone gives you a hard time.”

Flashing the biggest smile you can, you shimmy past him, into the dark bar. Inside, the smell of stale beer and spilled liquor meets you, and you scan the bustling space for anyone you know. The first person you spot is your brother, who waves you over, a pint of dark beer in his hand.

You feel sexy, but overdressed. An upscale cocktail bar The Hideout is not.

As you make your way over to the table, you notice a few recognizable faces from work crowded around, a majority of them sweeping their eyes over your form.

“Hey, Princess. Lookin’ good tonight,” jeers a guy you’ve seen around the site. Kevin? Maybe? Or Alex?

You raise your brows at him, lips pursed. You’ve always hated the nickname, but it feels distinctly wrong now, like it belongs to Joel. You’d like to tell him as much, shove it back in his mouth until he chokes.

But Kevin-or-Alex brings his beer to his lips, eyes still roving over you, corners of his mouth upturned in a sneer.

Moving along, brushing it off, you tip your head to the side, begging your brother for a drink with your eyes.

You don’t need to look around the table to know that Joel is at the end of it, because you can feel his stare burning into you. It takes everything in you to not climb over the guys seated next to him so you can settle in his lap, to grind your hips down into his, but the thought certainly crosses your mind. Knowing you can’t meet his eyes without giving yourself away, you take in the bar around you, gaze bouncing from table to table.

Adam tugs you back from the precipice of your reverie by knocking the table with his knuckles and standing from his chair.

“Gotta get the princess a drink,” he explains to his companions, much to the delight of them all gathered around the table. They laugh uproariously, like he’s just told the best joke of the century. Idiots.

Your brother steers you towards the bar with a hand on the small of your back, and you’re careful to sway your hips just enough as you walk away from the cluster of tables, knowing that Joel is watching. Adam sets his arms across the bartop, and you mirror him, trepidation bubbling in your stomach.

“You good?” he asks over the jukebox, currently blaring a Van Halen song.

“Mmhmm,” you reply, gazing at the bottles of liquor behind the bar.

“You never come out with us,” Adam continues, raising a hand to flag down the bartender. “Kinda weird.”

You shrug, cheeks heating at his questioning. “Dunno. Felt like…I should get to know the guys better.”

He angles his body to you, running his palm over his mouth. There’s a playful look in his eyes, one that you know means he sees right the fuck through you. “Ookay, weirdo. The same guys whose necks you want to wring for calling you ‘princess’ on a daily basis?”

“You call me that, too, asshole.”

He laughs loudly, turning away as the bartender finally makes his way down the bar to the pair of you.

“Vodka water, and a Rumple Minze shot,” you tell him, as he leans in to hear your order over the music.

A quick nod, a swift maneuvering of bottles, and your drinks are pushed in front of you.

“Thank god,” you mumble, picking the cocktail up and sipping it immediately.

“You’re, uh…attracting quite a bit of attention,” Adam says in a low voice, gesturing subtly back to the table of your coworkers.

“Wow, you fuckin’ think?” you roll your eyes, throwing the shot of schnapps back. There’s only one pair of eyes you want on you, and they’re connected to the dick you need in you.

“I’ve never seen you this…” Adam leans into you, bumping your shoulder, “cranky before. Why’d you come out if you’re in a bad mood?”

You soften, meeting his eyes. “I’m sorry. I’ve just been…a little too in my own head lately.”

The understatement of the century, considering that’s where Joel has made a home.

Adam doesn’t respond, just signals to the bartender, ordering you another shot with a flick of his head in your direction.

The shots go down too easy, your skin flushing with the alcohol and body heat of the bar. You stick close to Adam’s side, and it feels like hours before you allow yourself to glance over at Joel.

Your brother is arguing with someone else about the structure of something you don’t care about when you finally work up the courage to do so, anxiously chewing bites into the plastic straw in your drink.

Joel is staring right back at you, same dangerous smirk pulled across his mouth. Watching the way your lips mold around the plastic, teeth scraping the flexible material. You know that smirk all too well, and want blossoms through your body.

The guy next to him is obliviously chatting his ear off, entirely unaware that Joel can’t take his eyes off of you. But he doesn’t make any kind of move to get up, or any kind of indication that he wants you to come over, so you stay rooted to the spot, entirely unsure how to proceed.

Some kind of frustration churns in your stomach, though you allow yourself to shoot him a coy smile over the rim of your glass. He returns the gesture by dipping his chin just slightly and raising his own drink to his mouth.

Whiskey, neat. The thought of tasting it on his tongue makes your cunt clench with need, and you have to look away to keep your composure.

He doesn’t even need to try, and you melt in the palm of his hand. Fuck.

You finish the rest of your drink in one go to try to settle your nerves, and nudge Adam with your elbow to let him know you’re headed back to the bar. He barely acknowledges you, still enthralled with his conversation.

As you slide up to the bartop, you bump shoulders with the person already waiting for another beer.

“Oh! Oops. My bad. Didn’t really…calculate my proximity, I guess.” You giggle as he turns to you, meeting your gaze with a shy smile.

He’s cute, in a fresh-faced and innocent kind of way. Golden brown hair and light eyes, about your age. His navy blue polo hangs a little too loose on his gangly frame, and it’s too easy to imagine him dressed as a mormon missionary to take him seriously.

“No worries. This place is pretty crowded,” he answers, angling his chin down to make sure you hear him.

The way he draws himself close gives you the wickedest of ideas. One that will surely make Joel get out of his seat and pay you the attention you so desperately deserve.

“It’s definitely the place to be, huh?” You purr, flicking your eyes up under your lashes to meet his, gently placing your hand on his forearm.

There’s an immediate dusting of crimson over his cheekbones, and you see him swallow hard.

“Y-yeah, it…it sure is.” There’s the slightest of drawls to his words, like syrup poured over pancakes on a sunday morning. It’s nothing compared to the thunder of Joel’s baritone, the sensual velvet of a saturday night shot of whiskey.

But you keep going, acutely aware of Joel’s eyes burning into your back. Tracing the curves and lines of you, watching every move you make. Watching you put your hands on someone else’s body, the hands that belong to him.

At least…that’s what you hope is going through his head.

The bartender slides your new friend’s beer across the warped wood, looking pointedly at you for your order next.

“Vodka water,” you grin, not removing your hand from the freckled forearm, “with a lemon. Please.”

New friend clears his throat, growing redder by the second.

“On my tab, please.”

“Ohmygod, you don’t need to do that!” You sigh warmly, stupidly. As if you don’t know exactly what you’re doing.

The drink is placed in front of you in no time, but you still haven’t moved your hand. Instead, you look up at your companion, lashes fluttering.

“You from here?” he manages to choke out, before washing the cliche down with a swig of his beer.

You nod, finally breaking contact to pick up the tumbler of vodka. “Born and raised. You?”

“Here for school. ‘M from Baton Rouge.”

Turning your body to face the open room of the bar, eyes flitting over the crowded space, you lean back on your elbows, drink in hand poised just below the swell of your breasts. There’s no way Joel can miss you, now.

“What’re you studying?” You couldn’t be less interested, but you keep your voice chipper and high, drawing him closer.

“PoliSci. I’m pre-law.” He says it with an air of confidence, which you can’t blame him for. It is impressive.

You take a long sip of your drink, considering how much you want to divulge about yourself to this stranger. How far you’re willing to take this game. You sneak a glance over at Joel, who’s watching you with an amused expression, brows lifted.

“Are you in school?” New friend continues, unaware of the come-fuck-me vibes you’re radiating from across the bar.

But Joel remains planted in his seat, thick thighs spread, left arm draped between them. Leaning back in the booth, matching your energy. Playing the game.

Snapping your attention back to the question, you nod again. “Not here, though. I’m in a masters program in Washington.”

“Do you like it there?”

You throw your head back in laughter, all too aware how ridiculous of a response it is to the question.

“I love it,” you say emphatically, still giggling. “So different from Austin.”

When you look at Joel again, he’s turned his attention to the guy next to him, nodding at whatever he’s saying intently. It stokes the frustration in you, and you can’t help but draw your face into a scowl — an entire 180 from how you’d just been laughing at a non-joke.

Before your new friend can respond to your maniacal answer, you push yourself off the bartop and turn towards him.

“I’m gonna run to the bathroom really quick, okay?”

As you wash your hands, the door to the bathroom opens quickly, and Joel ducks inside, throwing a quick glance over his shoulder to make sure no one sees. He pushes it closed behind him, fingers clicking the lock shut like he owns the place.

“Oh,” you gasp in surprise, stepping back from the sink and wiping your hands across the material of your dress. “I didn’t…you’re not…Joel!”

His name comes out of your mouth as a yelp as he crowds you back against the counter, his hands already roaming over the hills and valleys of your body. Wasting no time.

“Baby,” he coos, dipping his head to trail kisses up the curve of your shoulder, “been waitin’ all night for you to go to the fuckin’ bathroom.”

You curl your fingers into his biceps to keep yourself steady while he presses wet kisses to your throat and jaw, before landing at your mouth. Gripping your hips tightly, his thigh nudges between yours, spreading you open. You do what you can to meet his fervor, but as with everything else, he’s domineering — completely in control.

His thick hands drag you up his thigh, into him, and the friction of his jeans against you makes you bite back a moan. He repeats the action with more intensity, obviously dismayed that you’re holding back, quickly establishing a grueling rhythm.

Squirming under his hold, he tastes the desperation on your tongue, and when you finally break and whimper into his mouth, he growls back into yours.

He has you exactly where he wants you — writhing in his arms, soft and compliant to what he needs.

At least, he thinks he does.

You dig your fingernails into the flannel stretched over his arms, steeling your body to his movements, pulling away from the heat of his mouth.

“Joel,” it’s a drawn out lilt, one that he’ll never get tired of hearing.

“Saw you over there tryna make me jealous, princesa,” he mutters, chest heaving against your own. He drops his mouth to press against the burning skin of your collarbone, and you can feel the stretched restraint in his muscled body.

“Wasn’t trying to make you jealous, Joel,” you protest quietly, though you both know it’s the furthest thing from the truth.

He laughs darkly, his breath fanning against your flesh. “Saw you touchin’ all up on some stranger.”

“I was just being nice. He bought me a drink.” You’re pouting now, sliding your open palms to press against the solidity of Joel’s chest.

He whips your body around so quickly that you have to shoot your arms out to the counter to catch yourself. The mirror greets you, and it’s impossible to miss your glowing skin and kiss-swollen lips. It doesn’t take anything for him to make you look entirely fucked out.

Hooking his chin over your shoulder, front pressed flush to your back, he drags his hands up the sides of your body, stopping to rest just below your breasts. His fingers splay out across your rib cage, nearly meeting in the middle.

Eyes meeting yours in the mirror, he smirks.

“Look what I do to you, baby. No one else can do that. Look at yourself.”

