#-rude murals

[evilevilevilnotevilevilagain]

Important secondary introduction: CREVICE.

He likes to drive nails into himself and belittle people with no instigation at all <3

Crevice is a wizard of ill renown. He makes his keep through his keen sense of smell, which is able to sniff out magic and track down even the most elusive sorcerers. Its a lucrative business n he has no qualms about bringing ruin onto fellow magic users. May in fact have a personal vendetta against a certain wizard(and his apprentices) hes trying to track down, too. Was once imprisoned by said wizard for possibly hundreds of years and he hasn't exactly forgiven the guy for it. Crevice is dangerous and hard to stand for extended periods of time, largely due to his intense misandry and frequent discussions of various violent acts he'd love to enact on both you and himself or you on him. Has great mastery of the scythe and the sickle, rarely resorting to showing his own magic to outsiders.

Funny guy whom I kinda still wanna make more of a world for. Something Mad Max-y, Conan The Barbarian-y, fetishistic ultraviolent psychosexual like. You know the type. Even got some ideas for how the magic system works! Kinda makes the whole spellcasting thing function like a shark tank pitch - its good stuff.

[dailyeca]

Yo Eca, 33. "What is the last adventure you’ve been on?"

33) What is the last adventure you’ve been on?

yo. went out to go graffiti a wall out on blackthorn boulevard. its a hike and a hassle to get out there. scarlet and stickers came too, said they wanted to keep me company.

...decent night out. i guess.

[tetzoro]

☽◯☾ - SMOKIN' ACES

꒰ synopsis ꒱ : The ASL brothers know how to throw a good party and tonight was no different.

꒰ content ꒱ : MDNI. portgas d. ace x f!reader ; dubcon as they are high, descriptive weed use, shotgunning, surprise voyeur alert (someone might be listening...), unprotected sex, dry humping, use of pet names (baby, good girl), impact play if you squint — WC : 3.4k

⭑ 𓂃 ꒰ Full Moon ! ꒱ — Kinktober Masterlist

The basement was a cozy little spot that only the members of the house and certain special guests could be privy to. During the notorious parties, it was a safe haven, a place of refuge- Somewhere to get some air, get away from the noise, and regroup with the people who meant most to you.

It was full of little touches from over the years. A series of disjointed chairs and faded couches all in a circle with a busted coffee table in the center that either had a bong or hookah on it, ready for community use. 

Always playing chill music, full of wondrous paintings and vibrant murals that various friends have done — it was the clubhouse of all clubhouses and all run by the ASL boys themselves; Ace, Sabo, and Luffy.

The first member, the self-proclaimed founding member, is currently sitting next to you with a triumphant smile on his face, grinding up some weed. After the exhausting day at the beach, everyone has decided to go out to the bar instead of staying in for the night.

A part of you had wanted to go with them and maybe do a couple of shots and make out with someone for a little while. A night where your head was as fizzy as a champagne bottle and maybe you could get your mind off of a certain someone.

But then Ace had given you the look.

That look with those big brown puppy eyes of his that never failed to have you cater to his every whim — annoyingly so. 

So you find yourself here, in the still smoke-filled air basement that was full of character from a group of the rowdy young adults you’ve come to know so well next to the man you’ve been pining over since the day you met him.

“I can't believe you dressed up like the dude from Magic Mike.” You flick his cowboy hat up, knocking it back and giving it a slightly disheveled look.

“Not just any dude, I'm dressed as Dallas.” Ace shakes his head, focused on rolling another joint in his favorite strawberry-printed rolling paper for the two of you to share. The one you had earlier burned out with the group and Ace had promised you another if you agreed to stay behind with him

“You just wanted an excuse to be shirtless.” Not that you were really complaining.

“First of all, I'm not shirtless.” Ace patted the unbuttoned vest that loosely hung over his taut frame. “Second of all, I did it for the hat that you so rudely hurt.”

“My apologies then.” The sarcasm drips from your tone and Ace casts you a sidelong glance, sticking his tongue out at you before using it to lick the joint.

“At least I was creative.” He says, his dark eyes trailing along your body. Even though he’s clearly appraising the outfit and not you, a chill runs down your spine. “Weren’t you a cat last year too?”

“Shut up, you know that Luffy ruined the angel wings I was going to wear.” Ace hands you the joint in surrender, motioning for you to go first as he fishes the lighter out from between the couch cushions. 

You put it in your mouth, lips wrapping around the filter as the sparks fly. It illuminates the small space in front of you and casts a soft glow over Ace's freckled face. 

Suddenly, he felt a little too close. You take in the way he carefully lights it for you, his tongue peeking out as he focuses on the task at hand. As soon as the flame catches the paper, his eyes flicker up to yours.

You inhale, begrudgingly taking in some of the smoke of the wrap before it cherries at the end, an influx of weed hitting your lungs harsher than you intended.

“Easy now.” Ace tries to stifle his laugh as you cough a little, your head still reeling from the close proximity. He takes the joint from your fingers, gently brushing his against yours before taking a hit himself.

Ever the show-off, the smoke barely leaves his lips before he begins to inhale it through his nose. He smirks at you as he does it, effortlessly inhaling the thick flume of smoke.

“You’re so lame for gatekeeping that trick by the way.” You huff at the man across from you, taking the joint back from him to continue your sesh. 

“I gotta have something to impress you, right?” Ace leans back on the couch a little more, eyes growing hazy and red as he watches you. His tattooed arm dangles off the back of the couch while you try not to take what he says to heart. But he looks back at you, head tilting a little so he peeks at you from under his hat. “But I suppose I can teach you something else.”

“Yeah? And what’s that?” Taking another hit, you let the smoke rush through your lungs and let it saturate every bit while it screams in protest the longer you hold onto it. Ace shifts ahead, leaning in so he’s closer to you and spreading his legs so his thigh brushes against yours. 

“You really wanna know?” His warm breath caresses your ear as he speaks, his nose barely nudging the lobe. The sudden seductive shift in his voice throws you off your axis and plummets you into his gravitational pull.

“Yes.” The approval slips out of your mouth with the rest of the smoke. 

Ace moves his face so it's in front of yours, his eyes scanning your features as he takes a hit. You’re not even sure when he grabbed the joint but you don’t question it. not when his fingers cup your jaw so sweetly.

“What’re you—“ The question dies out as he shakes his head. Everything feels tingly but the way he’s cusping your face makes it ten times worse, setting your skin on fire as your face heats up.

Carefully, he tilts your head toward him before he leans in. Your breath hitches as his lips brush against yours, his fingers pulling on your jaw so your mouth opens a little more.

With a direct softness you’ve never gotten from him, he blows the smoke out from his mouth and into yours. The weed coats your taste buds before his tongue slips into your mouth to steal it all away. His eagerness rivals the hit in a silent contest of who can take your breath away more.

Ace's hand doesn’t move from your face and he uses it to his advantage to kiss you further. If you thought your mind was fuzzy before, it was absolute static now as your twirls swirl together.

He grins against your lips, humming approvingly as you begin to kiss him back. But it was over far too soon and it takes everything in you not to chase his fleeting lips.

“So?” He smirks and pulls away from you, taking another hit as you try to catch your breath.

“What the hell was that?” Your thigh was still pressing against his but you couldn’t find it in you to move. Part of you longed to push further, to lean into him and melt into his searing touch. But your mind was still trying to play catch up from what just happened.

“Shotgunning.” He blows the smoke out straight into the air and your heart pangs with a strange jealousy. “Did you like it?”

“Yes.” You bite your lip. Maybe a little too much. You pause, tasting the words on your tongue before you utter them. “I wanna try it again.”

Ace sucks in his breath, the smoke plummeting to his lungs as he takes in your wish. Coughing slightly, he sits up straighter on the couch and tries to gather himself.

“Yeah?” The gravely rasp in his voice swirls with the underlying desire and draws you in further. 

There’s no going back now.

“Yeah,” You nod slowly. Neither of you bat an eye as you slide into his lap, accidentally rolling your hips against his lap as you do. Ace lets out a choked groan of your name, shifting underneath you. “Ready?”

Galaxies bloom in his eyes as they light up, eagerly tilting his head up in anticipation. The joint sits on your lips before you take the hit, watching him under you as he looks up at you from beneath his dark lashes. Desire pools in your abdomen and before you can think about what you want, your lips meet once again.

It’s a blur between tongues as the smoke fizzles out. You’re not even sure if you did it right, but then again, it wasn’t really your main objective.

The joint disappears from your fingers and you can feel Ace shift to ash it out on the side table. Unburdened, his arms wrap around you and his hands splay across your back, pulling you closer to him and deepening the kiss.

Your lungs beg for reprieve but the taste of Ace’s sweet tongue is too addicting to let up. But he shows mercy and pulls away, suffering from the same affliction. 

Everything felt fuzzy around the edges, your brain fully saturated in something syrupy sweet that had your hips involuntarily moving again as soon as your foreheads pressed together.