He rolls his hips against the swell of your ass, and you can feel his length through his jeans.

Your vision goes cloudy, the want you’ve been feeling all week flooding every part of your brain. You drop your head between your shoulders, relishing the feel of him pressed into you. But he quickly cranes your chin back up in his hands, angling your head to watch the glistening reflection of the two of you.

“Eyes on me, baby,” he says thickly, commandingly, as he continues to move against you. You obey.

“Can’t make me jealous, princess.”

Anger flares in your chest, slowly ebbing into embarrassment. Of course he would see right through you. You should have known better. You don’t break eye contact.

“That picture I have ‘f you? That tells me you’re mine. Can’t make me jealous when I know what belongs t’me.”

You inhale sharply. Hearing him say it, hearing him mean it, sends shivers over the entirety of your body.

“Why’d it take you so long to come over to me, then?”

His eyes flash. “Don’t be a fuckin’ brat, baby.”

Dropping his clutch from your chin to the top of your dress, he uses both hands to scoop your tits out over the bodice of it, palming the weight of them roughly. He rolls your nipples in his fingers, and you have dejavú of the week before.

This time you can see the way his fingers move, the way he watches your face in the reflection of the mirror more than anything else.

You moan, arching your back against his chest, and he drops one hand further to bunch the length of your dress over your ass.

Feeling entirely bare skin, he hisses through his teeth and pulls back to look.

“No panties, baby?”

You smile darkly. “Didn’t want you to ruin another pair.”

“Fuuuuck,” he mumbles, leaning down to flick his tongue against the base of your spine. “Knew you were fuckin’ trouble.”

He rucks your dress up higher, following the hem of it with open mouth kisses and demanding nips. You can feel your dripping slick on the insides of your thighs, and as if he can read your mind, he lays one open palm across your back to press your cheek down into the counter, slotting the other between your thighs to open you up for him. Your breathing quickens, knowing how on display you are.

How under his thumb you are.

Teasing the rough pads of his fingers against your core, electricity rolls through your extremities. Between the flush of the alcohol and the thrill of his touch, you know you’re done for.

“See, baby? How wet y’are? Know it’s only for me.”

Anticipation coils in the pit of your belly, waiting for him to plunge a thick finger inside of you. You squeeze your eyes shut, laser focused on every nudge and slip of his digits.

Instead, you feel him replace his finger with the thick heft of his cock at your entrance, your hands unsuccessfully scrambling for purchase on the slick marble of the counter.

“Joel,” you yelp, the delicious stretch of it seared into your mind, “I..I don’t kn-”

“You can take it, princess,” he interrupts gruffly. “You can.”

You respond with a strangled noise, knees buckling under the warning press of his palm on your back.

Reading the apprehension in your body, Joel grazes the fingers of his other hand over the curve of your hip, rubbing reassuring circles into your flesh. They dance up over your belly, finally grasping at your ribs. His mouth follows, gentle kitten licks that calm your breathing, until he stops right below where your breasts are compressed against the counter, sinking his teeth there into the soft give of you.

Both of his hands float back down to your hips, pressing their length into your bones roughly, dragging your ass back to push the tip inside of your slick folds.

Your eyes fly open, and you mewl as his teeth give way to an intense sucking sensation, as if he’s intent on marking you.

Knowing him, he is.

“Okay, baby?” he murmurs against your skin, once he’s satisfied with what you can feel is an angry red mark on your rib cage, sliding his hips forward to give you another inch, working you open, open, open.

“‘F we had more time, you know I’d do it right,” he continues, an almost tender cadence to his harsh whisper.

You nod, cheek still smooshed against the countertop, tears pricking at the backs of your eyes. He’s so fucking much.

His breath hitches as he buries himself further, the tight quiver of your perfect pussy making him see stars. He stills for just a moment, letting you adjust to him, lamenting the fact that he couldn’t get his fingers or tongue in you this time. But he’s so very desperate, has been waiting for this for far too long.

He wants to take you home with him, wrap you in his bedsheets. Undo you over and over and over.

For now, though, he will make do with what he has. And what he has is you, wet and needy beneath him, taking his cock like a good girl. Like a perfect girl.

“Joel,” you whisper, snapping him out of his reverie. “More. More please.”

You’re dizzy with need, aching to feel him stretch you open entirely.

He can taste the salt of sweat on your skin, the light sheen of it glittering under the fluorescent bar lights. It makes his heart ache with something he can’t name.

Rolling his head to press his forehead against your back, he can’t help but breathe you in. This is where he wants to be forever — pressed into you, feeling you tremble and keen for him. For him, and only him.

Unable to hold back any longer, he draws his body up, sliding inside to the hilt, pelvis pressed flush to your ass.

There are tears trickling from beneath your closed eyelids now, and he wants to lick them off your face, smooth out the pain in your features. Your body is taut, wound around the throbbing need you’re both feeling, your hands clenched into fists next to your head.

But he watches as you slowly drag your bottom lip between your teeth, sighing contently, savoring the sparks of pain from the size of him. Fucking perfect.

His entire cock has disappeared into your warmth, and you squeeze him like you were made to do so.

“So fuckin’ tight,” he manages to spit out, setting a pace that feels like you’re being split open. It’s exactly what you need.

You rock your hips, pushing back against his thrusts, thigh muscles screaming.

“So full,” you babble back, his hips snapping against the plush of your ass. Giving you everything you need, everything you’ve craved. His tip nudges the furthest part of you, and fireworks explode in your stomach. Your moans pick up at the same pace as his thrusts, and his grip tightens around your hips.

“C’mere baby,” he hums, arcing his arm across your chest to drag you up to him. You can feel the desperation in his movements, the stuttering of his hips as the new angle squeezes his cock deliciously.

He curls his fingers around the base of your throat, and for the first time, you see how absolutely fucked he looks. Black pupils blown wide with lust, strong jaw set to the side, hair mussed more than usual, stray curls clinging to his sweat-damp forehead. He’s beautiful, you think, but your brain can’t connect to your mouth to say so.

His palm spans the width of your throat, and he gently tightens his hold with each deep thrust into you. You raise your arms to card through his hair, clutching to him to ground yourself. His other hand grasps at your tits, caressing and pulling at your hard nipples.

Your legs are shaking with the intensity of it all, with the salacious way he massages your walls with the length of his cock. He’s watching you in the mirror, eyes fixed on the way you tremble around him, the way you grip him like you’ll melt into a puddle on the floor if you let go.

“So fuck…fuckin’ perfect for me, baby. Bein’ s-such a good…good girl,” he pants, and you bask in his praise, letting it fill you from the inside out.

The fingers he has wrapped around your throat inch up to your bitten, parted lips, and you open to accept three of them obediently, his pinkie and thumb clenched firmly around the lines of your jaw.

You wrap your tongue around the digits, saliva pooling in your mouth and dripping down your chin.

He’s so fucking much, and you want to give him everything.

“Say it, baby,” he growls, pressing the calloused pads of his fingers to the broad flat of your tongue. “Fuckin’ say it.”

You meet his fiery eyes in the mirror, brows knitted together in a question.

“Say it,” he repeats, the fingers not in your mouth digging into your jaw. Demanding it.

And like he’s impressing it upon your skin, burning it into your insides, you know what he wants to hear.

“‘M yours, Joel,” you whisper, words mangled by the way he pushes down on the wet muscle in your mouth. “Only yours.”

Dropping his other hand, he ghosts his fingertips over the slight bulge in your tummy, where his cock is nestled. The knowledge that you’re so full of him makes him quicken his rhythm, hips snapping against your ass ruthlessly. Giving you everything he has.

“Princess,” he whispers, nuzzling into your ear. “Gimme your hand.”

He traces up the soft lines of your arm, gently removing one of your hands from his curls, and pulls it down to feel the thick outline of his cock just beneath your belly. He keeps his hand over yours, and you press your own fingers into your flesh, in awe that you’ve taken the whole thing.

Every nerve in your body is a live wire, and you’re suddenly on the very precipice of your orgasm, his hand over yours being what pushes you over the edge.

Fingers still in your mouth, you drop your head back onto his shoulder, moaning around the shape of them, crying out, cunt strangling his already erratic movements as he races to catch up with you at the finish line.

It’s sloppy, saliva still dripping down your chin, your body cresting the wave of your orgasm, his stuttering movements fucking you all the way through it. You go limp as it washes through you, and he’s holding you up for the last few thrusts, growling into your ear and biting at your neck.

All-consuming.

Pulling his fingers from your mouth, he wraps both arms around you, holding you tightly against him, knowing that you really will melt if he lets you go. He can feel his own orgasm at the base of his spine, crawling up, up, up the column of it, until he’s there, spilling recklessly inside your swollen pussy, pushing himself further into you, making sure it stays.

He doesn’t need to tell you, because you already know.

The warmth of it shoots through his body, and it feels like heaven, buried to the hilt inside of you.

He runs his palms down your sides as you both come down, and even the slight touch makes you shiver. You prop yourself up on your arms again, the tips of your fingers numb from the earth-shattering orgasm.

A smile tugs at the corners of your mouth, satiated and soft.

Joel presses tender kisses across your shoulder blades, hands aimlessly drawing shapes into your plush hips, loathe to pull out of you.

But knowing he must, that his time with you is almost up, he does, drawing his hips back excruciatingly slowly, savoring every second of being inside of you, in whatever capacity. You hiss as he does, feeling so disappointingly empty and stretched open.

Gently caressing the globes of your ass, his palms fitting over them perfectly, he bends down to give you a final nip, laving his tongue over what he hopes will be a mark. You giggle warmly, hands meeting to pull the bodice of your dress back up over your tender breasts, while he pulls the length of it back down to your thighs.

Finally regaining the strength in your legs, you turn to face him, standing on the toes of your platforms to meet him in a kiss, him pulling your bottom lip between his own, sucking gently.

“Joel,” you mumble against him, his name an antidote to the poison of the longest week of your life.

“Baby,” he responds, encircling you with his arms, drawing you closer to him. Not wanting to let you go.

“We have to go” you whisper, pressing kisses across his jaw, his scruff pleasantly abrading your soft lips.

He grumbles an agreement, but doesn’t take his hands off of you.

“Keep my cum inside you,” is what he does say, after a millisecond of silence, as if it was burning his tongue. Like it needed to be said.

You giggle again, supplicant and sweet. Spun sugar on the tips of his fingers. Unwrapping yourself from his arms, you tug his boxers and jeans up, and his fingers fumble to help you. You let your hands wander up the plane of his chest while he clicks his belt into place, wondering how you’ll both fare this weekend.

“Can’t go that long again, princess,” he says, stroking the wild tangle of hair framing your face. “Need you.”

The admission nearly astonishes you. You’ve never seen Joel be so open, so vulnerable, so absolutely fucking wrecked.