The faint aroma of sea salt still wove itself in the tangled curls of Ace’s hair, filling your senses despite all the smoke that currently clung to the thick air. 

“Ace.” You gasp softly, the faint outline of his hardening cock coming to life right between your thighs. 

“Yeah? You feel that?” To further his point, he pushes his hips up against your overheating core. “Feel what you do to me?”

“Yes.” With every slow grind of your hips, you can feel him growing harder beneath you. The friction was rolling over your body like a wave hitting the shore, but it was fleeting. “I want more.”

“Can you handle more?” The smirk that dangles off his face has you wanting to roll your eyes but you relent. The craving for him was too much, threatening to boil over and fully consume you.

“I can.” You nod, lips hovering over his. “I want to try.”

Ace closes the distance, unable to curb his own carnal urges that run rampant in his body. The way your lips mesh together, tasting like weed and strawberry-flavored chapstick becomes something he knows he’ll get addicted to. 

Your fingers dance along his chest, teasing under the vest before landing on the buckle of his belt. All the while he reaches up your skirt, tugging on your panties and dragging them down your legs.

The rest is a blur of motion, but the messy way his lips move with yours is vivid. It’s almost jarring how much you can taste him, how much his grunts of approval seep into your skin and run through your veins

You pull back at an absolute loss for breath, panting against his mouth as his tongue pokes out to trace your parted lips. The bottom half of your clothes are gone and his are haphazardly halfway down his thigh. 

Ace's hand grips the base of his cock as you hover over it, pumping it and squeezing his tip as it leaks with pearly drops of precum. 

“You're gonna be a good girl and take it all for me?” His knuckles brush along your soaked slit, running along it back and forth, absolutely mesmerized as he waits for your answer.

“Yes, I'll be good.” The words are nothing more than a breath of air, your lungs squeezing in protest. 

“Fuck, you’re so wet for me.” His tip prods your entrance, both of you throbbing as the last thread of self-control burns like a stick of dynamite. The slow, sparkling crawl of anticipation before everything explodes, lighting each other aflame in a whirlwind of desire. “You turn into such a little slut when you’re high, don’t you?”

“Ace.” You whine, watching the slow spread of his signature boyish grin take up his face. Warm palms rest on your hips, fingers gripping into your skin as he soaks up the absolute need in your voice. 

“What?” He chuckles lowly, his voice still raspy from the smoke. “All I'm saying is that — ohh shit…“

The rest of his sentence melts into a groan as you slowly lower yourself onto his cock.

“That’s it.” He groaned, his palms sliding to rest on your thighs to help guide you. It takes everything in him not to push you all the way down, letting you take your time as you adjust during your descent.

Everything stands still as he finally bottoms out, filling you up and stretching you out in ways no one has ever done before. The pressure is insurmountable yet it brings you a wave of pleasure that has your body singing for more.

“Holy fuck, you feel like heaven.” Ace practically moans at the way your silky walls clamp around him. His fingers move once again to grip your hips in a bruising hold, stilling himself from spilling into you immediately.

“Of course, you talk a lot during sex.” You let out a scoffed chuckle, clutching onto his shoulders as you spread your legs a little more and letting him sink in even deeper. 

“Aw, complaining already?” He gives you a lazy grin, slowly grinding his hips up against you. The steady throb of his cock melts your brain more than the weed did, the residual high becoming overshadowed by the man under you. “Or let me guess, you just can’t take a compliment?”

“Shut up.” You huff, rocking your hips before raising yourself back up. His cock partially slides out of you and glistens with your essence, coating it completely. Ace's eyes zero in on it, drinking in the sight before you ease back down.

“Fuck.” Ace's head hangs off the back of the couch as he gazes at you through half-lidded eyes. The hat he was wearing falls behind him, completely forgotten. His palms glide along your sides, sliding them up and down before cupping your ass and trying to speed up your movements. “Please, you gotta move faster.”

“Do I?” The gravity of the situation sets in, albeit a little delayed — blame it on the weed. But he was completely at your mercy. The pleading look in his eyes speaks volumes despite the cocky words he so rapidly fires off. You lean down, lips brushing against his ear. “Let me guess, can’t handle it?”

Ace's attention snaps back to you, almost fully alert now. The fog from earlier clears from his head as the words he uttered earlier echo from your pretty little mouth. A new challenge fires off inside of him and he was never one to back down from a fight, no matter the position. With a wicked grin, he thrusts his hips heavenward.

“Oh, I can handle it alright.” He murmurs, rubbing the plushness of your ass before giving it a subtle smack. Your body jolts and your chests crash together, almost every part of you is touching him.

The ever-steady rhythm of your heart spins on its axis, thrown off by the rapid beating that sets in syncopation and you can’t find it in you to care. Not when everything you’ve ever wanted is finally clicking into place.

Your bodies move in a euphoric sync, the ebb and flow of the melody you two orchestrate fills the room in a symphony of bliss. You were drowning into Ace’s very essence and in return, he did the same.

“Shit, baby.” Ace groans at the almost lazy pace. Each delicious drag of his cock had your eyes rolling back to your head. Anytime he twitched inside of you was like another jolt of pleasure — knowing that he was getting just as much enjoyment out of this as you was driving you faster to your end. “I've wanted this for so long.”

“What?” You’re completely breathless now. The confession takes away the last shred of oxygen and rips it out of your lungs. The languid roll of your hips doesn't stop though; your mind, heart, and body all chasing what you want in different ways. “Really?”

“God, yeah.” Ace's fingers slid under your shirt as he grabbed your bra-covered chest. “We need to take this off.”

Impressively, his pace doesn’t falter as he rocks up into you while his hand glides to your back and unhooks your bra. It only takes a few seconds for your chest to become completely bare and his head to find its home in the valley of your breasts.

His tongue trails everywhere. Your body burns under it, relief only pooling in the spot between your thighs and wherever he decides to lick away the flames. It cools you off, the words he said earlier filtering back into your mind as the smoke clears.

“I've wanted this too.” You gasp, bouncing a little quicker to prove how much you’ve needed this — him. Ace groans, teeth grazing the swell of your breast before sucking your nipple into his mouth to muffle the noise. “You feel so good, Ace.”

The candy-sweet praise has his head popping back up from where his tongue was swirling around your pert bud and looks at you, eyes trailing over your blissed-out face and the hearts that swirled in your eyes. 

“Come here.” Ace roughly grabs you by your ass, leaning further back into the couch as you tumble on him. He couldn’t hold back anymore, fucking up into you without abandon.

“A-Ace!” You gasp, trying to squirm away a little but the hold he had you in was too tight.

“Take it for me, baby. You said you would.” He moans. Both of your impending highs are heightened by the weed you inhaled only minutes ago. Pleasure rips through your body, sending it into tremors as your thighs shake. “Let go f’me.”

Your high washes over you immediately, body locking up as Ace continues to pound into you and chase his own release.

And it’s beautiful when he reaches it.

He comes with a choked moan of your name, his body tensing up and his fingers digging into your skin. His cock pulses before he completely empties himself into your greedy cunt with sporadic, shallow thrusts.

Both of you slump against each other, melting into the couch as your mind floats down from the clouds and into his warm embrace.

You pull back a little to admire his freckled face and can’t help but unleash the giggle that bubbles from your chest. It was contagious, as joy often is when you’re around him, and he can’t help but mirror you.

The two of you giggling in each other's arms under the shoddy string lights in the basement that has grown to mean so much to you — even more so now. 

The distinct squeak of the floorboard by the basement door sounds off, snapping you both back into reality.

“I thought we were the only ones here.” You sit up, hastily reaching for your clothes and throwing them on. Ace lifts his hips and slides his back on before kissing you on the top of your head and getting up. “Ace–“

“Stay here.” He turns around the corner and out of sight as he starts to go up the stairs. After a few steps in, the door opens and you straighten up. “Oh, it’s you. You little fucking perv.”

The sound of Ace’s boisterous laughter sounds off as two pairs of legs start coming back down. Every nerve is set on fire, anxiety ripping into your chest at the thought of seeing the person who had been listening in on you and Ace fucking.

But the familiar sight of blonde hair snuffs all the worries away, the dastardly pair smiling at you with devious intent.

“I had to pick up so I couldn’t make it to the bar tonight,” Sabo said with a grin, holding up the bag of weed he must’ve scored. “Must be my lucky day.” 

“Must be.” Ace scoffs, making his way back to you. He plops back down into his spot next to you, immediately mouthing at your neck before his voice curls around your ear. You don ’t break eye contact with Sabo as he stalks closer, placing the bag on the table before taking off his gloves. “What do you say, baby? Wanna let him smoke us up and show him exactly what happened down here?”

tags: @bontensh0e @autumnstuffs

[luvjunie]

— headcanons. what life is like for miles!42

a/n: i honestly didn’t mean for these to get so angsty oopsies!! i kept adding on so they’re also very lengthy wc: 1,751

contains: mentions of grief

Everyone thinks he’s rude and impossible to approach—but that’s a common misconception. In reality, he’s actually quite shy and simply prefers to keep to himself. His quiet nature often causes him to come off ill-mannered, which is completely unintentional on his end and partially the fault of those who assume what he’s like instead of actually getting to know him.