“‘N…next time won’t be so…rushed. Wanna take my time with you.”

You believe him.

Hoping your action conveys that message, you press one final kiss to the heart-shaped space in his scruff, before turning to tame the locks of your hair and fix your smudged mascara in the mirror.

“You have my number, Joel.”

taglist: @jasminedragoon @loveisacowboyyy @scarletthefierce @thecasualnope

[poisonpercy]

Ok just finished the 3rd episode of the show. From a completely outside perspective without comparing it to the books, it’s a fine episode. The writing does fall flat imo, and it doesn’t keep my attention. It’s also still very hard to see what’s happening when it’s supposed to be dark. When will Hollywood let dark scenes be visible again?

Ok, now for more specific thoughts:

The scene with the Oracle sucked in my opinion. Idk it just seemed so much more grander in the book. The scene in the show lacked the mystic and off putting nature of the Oracle, so it kinda just didn’t work for me. I did like that they remembered that Gabe was the voice of the Oracle in tlt, so that was nice

How Percy chooses his quest mates in the show is different in the show than in the books. This isn’t a bad thing, but I do miss Annabeth volunteering herself to be Percy’s 3rd quest mate like she does in the books. Idk I just think it really showed her eagerness to prove herself and get a quest. The show scene doesn’t do that, but I’m not mad at the change

The interaction between Grover and Percy when Percy tells Grover he was chosen to go on the quest was so cute. I love those 2 boys. Besties for life

Percy telling Luke that he thinks the drachmas are from Chuck E. Cheese was hilarious

With Luke in mind, I love how manipulative he is. Like he is so nice, but it’s because he has ulterior motives. I do like that his manipulation is not overt, so you don’t know that he’s the one that ultimately betrays Percy

I personally didn’t find the “she met a pine cone’s fate” line that Percy said funny. It honestly came off kind of rude. It’s definitely something that Percy would say in ttc when Thalia and him are beefing, but not when he finds out about her death. Percy is supposed to be kind and empathetic, and he shows so much sympathy for Thalia and her fate when he hears her story in the book. Idk just felt like that line was ooc during this moment in time

Grover’s song was so cute and funny, it had me cracking up fr

Percy trying to get all of them to vote throughout the episode is hilarious. My boy just wants to have a say in things

Annabeth grabbing all that candy was perfect. It really shows she’s just a 12 year old girl that didn’t get to experience the joys of childhood (also, I feel like overall that the show is forgetting that Annabeth is not a stoic character. Like she very much acts her age. I hope the writers let Annabeth have more personality in later episodes)

I miss the book fight sequence with the furies on the bus. It was so chaotic and there was so much tension. Percy steering the bus and crashing it and the bus exploding was perfect, and I’m sad that they got rid of that in the show. The fight scene in the show was just so underwhelming. I feel like those should be the knock out moments of the episodes but they breeze past them so fast and give no tension. It just falls flat (curse you Mickey Mouse!! I know it’s your fault!)

I do appreciate that Grover keeps trying to diffuse the fights between Annabeth and Percy. They are both his friends, and he can see why they keep butting heads. If only the 2 would listen to him

I do miss how the trio finds Auntie Em’s in the book. Like Annabeth and Percy were dumbass 1 and 2 that followed their stomachs while Grover freaked the fuck out. That was so fun. The show had Grover find and follow the smell instead which is fine, but the og scene was better imo

That being said, they guessed that it was Medusa way too quickly in the show. I like the mystery of Auntie Em’s identity in the book better tbh

“I definitely trust my mom” <- Percy exceeds the momma’s boy standards

I don’t mind the change to Medusa’s character. I actually really enjoyed her (the actresses voice is so gorgeous and calming). I like how she’s like “we’re not our parents until we choose to be them.” It really sets up the ultimate direction of the series imo

Regarding the fight scene with Medusa, it sucked. To begin with, you can hardly see what’s happening bc it’s so dark. Also there was no tension or chaos. It kind of just happened? I also didn’t like that Medusa was killed when Annabeth’s cap was on her. I know it’s because Disney probably thought the death would have been too graphic or whatever, but I would have liked to see what happened

It was cool that Percy used Medusa’s head to kill Alecto

I felt so many emotions when Grover said “He’s not like the others. He doesn’t look afraid” about his Uncle Ferdinand

The beginnings of Percy’s and Annabeth’s friendship is so good. Annabeth not taking the deal with Alecto to give Percy over and killing her sister. Percy not taking Medusa’s offer to get rid of Annabeth and Grover so he can save his mother. It’s perfect. They’re going to become each other’s chosen person and they don’t even know it yet

LMM as Hermes jump scare. Still not a fan of the Hermes casting

Anyways, overall the show just isn’t working for me. I do appreciate Walker, Leah, and Aryan because they are perfect. They are honestly doing such a great job! The writers, however, are not. I’m trying so hard to think of this show as its own entity so I can enjoy it more, but I haven’t been able to so far. Despite that, I am excited to see where the show ends up going (even if I end up not liking it)

[444you]

ways i maintain a cozy life 🦋

i hope you guys can find something in this post that could be helpful(:

heating blankets

provides me so much comfort & warmth. i have it on the entire day 😭 either on low or high, no inbetween

music

i personalized made my own playlist, i put the most whimsical and feminine music i could find. i recommend to listening to comforting songs as well, but not the ones that make you feel a bit sad

baking

always at my happiest when i bake

comfort shows

the shows i tend to watch are pretty little liars, girlfriends, desperate housewives, gossip girl, the vampire diaries, bad girls club, sex and the city

however sometimes the drama can get to me, if it’s too much. i forget i’m not in the show sometimes. for those moments, i’ll put shows like h2o, the summer i turned pretty, barbie life in the dreamhouse, and new girl on.

showers before sleep

i feel so relaxed in water. this includes swimming, showers, beach, pools, and etc. it provides me a great amount of comfort and sleepiness. this helps me sleep better than usual

taco bell

isn’t always the healthiest but if i need some comfort or i’m just feel down, i’ll get a cravings box from taco bell

visuals

put things in ur room that make you feel at peace especially if you’re a homebody. this is important if you spend most of your time in your room. for me, i always loved baking as i previously mentioned. so i’d get a diffuser with gourmet scents. fairy lights as well. cheetah print blankets.

rain

whenever it rains i’ll sit on the patio, put my headphones on and listen to music to recharge.

nostalgia apps

i tend to lead to games or apps that give me nostalgia. this includes wattpad, tumblr, moviestarplanet, purple place (they got in the app store 🫶🏾) , roblox, or episode. 

public places

when it comes to going to the grocery store, mall, or coffee shop. i’ll go alone especially because i spend my time in my room. when the noise is too much, i’ll put my shows or music on. however, i try to go on a movie date with my friend atleast once or twice a month.

reminders

i’m a very optimistic person but i’m also very sensitive. when i encounter negative people or situations, i tend to get discouraged easily. i solve that by watching “hopecore” or “humans are cute” videos on tiktok. i always try not to feed into my sadness by looking at videos about being mistreated or an ex. i search for videos that talk about having a big heart is a gift. how the right one will come to me. honestly for any situation you’re in.

just dance

y’all don’t come for me. just dance is my holy grail. it’s fun and its my way of doing “cardio”

naps

i try to nap after work or classes before i tend to get low energy. i don’t nap more than 2 hours, that way i feel more refreshed instead of drained.

[koolades-world]

this is most definitely a side blog post but I need to tell other people my cool new funfact!

when protons are diffusing down their concentration gradient through ATP synthase, it spins!!!! the synthase spins!! like a merry go round!!!! I can’t believe inside all of us the guy that makes our energy is spinning while doing it! it makes me so happy to know this isn’t this so cool???? I want to be an atp synthase now

been hard at work studying for my test tomorrow and I came across that gem of a fact. expect a post tomorrow :) either Satan’s bday post or a fun little drabble I’ve been working on!

[genshin-scenarios]

a song for one audience—☆

Summary: 5wirl idol AU headcanons! Reader’s role isn’t specified.

Characters: Venti, Xiao, Kazuha, Heizou, Aether

The first time you heard Venti singing in the recording studio, you had a feeling you were doomed to have a weakness for him from the start. With a voice like that, constantly teasing and asking for your praise, it takes everything to not look him in the eyes and lose your willpower. He knows he’s cute and will use it to his advantage, asking you to accompany him on coffee runs or other menial tasks.

When Venti goes in front of the camera or onto stage however, all his playful energy shifts into something else. With the graceful lilt of his voice and sparkling gaze, Venti knows how to captivate an audience like nothing else.

Once, you were running late and were supposed to bring 5wirl their items for a fan meeting. During your panic, you’d texted Venti to tell him about the situation, only to arrive and see that he’d managed to improvise and surprise the audience with a short live QnA to stall for you.

It’s at times like these when you’re reminded of why 5wirl nominated him as their leader. As if it was no big deal, Venti only sends you a wink as you enter the vicinity, subtly telling you that everything was fine.

After that however, he did tell you he’d like some compensation of some sort. Before he’d been scouted as an idol, Venti was an independent music artist - and still likes to make songs on the side and asks you to listen to them. Thus… he had you write him a love song's lyrics. It's all fun and games until you realize that after your part, he'd written his own reply.

At your first meeting, you bumped into Xiao when you were entering a practice room. This happened quite literally; you had a bunch of items in your arms and the both of you stepped forward at the same time, leading to a dramatic collison. 

Was it embarrassing? Yes. But at least no one got hurt and you shared said embarrassment with Xiao, who helped you retrieve everything and apologized for the accident.

…You probably would’ve been more indignant about the whole thing if you weren’t struck by how pretty he was. For a moment, you almost debated asking for his number or if he worked here, when one of his group members came in and diffused the situation.

The next time you had a moment was at a cafe you often frequented for lunch. Xiao was dressed discreetly, but you’d recognise those eyes anywhere - suffice to say you managed to catch him on your way out, and found out that Xiao had a penchant for sweets.

The first time you saw him (and the rest of 5wirl) dressed in concert attire for rehearsal, just… Wow. Um, the costume designer really knew which aspects of the members to bring out. You tried your best not to stare, but that only resulted in not making eye contact with Xiao for the entire day until he’d finally cornered you to ask what was wrong 

(Little did you know, he was worried you were mad at him or something similar. Performing while distracted really does show in Xiao, who often wields a sort of intensity that has fans unable to tear their eyes away.)

You felt immensely deceived the first time you met Kazuha. He didn’t do so on purpose, you’re sure - but how could you live down treating him like a random staff member, and having him give you a tour of the entire building on your first day?!

You ended up asking for his number, thinking you could set up a lunch date with this ‘cute co-worker’ of yours. 

A cute co-worker who was dressed in comfy clothing and had a calming voice - who’d asked you if you were adjusting well to the city, and told you about his hometown to break the ice.

God, you thought you had a chance with Kazuha until you showed up for your first day of work with the newly-formed 5wirl, only to see him in the lineup - perfect smile directed at you. 

His eyes light up, pleasantly surprised you’d be working together. In that moment you could practically feel the floor between you break apart and shift miles away. An idol of all people was definitely out of your league!

Despite all this, Kazuha was never the type to discriminate between job titles or popularity. He continued to be a kind, caring friend towards you.

And the moments that make you question if he’s pushing for something more? Well… Kazuha has always been the poetic type, inviting you to watch the sakura blossoms, take a stroll at the park - making you instant noodles when you were both trapped in the office from a thunderstorm… Just don’t be surprised if he proposes something more official next time. (Have you ever gotten fan-mail before? He hopes he’ll have the chance to be your first.)

Heizou is who you’d call the problem solver of the group. He also takes care of the others by observing them and nudging things in the right direction, if someone were to be in a bad or nervous mood.

This extends to you, once Heizou has accepted you into his unofficial list of important people in his life. Once, you asked him how he’s so good at predicting the outcomes of things or analyzing sticky situations, only for Heizou to see this as a chance to invite you out for a date.

…Well, he disguises it as more of a challenge: if you can figure out his methods based on his behavior during the date, he’ll also reveal the secret to how he guesses mysteries correctly every time you showed him a book or movie plot. 

In reality, it was just a way for Heizou to show you around his favorite parts of the city and reveal a bit of what he’s like away from idol work. His hobbies, favorite foods, and little actions to make sure you’re having fun during the day - these don’t go unnoticed by you, and when you list them off Heizou can feel his ears blushing, only for you to conclude that he’s just a thoughtful person by nature, and there wasn’t anything you could do to replicate his level of empathy like some robot.

Well, he did quite enjoy being in the center of your attention - but when you put it like that with such a soft smile on your face, Heizou feels like his heart’s been seized by a thief.

Often doted on by his fans, Aether is pretty much an angel on earth as far as you could tell. He’s nice, friendly, and always willing to lend you a hand (or a listening ear, if your job was stressing you out).

When he’s suddenly tasked by his also-an-idol sister to finally take you somewhere outside of work however, Aether is understandably at a loss of what to do. Lumine doesn’t budge, shoving him out of the house with a mission to shop for her if he needs an excuse. “Just say I’ve been feeling down and you wanted to get me stuff, or congratulate me on my next performance - then secretly buy stuff for them!”

At the back of his mind, Aether does have to wonder how long Lumine has been silently hoping he’d make a move. It’s not that he doesn’t want to, but you’re always so busy - he didn’t want to add to your stress!

That, and the last time dating was brought up in conversation, you’d smoothly said you weren’t interested in it (little did he know, he was literally the only person that believed that - everyone else giving you a side eye and glanced at Aether, who you obviously had a soft spot for.)

You agreed to help him with his tasks, giving Aether the opportunity to learn more about what gifts you liked and other details that would only come up in long, casual conversations. During that afternoon he learns that you look dazzling under the sunlight, and that he’s definitely in love with your laugh.

[googleitlol]

This is leading up to some of my favourite stuff, we're getting closer to when dove and wukong can stop antagonizing each other so much but first they gotta go through a little more, uh… 'growing pains'.

Anyway have fun with this bit!

Dove Masterlist:

A Friend

“What did you do?” You frown at the three disciples looking to one another as though they didn’t have the answer themselves. “We’ve barely been here half a day!”

Bajie scratches the back of his head sheepishly while a worried smile stretches over his features. “Heh, I may have overheard our two hosts discussing how Master rejected their ginseng fruit. I was only curious, and Monkey was the one who took them.”

“You what?!” You look back at the trio in shock. You’ve heard of ginseng, a powerful fruit that can extend your life hundreds of years by smelling its aroma alone. Eating it can enable a person to live until their forty-seven thousandth year! The fruit itself can often appear to have limbs, it's what Tripitaka must have mistaken for a baby. You’ve heard how it takes nearly ten thousand years for a ginseng tree to bear its fruit, and these fools stole them?!

Wukong slaps Bajie on the arm. “Why would you tell her?!”

“We’re all at fault,” Sandy steps in, “we all ate the fruit.”

“Yeah, but Monkey had an extra one.” Pigsy tattles, his brother in question giving him a look of offence. Wukong raises his hands in defence, stepping closer to the pig. “I told you, the first one dropped!”

“And it doesn’t excuse the fact that we all ate one.” Wujing rests a hand on each of their shoulders, a subtle attempt to diffuse the situation.

“Stop it, all of you!” You shout over their bickering. Once they finally manage to quiet down, you continue. “What’s done is done, now you have to fix it before Tripitaka pays for it.”

The trio responds with groans and rebuttals, but eventually you manage to drag them back to the main hall where their master waits, accompanied by your two hosts. You can hear the two shouting at the monk before they even enter your line of sight, Monkey King bristling with bubbling annoyance as you all draw closer.  Their faces are pulled down by frowns, their anger present in the twitch of one’s brow.

The Tang Monk himself appears tired, an understandable feeling given the situation. “These two have informed me that some of their ginseng have gone missing.”

“It isn’t missing!” One shouts, pointing an accusatory finger at Tripitaka. “It was stolen, we know it! I’ve never seen a monk with such a lack of control over his disciples.”

“Master Zhenyuan tried to tell us how rowdy and disruptive your demonic disciples really are. I should have taken those warnings more seriously.” The other chimes in with a huff.

The bout of passion makes Monkey laugh. “Am I to believe you assume we did it?” The question makes you frown inwardly, the growing irritation staying buried for the sake of appearances. Is he really about to try and play this off like they’re innocent?

“Master Zhenyuan took with him everyone but us to his conference. You are the only ones present to steal it, so it must be you!” The second disciple replies, his frown deepening despite Wukong’s laughter.

The Monkey King shakes his head with a chuckle. “And why would we do that? How would we even know of this ‘ginseng’? You never told us of its existence.”

The first disciple huffs. “We offered it to your master, but he declined it.” “Ah, so you gave it to us.” “No, we ate it.”

“So you ate the ginseng, problem solved!”

“We didn’t eat the stolen fruit, we had what your master was offered!”

“Then the fruit wasn’t stolen?”

“No– I mean, yes! It was stolen! You’re mixing my words.” “I would never think to trick you in such a way.” Wukong grins, and you do your best not to roll your eyes.

Finally, the first disciple sighs. “Fine, then. We will go and count the fruit again. If there are less than twenty-eight, we will know that you stole it.” With a nod to his brother daoist, they exit towards the gardens. Back to the tree to recount the same number of fruits. What on earth does this ape think he’s doing?

A small gust of wind blows past, and you turn to see the source: another Wukong with his arms crossed, his smile so smug, you might think he managed to somehow bring the ginseng back on his own. There is, of course, one way you can think to restore the fruit, though it’s a last resort you don’t want to use unless absolutely necessary. But those thoughts hardly matter when you and the monks are faced with a second Sun Wukong.

The group looks in befuddlement back at the newcomer Monkey King as he lets out a breath. “To think they would shout at you like that, Master. You really should be grateful that I’m here for you.”

“What?” Tripitaka frowns, looking between the two monkeys while your own face pales. Realisation hits as the monk questions his disciple. “What is going on? Why are there two of you?”

“I thought to let a clone take care of our disrespectful hosts while I took care of a few things.” He shrugs half-hazardly, the copy returning to its original state as he did, a small tuft of hair.

“You just convinced them to go back and recount the fruit.” The monkey stiffens as you speak, which only serves to make the growing knot in your stomach tighten. “Sun Wukong… where were you just now?” He makes eye contact with you, and for the first time on this journey you see the impossible sight of slight regret in his golden irises. Whatever he has done, it’s best to assume that now is the time to leave. You quickly turn back to Pigsy. “Go grab our luggage, I’ll help you. Wujing, retrieve Ao Lie and bring him to the front gates. Tripitaka, wait at the gates with Wukong and get ready to ride.”

Tripitaka calls out for you as you turn to leave with Bajie. “Wait, you want us to run? Do you not think that is a bit of an over-reaction–” As he finishes his inquiry, one of the two disciples lets out a scream so loud their voice is able to carry throughout the entire temple.

“I think this is a perfectly reasonable response.” You answer, catching Wukong’s gaze for a moment and glaring before running off with Pigsy to retrieve everyone’s luggage. With how little you all carry, it took little time to gather everyone’s things and meet the others outside.

Sandy already has Tripitaka on the horse, the group exiting the gates and racing down the mountain once you and Bajie arrive. Wujing takes what you’re carrying and you transform to keep up with the other demons and horse’s fast pace. Tripitaka looks back on occasion, watching carefully for any signs that your group was being pursued.

Even without any signs of chase, you and the pilgrims continue in your pace well-into the night. Only when you distance yourself from the mountain does the group of pilgrims slow to a stop. Ao Lie diverts from the path that leads away from the mountain, guiding the pilgrims to take cover along the edges of a forest. With the cover of the surrounding foliage and night, you transform back as everyone takes a moment to breathe. Of course, just when you get a break from the demons and dilemma-inducing rivers, something has to come along to keep everyone on their toes. To make matters worse, you ran from Zhenyuan’s temple! Perhaps he might’ve forgiven the disciples for eating his ginseng, but the look on Monkey’s face before you left was enough to dissuade that notion from your mind. You just hope his disciples that had been hosting you would be alright.

Despite the worries racing through your mind, they’re put to a halt when you hear Wukong’s laughter. “That was a close one, wasn’t it?”

Pigsy, while crouching with his hands on his knees to regain his breath, looks to the disciple in confusion. “Brother, what happened?” At the question, the demon lets out a nervous chuckle.

“I may have gotten a little angry. I mean, you saw how they were shouting at Master!” He scratches his head nervously.

Tripitaka dismounts from the horse, stepping closer to his disciple. “Pilgrim, what did you do?”

The monkey demon looks between his master and his brothers, then to you before turning back to Tripitaka. His weight shifts from one leg to the other. “I, uh, may have gone back to the ginseng tree. Andknockeditover.” He adds on the last part quickly, averting his gaze to the ground.

His swiftly-spoken words are caught easily, the Tang Monk’s eyes widening considerably while you digest the information. “You what?!” 

“At least we’re out of there, didn’t you hear what those idiots were saying to you?” He defends himself, though it barely registers to you. How could he have been so stupid? Can he never learn from his mistakes?! “I couldn’t just stand there and listen to how they were treating us. Nobody disrespects Old Monkey and gets away with–”

The demon is cut off as the palm of your hand meets his face.

The echo of the slap is met with silence and wide eyes, shock engraved in the faces of your companions that you don’t digest. All you can hone in on is the source of your anger, emotion you feel boiling to the surface. You clench your fist in an effort to contain it. “Do you ever think about anyone besides yourself?! All you had to do was apologise! Is your ego too inflated for even that?”