He used to be open to making friends and spending time with peers, but after everyone found out his dad died— which was impossible to prevent considering the man who used to drive him to school now had a giant mural made in his honor— he began receiving a ridiculous amount of pitied stares in the halls, began hearing hushed whispers about how hard things must be for him at home now. And even though they were, he hated that he was being treated differently by those he once kept close to him, like a charity case. As if he were fragile and would break— like he often did when he was alone.

His old friends were supposed to be his distraction, something to take his mind off how he now had to grow up faster than he’d liked. Something to remind him that his trauma hadn’t aged him as much as he feared; that he truly was still a kid at heart. But instead, they served as a constant reminder of the worst thing he’d ever had to live through— skated around him like he’d blow up the second they said the wrong thing; responded with heartfelt condolences instead of laughing with him whenever he’d tell a funny story about his dad. So eventually, he drifted away from them and began keeping to himself all together.

Don’t put him in a box because of his prowler side hustle, this boy is smart as hell!! Especially with one parent now being gone and his mom struggling to pay the bills? He takes his academics very seriously, he has no choice. He has to get it out the mud somehow and he doesn’t have the privilege of skipping classes as much as 1610-miles does. He’s working two years above his grade level in AP Calculus and AP physics, and has been accused of cheating on his tests a couple times due to how fast he completes them, as well as the fact that he has never once asked a question from the seat he chose in the back of the room.

It’s not something anyone would expect, but he enjoys baking a lot and he’s damn good at it too. When he was younger, he’d spent one summer with his Mamá Lena (Rio’s mother), who had him in the kitchen helping her cook and bake almost everyday and it just stuck. It’s a secret talent of his that never really comes up in conversation, and that you wouldn’t know about unless you’ve seen him doing it. His banana bread muffins using a recipe he took months to perfect taste like the gods themselves made them, and he’ll slip one into his mom’s work lunch whenever he makes them because he knows they’re her favorite.

He’s a lover boy at heart, if you were to look into his playlist, the songs you’d find in there probably wouldn’t be what you’d expect. Listens to bobby bland, which was heavily influenced by his uncle, old school rap, and he really likes love songs from the 90s because they make him feel calm, and allow him to imagine what his life would be like if he could have something like what they’re singing about. He’s terrified he’ll never be able to experience that due to his inability to open up to others. And often, he doesn’t even try to express the emotions that are tough to swallow, a firm believer in the saying that ‘once you’re down, it’s hard to get back up.’

Keeps his room pretty clean. It’s probably the one and only thing he has control over in his life, a constant for him. His room is his safe-haven so he treats it as such. It’s basically the same as 1610’s, just with a more matured look, a lot less color and less expression. He unfortunately lost that spark for a lot of his interests, so you won’t see more than a small punching bag, some boxing gloves hanging from the doorknob and few stragglers in the form of posters he didn’t feel like taking down.

He doesn’t like to argue, at all. He hates fighting with anyone he loves and he’s very quick to forgive them or squash the disagreement all together now that his dad is no longer here. When Jeff died, they were still on rocky terms from their previous dispute and even while years have passed, Miles still has yet to forgive himself for that. So now, he usually lets bygones be bygones, and never lets a conversation end on a bad note.

Continued growing his hair out once he realized it was a way for him to bond and spend more time with his mom. Within the little availability they do have, between her working doubles at the hospital, him being pulled in every direction now that he’s the ‘man of the house’—uncle Aaron’s words— and having to do things he’s not proud of to assist her while still going to school during the day, they make the time. Miles only gets it braided by her, and he enjoys the talks they have when he’s sat on the floor between her legs with his back to her. And when she’s done, regardless of how ridiculously embarrassing it is, and how he’s now over a head taller than her, he always lets her pinch his cheeks and call him her ‘handsome little man’. He hasn’t looked at a pair of hair shears since.

On that note, he is very, very defensive when it comes to his mother. Miles is not the kind to go around beating people up just for kicks; mostly because he’s not that kind of person, but also because even if he wanted to— he can’t.