“How dare you–” He steps into your space, eyes narrowing but you stop him again.

“That fruit didn’t belong to those disciples, it belongs to their master! What might happen to them if he returns with nobody else to blame for your actions?” You push your finger into his chest, though it doesn’t push him back much. “One might think spending five hundred years under a mountain would change a person, but you’re still as selfish and narcissistic as you ever were!”

You can feel your hand shaking with anger, and quickly turn away with a scoff. “I shouldn’t even be wasting my breath on you.” Before he can have the chance to argue, you transform and fly off, rushing into the cool night air to give yourself a moment to breathe. You’re getting too worked up, and shouting won’t change anything. Sometimes it was just difficult to remember that with him around.

You don’t go too far, finding a nearby stream pretty quickly to rest beside. You turn back and begin to pace, finding that moving often helps calm you down. It's a struggle, your anger still bubbling beneath your skin. Words can only do so much to describe how you feel. After spending all this time with him, you’d think the Monkey King might have eventually become easier to be around. Maybe you’d be able to get along with him better after all this time, but no. You’ve had moments of sympathy, moments of understanding, but every time a step is made towards the two of you coexisting peacefully, he makes you take three steps back.

After some time, you kneel by the stream, dipping your hand into the cool water and letting it weave around your fingers. Stealing the fruit was one thing, but knocking down the tree? The ginseng itself takes thousands of years to grow, it’s why you never had the option to eat it yourself during your stay in the heavens. How long did it take for that tree to grow old enough to bear such fruit? Only for it to be knocked down by an impulsive ape.

Your thoughts are put on hold by footsteps and steady trots slowly approaching, and you turn to see Tripitaka steadily making his way to you with Ao Lie. You quickly rise to your feet to meet them, their appearance reminding you of how you very publicly slapped someone in front of your group. Yes… that may have also been a bit impulsive yourself.

“Are you alright?” Tripitaka gives you a perturbed look, and you can only imagine Ao Lie would share it if not for his current form.

You quickly nod. “Yes. I apologise for causing a scene, Tang Monk. I should not have snapped the way I did, especially in front of all of you.” As you speak, he steps closer, meeting you at the water’s edge.

“For how often the two of you bicker, I was surprised it took this long for something like this to happen.” You almost see a trace of an amused smile, though it is quickly exchanged with worry. “Though, it was surprising that out of everything I’ve witnessed from my disciple, this is what has upset you the most.”

Moving past you, the monk takes a seat by the stream, gesturing for you to join him. “They all ate the fruit, you know.” He hums, his eyes watching the water.

You look down as you take your seat next to him, your hands fidgeting in discomfort as you try to distil your lingering anger. “He’s the one who stole it. He brought down their tree.”

You feel Tripitaka’s glance but are unable to meet his eyes. “Your anger, if you don’t mind my saying so, feels more personal than that.” At that, you look back at him in surprise. “Perhaps talking about it could help alleviate some of that feeling?”

You can’t help but feel a little taken aback by the offer. “I couldn’t ask that of you, but I appreciate the offer.” You give an awkward laugh, shaking your head.

“Nonsense.” He rests a hand on your shoulder. “How many times is it now that you’ve given me peace of mind? The very least I could do is lend an ear to a friend that needs it.”

Friend? The title takes you by surprise. You look at the man for a minute, who simply offers a smile. After a few moments, you return the look with a soft smile of your own. It’s been months since you’ve started this journey with Tripitaka, you suppose there isn’t much harm in sharing your thoughts with him like this.

With a sigh, you look back to the steam. “He’s never thought about anyone other than himself, it’s infuriating. Even before we began this journey, the ‘great Monkey King’ has never shown any regard for others.” You start, closing your fists as you speak.

“I remember you mentioning you’ve met before. Is it right for me to assume his actions when you first met were just as callous?” Tripitaka inquires, his assumption almost making you smile with its accuracy.

“Even before we met.” You shake your head, a frown quickly finding its way onto your face. You begin to recall the Peach Festival, how your master had planned to give you a peach of immortality for the journey, and how Sun Wukong took all the stone fruit for himself.

Tripitaka nods along as you explain the reason behind your time in the heavens. “So Sun Wukong took your chance to become immortal?”

“It was more than that.” You continue as your reflection frowns up at you. “A few months after I moved to the palace, I was retrieved by Moksa to visit a village close to our master’s home.” You look back to the man as you elaborate. “After being rescued from my own village, I spent my years growing there. When I was young and had just learned my transformation, the other children would go into the woods with me. They made a game out of trying to find me in the trees.” A soft melancholy smile begins to form on your face, the memories faint but still present.

It only lasts for a few moments. “Lin… He was a good friend of mine. Before the Peach Festival, I promised to tell him what it was like there. He had just become a man before my departure and when I came back… he was elderly. Surrounded by a family I couldn’t recognise. He died as I fulfilled my promise to tell him what I had seen before I was taken back.” You feel your eyes begin to water but continue nonetheless. “Five days later, Moksa brought me down once more to say goodbye to his wife, a woman I thought of as a sister. A week after that, our friend, Guiying. By the end of that month, I had lost nearly everyone I knew.” Your voice starts to crack so you pause to clear your throat and turn your gaze back to the stream, though you can feel Tripitaka's eyes on you.

“Whether or not I could have had that peach, I knew I would have to say goodbye eventually. But without it, I missed their entire lives. Their weddings, their first child, I couldn’t comfort them when they lost their parents. They all lived their lives… and I never got the chance to be there for it.” You notice a tear in your reflection before your expression hardens. “All because of that selfish demon.”

For a few seconds, it’s silent, but it doesn’t take long for Tripitaka to speak. “I’m sorry, I can hardly imagine how hard it must have been. I can barely hold myself together when a demon jumps onto our path.” He laughs a bit when reflecting on his own struggles, and it makes you crack a smile. “Does Wukong know what he’s done to you?” The question makes you scoff. “He wouldn’t be able to hear past the noise of his own ego even if I tried to explain. All he ever does is belittle others or talk about himself. Even how he defended himself for uprooting the ginseng tree, it wasn’t because they were disrespecting you, it was because they were yelling at his master. If it were Pigsy or Sandy, he would have laughed!”

Your reply makes him hum, the man stroking his chin in thought as you continue. “His main source of entertainment is watching people suffer. I won’t give him the satisfaction of knowing how he ruined my past life.” He doesn’t have a response for that, instead letting the two of you sit as the sound of the stream running past fills the silence.

“…How mad was he that I slapped him?”

Tripitaka gives an amused huff to the question. “Pigsy and Sandy had to hold him back. He stopped fighting them when I stepped in.” You look back from where the monk came from, the horse still watching over the two of you. You partly wonder what the other disciples are doing now. “I think he was less angry about you hitting him, it was more so that he wanted to have the final word.”

That sounds like Sun Wukong. “I won’t apologise for it.”

“Even if I wanted you to, I’m not your master. But Bajie and Wujing should be held accountable as well. I’ll have to think of something for them once we get far enough away from here.” Tripitaka gives a weary sigh, clearly exhausted by his disciple’s antics.

Taking in one last deep breath, you stand up and offer the man a hand. “Thank you, Tripitaka. You were right, it feels nice to have someone to share this with.”

Tripitaka smiles before taking your hand and hoisting himself up. “I am always here to listen. Like I said,  you are my friend.”

“Yes, a friend.” The word makes you smile, your anger feels lighter now, making room for something sweeter. It’s been some time since you’ve had a friend.

[yanderecrazysie]

A request for HCs

What do you think would happen if the Karasuno boys know that reader has like a childish crush on the adults in the court? Like she finds Takeda-sensie to be cute and adorkable or coach Ukai to be cool?

They're not stupid tho, they know that crush isn't gonna go anywhere. But her constant fangirling of either one of them behind doors sometimes gets to them, maybe even plant the idea to she's into older men. And they're unfortunately either a year below them or around her age (maybe she's even a few months older than them). Major blow if she's their close friend who often comes to watch them, and she keeps talking about their teacher/coach crush to them.

Ooooh fun! And I must say, she’s got good taste in adorkable Takeda.

WARNINGS: Yandere themes, mentions of murder, reader is into older men

♡ You’re a fan and part of the cheerleading squad, always coming to the games (big or small), so the team sees you often. Sometimes you even come to practice, just to talk to them and cheer them on.

♡ One by one, all of the Karasuno volleyball players fell for you, despite knowing that you don’t see them as anything more than good players and maybe friends.

♡ Still, it comes as a serious blow to hear that you’ve got a childish crush on Takeda and Ukai. And they hear it straight from the horse’s mouth.

♡ You wax lyrical about how cool Ukai is, with his dyed hair and the piercings he sometimes wears outside of coaching. You practically squeal over the adorable, awkward Takeda.

♡ It hurts even more that you don’t say anything like that to them. Sure, you’ve complimented their volleyball skills, but you’ve never complimented their looks or personalities.

♡ Tsukishima’s the first one to figure out that you might have a thing for older men. That’s a real problem for all of them because, not only are you a third year, but your birthday is even earlier than Daichi’s, Asahi’s, and Sugawara’s.

♡ Daichi is the cool, calm, and collected captain, but even he struggles to come up with a plan. There’s no way they could do something stupid like kill their coach and teacher- besides, Hinata and Asahi could never stomach it.

♡ Tanaka and Nishinoya are the most jealous, vying desperately for your attention but not receiving nearly enough whenever the “cool coach” and “cute teacher” are nearby. And they’re never far away.

♡ Sugawara’s the first one to suggest kidnapping you, but there’s a fight that breaks out over where they would keep you.

♡ Since Daichi’s the captain, they reluctantly agree that he would keep you in his house and the rest would just visit. 

♡ They act normally for weeks, gritting their teeth every time you say something like “Isn’t Takeda so adorable?” or “Coach Ukai’s looking hot today!”

♡ Kageyama nearly loses his cool when you confide in him that you desperately wish that one of the two older men would pay you more attention. Sugawara manages to diffuse the situation before Kageyama yells himself hoarse at you.

♡ Hinata’s most excited to kidnap you and Asahi’s the most nervous.

♡ Yamaguchi nearly cries every time you tell him how much you like Ukai and Takeda.

♡ They finally can’t take any more of your obsession with their elders, and they whisk you away.

♡ It’s just too bad if you like older men, because soon enough, you’re surrounded by younger men- and they plan to keep you with them for eternity.

[beefromanoff]

Project Mockingbird Ch. 15

summary: the tension...is palpable. but maybe a breakthrough?

pairing: Bucky Barnes x OC

author's note: TWO IN ONE WEEK! I love seeing everyone's responses to this story! it's so fun to write, and it's definitely heating up. let me know what you think!

tag list: @bangtanxberm @scott-loki-barnes @kayhi808 @charmedbysarge

(let me know if you want to be added <3)

chapter list

_______________________________________

The sterile air of the training room hummed with a tension that felt almost palpable. Bucky stood, arms crossed, in front of a giant digital screen displaying a complex urban environment. Charlotte, her focus intense, studied the map that sprawled before her. It had only been two days since the attack on the compound, and though she’d been released to sleep in her own bed the first night, she wasn’t cleared for combat training until her broken ribs had healed and the stitches had been removed from her leg. She’d opted to return to lessons with Bucky almost immediately, despite their spat in the medical wing. Her desire to avoid being alone with her thoughts was stronger than her desire to avoid him. 

He wore his normal daily attire: tactical pants and combat boots, a snug black shirt hugging his chest. Charlotte wore almost identical garb, with loose cargo pants the most comfortable to wear over the bandaging on her leg. 

"Okay," Bucky began, his voice steady, "you have your objective. Hostage situation, downtown area, high civilian presence. Minimal casualties, maximum stealth. Your move."

Charlotte paused for a moment before pointing to a section of the map, tracing a potential entry route. "Rooftop entry here. We can use the neighboring building as a vantage point."

Bucky shook his head. "Too exposed. Snipers could easily pin you down. Next."

She bit her lip, her frustration growing, then suggested, "What about a distraction? Create a diversion on the opposite block to draw them out."

"And risk civilian casualties? Not an option. Think, Charlotte."

She took a deep breath, regrouping, before offering another handful of potential ways to diffuse the situation. With each suggestion shot down, Charlotte's strategies grew more audacious, her patience thinning. As her ideas got sloppier, Bucky’s feedback got more critical. 

“You do that and you might as well just surrender now. They’d see you coming a mile away and have all their forces ready to ambush you. Are you prepared to send your whole team into a blatant trap? You’re not even thinking this through.” He shook his head, running a hand through his hair.

Finally, she snapped. "What do you want from me, Bucky? To pull some genius plan out of thin air? You're not giving me anything to work with!"

Bucky, unyielding, leaned forward until his face was inches from hers. "I want you to think. Real situations won't give you 'anything to work with' either. You need to adapt, improvise, and most importantly, keep those hostages and your team safe."

Charlotte's eyes blazed. "You think I don't know that? You're acting like I'm some rookie who's never faced a real threat!"

“Last time I checked, you are a rookie. When was the last mission you came on?” Bucky's tone hardened. "I'm trying to prepare you for situations where there might not be a clear right answer. You think I don't see your potential? I do. But potential's not enough when the lives of people you care about are on the line. You need to be strategic, not just brave. If you run into an escalated situation with nothing but ‘kick ass’ in your arsenal, you’re going to get yourself killed."

The air between them crackled with tension as Charlotte threw her hands in the air. "Oh, so now you're the world’s leading expert on nonviolent negotiations? Last time I checked, only one of us  has ‘World’s Deadliest’ on our resume and it isn’t me.” She didn’t shy away, getting even closer to his face. “Tell me how much strategy came into play then, Soldat."

The words hung heavy, a low blow that cut incredibly deep. Bucky's face tightened, a flicker of old pain in his eyes as he set his jaw. If looks could kill, she had a feeling she’d have already taken her last breath. Instead of the verbal lashing she expected, he took a slow breath before stepping back.

"That's not fair, Charlotte, and you know it," he replied, his voice low but sharp enough to slice through the tension.

Charlotte, her chest heaving with a mix of anger and regret, met his gaze. The room felt smaller, the air thicker.

"I—" She began, then stopped. What was she doing? This was Bucky, who'd risked everything, who'd been through hell and back. And here she was, using his past against him. "I'm sorry," she said, the words feeling inadequate. "That was out of line."

But Bucky's demeanor had already shifted. He looked at her, his gaze piercing, and for a moment, Charlotte thought she saw a flicker of something more—anger, betrayal, perhaps even hurt. But it was gone as quickly as it appeared, shuttered behind the steel walls he was so adept at erecting.

"Yeah," Bucky finally said, his voice cold and distant. "It was."

Without another word, he turned on his heel and walked briskly away. The sound of his boots against the floor echoed in the large room, each step thundering through her. Charlotte watched him go, her heart sinking. She wanted to call out, to apologize again, to explain that her words had come from a place of frustration and fear, not malice. But the words stuck in her throat, tangled up with her pride and the lingering sting of their argument.

As the door slid shut behind him, leaving her alone in the silence of the training room, a mix of emotions roiled within her. Guilt for having crossed a line, anger at Bucky for being so impossibly difficult to work with, and beneath it all, a gnawing fear that she had just irreparably damaged whatever fragile connection they had been building. 

She sank down onto a nearby bench, her injured leg protesting the sudden movement. The physical pain was nothing compared to the turmoil swirling inside her. She had wanted to prove herself, to show Bucky—and maybe, more importantly, herself—that she was capable, that she wasn't the weak link. Instead, she had let her temper get the best of her, lashing out in the worst possible way. The worst part? She really was trying. All of her suggestions, at least the early ones, were instinctive. Had she been in the heat of a mission, thinking on the spot, she would have acted on them. Acted on them and gotten people killed, as Bucky was so keen on reminding her. Goddamn him, this was difficult for her. She didn’t come from a military background before her capture by HYDRA, and she didn’t have years with Earth’s Mightiest Heroes honing her skills. She knew how to fight, how to survive, as she’d proven time and time again. Yet, all he seemed to be able to see was where she fell short. Brute strength and violence had gotten him through some of the worst horrors known to man, and here he was, telling her that wouldn’t be enough. Well, it would have to be. That was all she had. 

The room felt oppressively large now, the echoes of their argument bouncing off the walls, a reminder of how quickly things had spiraled out of control, as they always seemed to do. Charlotte wrapped her arms around herself, a futile attempt to ward off the chill that had nothing to do with the temperature of the room.

______

The night air was crisp, and the lake below was a reflection of the starlit sky as Charlotte stood alone on the balcony, wrapped in her thoughts and an oversized sweatshirt. The events of the day had left her raw, her emotions a tangle of frustration, guilt, and an indefinable ache that seemed to pulse with the night. She’d avoided the common room until she knew Bucky would be in training with the SHIELD agents, then shut herself in her room until after dinner, leaving only to get herself the plate of food she knew Natasha had left in the fridge for her. After another failed attempt to sleep, she’d awoken in a cold sweat and found her way out to the balcony. 

Behind her, the sliding door whispered open, and she stiffened, half-expecting another attack. But when she whirled around, already setting her feet in a defensive posture, it was to find Bucky standing there with two steaming cups of coffee in his hands. The panic must have shown on her face because he raised the mugs candidly, showing the peace offering. 

"Vanilla, extra cream," he said, extending one of the cups towards her. The gesture was so unexpected, so gentle after their harsh words earlier, that Charlotte found herself momentarily lost for words. She couldn’t remember ever telling him how she took her coffee, and yet here it was, smelling perfectly sweet and familiar.

She took the cup, feeling the warmth seep into her fingers. "Bucky, I—I need to apologize. For earlier. I was so out of line," she started, but Bucky shook his head, cutting her off.

"No," he said firmly, "I pushed you too hard. I haven't been fair to you, haven't given you the credit you deserve." He leaned on the balcony railing, his gaze distant, reflective. "You saved the compound, Charlotte. While we were off chasing ghosts, you...you showed you have what it takes. In the heat of the moment, you did what you had to, and you saved lives." He tilted his head to meet her eyes. “You risked your own. I just…don’t want you to have to do that again.”

Charlotte's facade crumbled, her carefully constructed walls falling away as tears welled in her eyes. "What's wrong?" Bucky asked, brows furrowing in concern.

"I just... I didn't feel prepared," she admitted, her voice trembling with emotion. "I was terrified the whole time, and I had no idea what I was doing. Everyone keeps calling me a hero, and I don’t…I’m not one.”

Bucky's head tilted as he took a step closer, his gaze searching hers. "You did great out there, Charlotte. You saved this whole place, and the lives of everyone in it."

Charlotte shook her head, a bitter laugh escaping her lips as the tears spilled over. "Did I? Or was it just dumb luck?"

Bucky reached out, gently cupping her cheek and wiping away her tears with his thumb. "Hey, don't say that. You were incredible. You held your own against HYDRA."

“I was scared shitless. I kept thinking how it was my fault. My fault they came here in the first place, and it would be my fault that the compound fell while you were gone. The whole time, I was just…making it up as I went.” She laughed coldly again, looking up to blink back tears. “Everyone keeps acting like I did something amazing, when we both know I only survived because of you. You’re the only one who sees through me, sees that I don’t have a fucking clue what I’m doing and I hate it. I wish you weren’t right, but you have been. Every single goddamn time.” She angrily wiped her tears with the sleeve of her sweatshirt.

Watching her, sensing she wasn’t done, Bucky’s hand rested reassuringly on her shoulder. 

Charlotte looked down into her mug, seeing her reflection warped on the surface of the liquid. "I felt terrified," she confessed, her voice barely above a whisper. "Confused, lost. It all felt so... unnatural. I was second-guessing every decision, worried I was making the wrong move." She stared blankly ahead, eyes unseeing as her gaze looked somewhere past the lake. "I took it as a sign that I'd never make a good Avenger."

Bucky leaned back down over the railing, frowning at her. "Do you think you're the only one who feels that way? Even after hundreds of missions, there are times I'm still scared, still doubting." He paused, searching her face. "That fear, that uncertainty, it doesn't make you weak. It makes you human. And it's what makes you think, makes you evaluate and choose the best path forward, even when it's hard. It doesn’t mean you’re not cut out for this…it just means you actually give a shit about what you’re doing."

Charlotte met his gaze, and in that moment, a connection forged in the heat of conflict and cooled in the calm of understanding passed between them. The swift forgiveness of her incredibly cruel words. The raw, brutal honesty. The peace offering. The lack of judgment as she broke down in front of him. "I guess we're just trying to do our best, huh?" she said, a tentative, watery smile touching her lips.

"Yeah," Bucky agreed, his voice soft but steady. "We're all just trying to do our best.”

Charlotte stared ahead, taking a slow sip of her coffee. Bucky studied her for a moment, his gaze searching. "Why are you up so late, Char?" he asked quietly.

She hesitated, the words catching in her throat for a moment before she spoke. "Nightmares," she admitted quietly. "I’ve always had them, but they've been worse since... since the attack. I see all the other outcomes, if I’d failed. Tonight I dreamt that they got me, took me back there. That’s the worst one. Sometimes I have to get outside, under the stars and fresh air, just to remind myself that I'm free."

Bucky's expression softened, a flicker of understanding passing through his eyes. "I know what you mean," he said, his voice low. "I still get them too. I imagine that I wake up from cryo, and this was all a dream, that I was never free. That’s my worst one.” 

Their eyes met, a rare moment when both of their walls had come down. Their looks mirrored each other, vulnerable and bare, waiting for the other to make one wrong move and get shut back out. Neither of them spoke. Even speaking the contents of her nightmares aloud had made Charlotte’s hands tremble, and she took a deep breath, her fingers tightening around the warm ceramic of her coffee cup. Breaking their gaze, she looked back out into the expansive night sky.

"Are you...scared? Now that they’re back?" she asked hesitantly, her voice barely above a whisper.

Bucky didn't hesitate. "Shitless.”

Charlotte reached out, her hand finding his on the railing. She expected him to pull away, to retreat into himself as he so often did. But to her surprise, he didn't. Instead, he tightened his grip, his thumb tracing small circles on the back of her hand.

They sat in silence as the night stretched on around them, finding solace in each other's presence. They had no answers, no reprieve in sleep, not even peace in their home, but they had a hand to hold onto, anchoring them in their fear. And with it, they found a flicker of hope, a glimmer of light in the darkness that threatened to consume them both.

________

The Avengers' kitchen was a hive of activity, with pots clanging, eggs frying, and the aroma of breakfast filling the air. The team members moved about with practiced ease, each contributing to the morning chaos in their own way.

Sam, wielding a spatula like a pro, called out to Natasha, who was expertly flipping pancakes on the griddle. "Hey, Nat, you sure you didn't miss your calling as a short-order cook?" he teased, earning a laugh from the others.

“Maybe in the next life,” She winked, flipping another perfect pancake.

Steve couldn't resist chiming in from his post by the toaster. "I don't know, Sam. I think I’ve got her beat," he quipped, waving his burnt toast in the air. Charlotte wrinkled her nose as she walked past it, the bitter smell assaulting her. 

“Good morning sunshine,” Sam called before resuming his whistling, clearly in a great mood. Charlotte wondered if he’d just gotten back from Calla’s apartment, and when they’d stop splitting their time now that the secret of their relationship was out. She made a note to ask her friend later.

Bucky, already stationed by the coffee pot, flashed a grin as Charlotte waltzed up. "Coffee?" he offered, holding out a mug with a knowing look.

Charlotte raised an eyebrow, smirking. "Second coffee in less than twelve hours?”

Bucky shrugged nonchalantly. "Don’t get used to it," he deadpanned.

“Don’t be such a good barista.” She teased, sipping from her mug before hopping onto the counter beside him.

Their exchange didn't go unnoticed by the rest of the team, who exchanged knowing glances and playful nudges as they observed the interaction.

Sam couldn't resist a quip. "Well, would you look at that? Bucky's finally learned how to share," he teased.

Natasha smirked, shooting Bucky a pointed look. "I guess miracles really do happen.” 

Always ready to diffuse a situation, Steve called. "Hey, Charlotte, I meant to tell you," he began, catching her eye. "Tony and Pepper are coming back to the compound later this afternoon. Pepper wants to meet with you.”

Charlotte's eyes widened in surprise. "Really? Why?" she asked.

Steve nodded, his expression reassuring. "Yep. She wants to talk about hosting a press conference. They think it's time to let the world know who you are.” He gave a reassuring smile. “Don’t be nervous, you’ll do great. We’ve all done them. Even Bucky.” He elbowed his friend as he sidled past, plopping down at the head of the table. 

Charlotte raised her eyebrows, still looking hesitant. “If you say so.” 

“At least you'll look better on TV than Sam," Bucky said dryly, giving her a sidelong look.

Sam bristled at the jab, shooting Bucky a mock glare. "Hey, watch it, Barnes. I'll have you know I've got a face for the big screen," he retorted.

“Is that what they’ve been telling you?” He raised an eyebrow, dodging a swat from Sam’s spatula. Giggling, Charlotte felt slightly more at ease as her friends fell into chaos around her. 

_________

Smoothing her shirt, Charlotte approached the sleek conference room with a mixture of anticipation and nervousness. She wasn't sure what to expect from this meeting with Pepper Potts, Tony Stark's famed and formidable right-hand woman. Did she do something wrong? Was she in trouble? The thoughts raced through her mind as she pushed open the door and stepped inside.

"Ms. Rossi, thank you for coming. Please, have a seat," Pepper greeted warmly, gesturing to a chair across from her. She was beautiful, looking equal parts polished and genuine. 

Charlotte forced a smile and took a seat, trying to hide her unease. "My friends call me Charlotte, or at least, everyone here does.”

Pepper chuckled. "Alright, Charlotte. It’s a pleasure to finally meet you."

“Likewise.” She raised an eyebrow. “Although I’ll warn you, I’m not overly keen on the idea of a press conference…if that’s what this is about.”

Pepper chuckled again. "It is, but just know there’s no pressure. This is my professional recommendation, if you desire to be a more public part of the team. We’ve had quite a few incidents of public scrutiny over the past several years, and we’ve found that it makes everyone’s lives much easier if we stay ahead of it. And since you’re new here…"

Charlotte leaned back in her chair, adopting a more casual posture. "Then we should get ahead of it before the public can find something to scrutinize."

Pepper smiled. "Exactly."

“Well, let’s hear the game plan, then. You’re the expert.” 

Pepper clasped her hands together on the table atop a stack of notes. "Well, with everything that's been happening lately, there's been quite a bit of interest in you."

Charlotte raised an eyebrow. "Me? What’s been happening lately?”

Pepper laughed softly. "Modesty, I see. But yes, your journey has captivated a lot of attention. You were all over the news with your stint in gymnastics, and then you even made a splash as a big fish in Las Vegas, all before disappearing. The internet is very difficult to slip anything past, and it didn’t take long for them to put things together. People love a mystery."

Charlotte tilted her head warily. "That’s one thing to call me."

Pepper smiled. "Indeed. But, we have an opportunity to share your story with the world. On your terms, the way you want it to be told. As much or as little as you’d like to give, anything would help prevent people from writing the narrative for you. Show them who you are before they can tell you."

Charlotte's skepticism showed on her face. "Ah, the old charm offensive, huh?"

Pepper nodded. "Something like that. It's a chance for people to get to know the real Charlotte, not just the headlines they’ll inevitably see if you join the Avengers Initiative."

“Who says I’m joining the Avengers?” She raised an eyebrow. 

“I’m very good at my job.” Pepper winked. “And don't worry, you won't be alone. The team and I will be there to support you every step of the way. We’ll prepare you beforehand, be right there to step in if you get uncomfortable or don’t know how to answer something. You have my word.” 

Charlotte gave a half smile. "Alright, I'll do it. But if I say something wildly inappropriate or incriminating, I can’t be held responsible.”

Pepper laughed. "Have you met Tony? I don’t think we’ve ever had a press conference without something wildly inappropriate or incriminating. You’ll do just fine.”

[moonsanoverthinker]

PLEASE TELL ME MORE ABOUT VOICE CHANGES IN TMA I WANT THE WHOLE RANT

LETS GO! Expect semi-coherent thoughts and a lot of random side notes. Also I apologise in advance for how long this post is, but then again I was asked for the whole thing and I like to over analyse x

Also second apologies, I didn’t intend for this to essentially become a weird essay / notes hybrid that goes well off topic! x

(This is JonMartin focused because those little men have a permanent place in my head)

Edit: I added the more thingy because then it’s not one super long text post (1. So I don’t have to scroll through it every time and 2. I only just found out I could do that!)

SERIES 1-5 SPOILERS (sorry forgot to add this!)

Series 1 Jon was fairly consistent in how he’d say Martin, usually pronouncing the R and the T, the ‘professional/formal’ way (Gotta try and convince people you are in fact the head archivist) as well as the tone usually being a little harsher when he was making unprompted jabs at Martin. (Also side note, MAG 14 where he talks about Martin maybe getting chopped up, sounding far too happy about that prospect Jon). MAG 22 is where we actually get to hear Martin, after hearing nothing but slander from Jon. Obviously he’s making a statement for a traumatic event but there’s a clear difference in how they speak in terms of confidence with Jon and nervousness from Martin. (Also side note 2, I listened to mag22 again and I forgot how much Martin wanted to prove his experience was real to skeptic Jon, makes me a little sad) That edge is still there in Jon’s voice but it’s softened the tiniest amount at the end when he’s actually providing solutions to Martin (Hurt/Comfort described as work) Then we get to MAG 39 where they have a real conversation! There’s still that ‘professional’ tone from Jon but this is the first time he actually has some form of emotion that isn’t annoyance, instead it’s fear. Also the ghost conversation where it just feels like the roles have flipped, with Jon being the one who doesn’t understand and Martin making fun of him. (Side note 3 I still think one of the funniest moments in MAG 39 when Martin mentions he records poetry on the tapes because of the lofi charm and then there’s the solid few seconds of silence with only the fire alarm sound).

Series 2 is pretty much the same between the two of them, but occasionally we start to see a different side to Martin when he’s answering Jon back. Like the whole ‘accidentally stabbing yourself with the bread knife’ conversation, he answers him a little firmer (like you would to someone you care about deeply) and in MAG 56 when Martins confronted by a paranoid Jon he answers in a firmer way but it feels less like it’s out of care and more just out of trying to diffuse the situation. Series 3 is where things start to change a little, we get Martin clearly being pleased about people saying him and Jon were ‘close’ as well as Jon mentioning ‘office gossip’ where he sounds like he’s attempting to convince himself ‘it’s natural and normal’. (The denial was strong)

Series 4 is where the big changes come from the two of them, and to me it almost feels like a role switch between them. Jon becomes the one practically pining and Martin becomes the one to deny it. There’s Jon demanding to know what Elias did to Martin, the constant asking about him as well as Jon actively seeking Martin out several times. MAG 124 is the first conversation between the two of them in series 4, Jon sounds excited to talk but Martin just sounds flat (it gives series 1 vibes) and this same pattern of Jon’s tone changing while Martins stays flat is carried on throughout. Then we get to MAG 154 (let’s gouge our eyes out and run away!) But first Jon thanks Martin for the ‘intervention’ which has says in that sarcastic tone, Martin jumps to the defence and Jon apologises and that is when Martin almost goes back to sounding how he used to. Then we get to the big we can leave together moments, Jon’s frantically trying to convince Martin and there’s a genuine hope ‘I could derail everything. We could derail everything and then just leave!’ To which he is met with Martin shutting it down with the harsh reality of the situation. Then we get the Mahtin’s (I can hear it, I don’t know how else to write it) and relief from the two of them as they leave the lonely together (I’m not crying) and everything ends in the cabin, nothing bad happens and they just live in Scotland with the cows

We’ve made it to series 5 where things are a little bit fucked! So let’s start at the beginning, Jon just sounds defeated, the thing he’s being trying to stop is everyone’s issue and he feels it’s his fault. Martins trying to sound reassuring and hopeful that things can be changed. Also there’s the various points where they sound almost happy despite the situation, ‘Eye spy literally everything’ ‘You are my reason. Just wanted to make you say it!’ And there’s warmth to the two of them, an oddly refreshing happiness that only comes in those short moments before everything’s awful again. (Side note 4, maybe I’ve got it a little wrong but Martin sounds less nervous in his voice, follows the character development of adapting and becoming a stronger character from dealing with everything) ‘You have to promise me, that your going to do everything in your power to live’ There’s a firmness in Martins voice but it sounds more like he’s either trying to convince himself that Jon would do that or he’s trying to convince Jon to do it. MAG 194 starts with the argument as the reality of it all is finally recognised. Martins clearly hurt by Jon claiming ‘it’s the only option’ resulting in him sounding more frustrated and almost like a petulant child. ‘Breaking his promise.’ ‘That’s not fair’ Jon just snaps at the accusation, despite it being partially true. This argument is similar to MAG 154 (to me at least) because of the pleading and convincing from Jon and the disagreement and bordering mocking from Martin. Jon was in an impossible decision and was attempting to justify his own sacrifice but Martin was mostly focused on the two of them living. ‘Tough! The world doesn’t care what you accept. It just is.’ Is Jons final attempts in the argument, he knows there is limited options and limited survival rates, it’s like he’s accepted the end of it all, then Jon does the statement, proceeds to make a joke of the lack of arguments given by it and says ‘I’m going to go and apologise to my boyfriend’ and there’s the brief smile in his voice again. Jump ahead a little to MAG 199 where we get the somewhat calm before the storm. And there’s a weird calmness to the two of them when they talk but there’s a mix of defeat and acceptance from Jon because he was always going to try and sacrifice himself, and then there’s defeat and hope from Martin because he knew Jon would try but clings to the hope that maybe everything will be okay. Ah onto MAG 200 the one that proceeds to hurt us all, again there’s the acceptance from Jon but also fear and determination to ‘win’ over the fears no matter what it costs him. Martins a mix of betrayal, anger, sadness, fear because well the promise was broken and he was going to be alone again. But it’s the final moments, there’s fear but they still cling to hope that they will be together no matter what happens.

[emma23]

Headcanon y/n at a concert with Oscar Isaac characters:

————————————————————————

Steven Grant

- Steven’s both nervous and excited. He’s done his research on the band, reading up on their history and even memorizing some lyrics beforehand.

- He’s the one reminding everyone to bring earplugs ("You don’t want to damage your hearing, do you?").

- At the concert, he’s a bit overwhelmed by the noise and the crowd but can’t stop smiling whenever Y/N seems to be enjoying herself.

- “This is brilliant, innit? Look at the energy!” he says, swaying awkwardly to the beat.

Marc Spector

- Marc acts like he’s too cool for the concert but secretly enjoys it. He hangs back near the bar with his arms crossed, scanning the room like a bodyguard.

- He’s hyper-aware of the group’s safety, subtly moving people away from Y/N if the crowd gets too pushy.

- Occasionally, he catches himself nodding to the music and quickly stops when someone (probably Jake) teases him.

- “I’m not dancing—I’m just...stretching my neck,” he mutters, defensive.

Jake Lockley

- Jake is the one who drives everyone to the venue in a car that’s probably not entirely legal.

- He’s loud and hyped, yelling at random people in the crowd to "make way" for Y/N and the group.

- By the time the music starts, he’s already two beers deep and is shouting lyrics (wrong ones) at the top of his lungs.

- “This band? Not bad. But I could sing it better,” he says with a cocky grin.

Poe Dameron

- Poe is the life of the party. He’s dressed like he belongs on stage, with his leather jacket and confident swagger.

- He’s the first to start dancing and tries to drag Y/N into the action. "Come on, Y/N! We’re not here to stand around!”

- He also flirts shamelessly with everyone, including the bartender, the merch seller, and maybe even the security guard.

- “This band is almost as good as me in a cockpit,” he jokes, winking at Y/N.

Jonathan Levy

- Jonathan isn’t thrilled about the whole idea but comes along because Y/N asked.

- He’s the one awkwardly sipping a drink and checking his phone, making occasional sarcastic comments.

- “Is it just me, or do all these songs sound exactly the same?” he asks, smirking.

- Despite himself, he starts to enjoy the show when he sees Y/N laughing and having fun.

Llewyn Davis

- Llewyn is the snob of the group. He complains about the band’s lack of authenticity and makes snide remarks about the music.

- “This isn’t music; it’s noise,” he grumbles, though his foot taps along to the beat anyway.

- If there’s an acoustic set, he leans in and listens intently, muttering, “Finally, something decent.”

- He spends half the concert comparing himself to the performers and saying, “I could do better.”

Nathan Bateman

- Nathan shows up late, probably because he was busy working on some cryptic project. He doesn’t even pretend to care about the music.

- “This is all just vibrations and patterns,” he says, sipping a drink and smirking.

- He’s the one who suggests sneaking backstage, purely to see if he can. "Come on, Y/N. Live a little."

- Somehow, he gets into a heated debate with a random stranger about the physics of sound.

Santiago ‘Pope’ Garcia

- Pope is chill but clearly here to keep the group in line. He’s the one who makes sure no one loses their ticket or gets kicked out.

- He enjoys the music quietly, nodding along and occasionally leaning over to ask Y/N if she’s having a good time.

- When things get rowdy, he steps in to diffuse the situation—probably pulling Jake away from an argument.

- “It’s not bad. Not my thing, but it’s fun,” he says with a shrug, flashing Y/N a small smile.

[002yb]

The problem with sharing a best friend with the man you’ve been hopelessly crushing on for two lifetimes is that said shared best friend will inevitably notice and swear that ‘he’s got this.’  In fact, it would be his pleasure to hook his boys up.  To say Jason is mortified would be an understatement.  He doesn’t want to be hooked up.  He was more than content to take his little (persisting, devastating) crush on Dick Grayson to his grave.  Again.  Because it deserves to be buried.

“A bit dramatic, don’t you think?” Roy accuses, then turns around and offers Jason his most playful, dickish smirk. “Yeah, I think you two might actually be really compatible.”

Let it be known that while Roy Harper isn’t a detective, his best friends are and over the years he’s picked up a thing or two.  The only reason he noticed Jason’s crush is because of a completely unremarkable interaction.  Just a fleeting glance from Jason when Dick happened to pass by - all golden and gorgeous even post workout as Dick mundanely wandered into the kitchen for water.  Just a ducked head, uncharacteristically bashful and something that Roy hasn’t seen since Jason was Robin.

It’s precious.

Just as sweet is how Jason puffs himself up, aiming for belligerent and missing by a mile.  Jason hits somewhere closer to endearing, in Roy’s opinion.  Menacingly cute with his rosy cheeks and an aggressive scowl.

Not so precious is the actual night terror that Roy can see staring at them from over Jason’s shoulder in the distance - eyes narrowed and lips curled into a scowl, expression colder than the forgotten ice-water on the counter.  It’s damn near bone-chilling, actually.  A lesser man might jump at the undercurrent of disdain and displeasure emanating off of Dick, but Roy is more than familiar with how Dick sulks.

It’s a bit harder to place where Dick’s feelings are though.  Jealous?  Obviously.  The question is why.  Roy has his suspicions, of course; he’d gamble on them too, if push came to shove.  Jason and his feelings deserve to be handled with more care though, so...

“Grayson!” Roy shouts.  Immediately, Jason’s shoulders shoot up to his ears with tension as he bristles, shoving Roy in retaliation although Jason can’t know what Roy has planned yet.

Dick, too, startles.  The dark aura that had been hanging over him fades away as Dick smiles - a well-practiced thing that’s more habit than anything as he makes his way over to them.

“Harper.  What’s up?” Dick asks.

“You dating anyone?”

The look of panic on Jason’s face is comical.  It would be more funny if Jason were to look up from where he averts his gaze to see that Dick clearly looks at Jason, gaze lingering before pulling away to look at Roy, sheepish.

“Not at the moment.” Dick tells him, brows furrowed a bit because he knows that Roy already knows that. “Why?  You offering?”

Oh.  Oh, no.  Commonplace as this playful teasing between Roy and Dick is, Jason isn’t familiar enough with their dynamic to know that it’s all harmless fun.  The death glare that’s abruptly shot Roy’s way is a promise of violence like Roy has never known before and it’s frightening.

Roy stands by it:  Dick and Jason are definitely compatible.

Dramatic.  Jealous.  Scary and devastating in that awe inspiring way only natural disasters are.

“You know I’ve already got a special lady in my life.” Roy says, nearly beaming with pride and disarming both of his friends in an instant.  Lian is a light in all their lives and the perfect means of diffusing any situation; bless her.  “Todd is single here though, you know?”

Once again, Jason levels Roy with a look that speaks of Roy’s future demise - their friendship be damned.  Roy can’t help but chuckle to himself because for as fearsome as Jason is, he’s such a maiden.  It’s no wonder Lian always wants Jason to play the princess in all her games of make-believe.  It might also say something how somehow Dick is always the prince... fuck, his little girl is so smart and insightful.  She figured it out before any of them, huh?

Dick’s attention shifts to Jason - his flushed cheeks and burning ears and the passionate snarl that mars his features.  It’s obvious to Dick that he’s missing something, but Roy offers him nothing but a cheeky smile.  As neutrally as he can to avoid having Jason’s ire turned on him, Dick says, “Cool.”

“Roy, I swear - “ Jason starts.

Roy cuts him off with a brilliant smile and even more brilliant suggestion:  “You guys should go out.”

The panic that washes over them both is hilarious.  It has Roy internally cackling.  These bastards always one-up him in so many ways, but now he’s got something over both of them and it’s amazing.  He’s never seen either of them look so flustered; eyes wide and jaws either dropped or clenched as they struggle to process and react.  That both of their thoughts went to the same place is promising though, hah!

Because they’re both stunned still with mortification (Jason) and stupefaction (Dick), Roy grins and playfully torments, “Wingman for each other.”

Dick and Jason’s matching grimaces are possibly the funniest thing Roy’s seen in some time.  It’s instantaneous, mirrored on both of their faces.

Roy feels so damn powerful.  These two will be fucking by the end of the night, for sure.  Roy told Jason that ‘he’s got this,’ and he meant it.  If Dick caves to the notion of helping Jason find a beau (and he will, generously kind and self-sacrificing man that Dick is), Jason’s competitiveness will surely have him giving in, too.  Jealousy and an unspoken possessiveness will handle the rest.

It’s just a matter of time.

-------

It’s been a bit since I’ve posted something like this.  Or written much of anything, ahahaha.  Rough as it is, hopefully it’s still enjoyable. (●˙꒳˙●)