In preparation for stepping into the prowler role Uncle Aaron put Miles into boxing/m.m.a classes when he turned fourteen, and he took to the skill very quickly. So well, in fact, that his hands can now technically be considered deadly weapons in the eye of the law due to his extensive training— which means he could get slapped with a ridiculous assault charge that would have him doing some time in a juvenile correction facility over a simple fist fight. (if he’s not masked as the prowler obviously).

But, some kid in his history class thought it’d be funny to make a slick comment about how Mrs. Morales was ‘single’ and ‘up for grabs’ now that his dad had passed, and the situation ended with Miles suspended for a week after he’d basically thrown his desk over to get to the kid, his knuckles bruised, and a tirade of complaints from the boy’s mother about his now-rearranged nose. However, after hearing the disgusting comment he had made about Miles’ mom, she was kind enough to not press charges and forced her son to apologize to the both of them.

That woman is his saving grace, literally. She stepped up in ways he didn’t even know were possible after his dad died, barely taking time for herself to grieve because she wanted to make sure her little boy didn’t fall apart. He doesn’t let anyone disrespect her and that’s always made known by him. He’s a mama’s boy.

They kind of have a titfortat thing going on, him and his mom. Like how she always stops in to ask him how his day was, if school is going well or if he needs anything, even if the time isn’t ideal and she’s talking to a sleepy Miles at 1am in the morning who can barely keep his eyes open. Or how his uniform is always freshly ironed and laid out for him in the morning, regardless of how exhausted she is and how badly she wants to crawl into bed after her shift. Or how when he’s sick, she’ll drive all the way across town to one of the only fresh markets that sells yuca root and white yautia so she can make him sancocho (a traditional puerto rican dish). It’s the one thing she knows always makes him feel better.

And Miles does nice things for her, too. Like draping a blanket over her sleeping form when she dozes off on the couch in front of the TV. Or making sure her phone is plugged in, so her alarm goes off in the morning, because sometimes she knocks out before she can bring herself to do it. He even goes as far as to secretly slip some extra cash he’s made from a recent job into the ‘RENT’ jar she keeps on her dresser— dropping a hundred in every now and then when she’s not there to see him do it. She’s never once asked him for help, but the one time he took it upon himself to offer it, he was shot down in seconds, and was made to promise her that he wouldn’t worry about it ever again. Her exact words being “You’re too young to worry about something like this mijo, okay? You take all the money you make from your after school job, every single penny, and you save it. Mama’s got this.”

But sometimes, she doesn’t. And Miles knows that she wants to be strong for him. For them. But it takes two, he knows that as well, so he helps out anyway.

And with prayers that they’re not short— Rio counts everything in the rent jar towards the end of the month, and a string of celebratory whoops and hollers will always sound from her room when she realizes they surprisingly have some extra cash that’ll allow her to take some days off and relax for once, and maybe even do something fun together. He’ll listen from his room with a knowing smile, more than happy to let his contributions remain undisclosed to affirm her efforts of providing for them the best she can. With her energy so depleted from how demanding her job is, she’s never suspected it was him discreetly assisting, and chalked it up to her forgetting how much she’d mindlessly dropped in there after each paycheck.

[myrtlebranch1019]

Some thoughts on Solas’ rebellion

(Disclaimer. This is just my opinion as a consumer of the media. I welcome any analysis & discussion, but rude behaviour won’t be tolerated).

Not to be DA:TV critical again, (It may come as a surprise, but I actually love the game!) but I can’t help feeling that Solas’ rebellion, as narrated in Veilguard, fell a bit flat. Solas openly declared his rebellion against Elgar’nan simply because they proclaimed themselves gods. But it raises the question: if they had continued ruling as kings or queens and still committed the same atrocities, would Solas have acted differently? Was it a matter of terminology? (Personally, I don’t believe so, but there was so much emphasis put on the word, instead of what it entails).

From a storytelling perspective, it feels less compelling to have a rebellion against a tyrannical, corrupt regime without first showing the regime’s tyranny and corruption. Where was the buildup to justify Solas’ actions? This could have been solved by an additional mural between the “proclamation of godhood” and the second one with Mythal. Where Solas confides to Felassan (that might’ve not even been his name, at that point), about the atrocities the Evanuris committed against their own people, and the two of them agreeing to start the rebellion (it would have been such a cool introduction to Felassan as well!).

Another point of confusion is Solas’ claim that the war with the Titans was about "freedom." Nowhere in the game does it suggest the elves had any motives beyond exploiting the Titans for lyrium (which started with them creating bodies from it). That particular line felt disconnected from the narrative groundwork, and was contradicted by his warning to Mythal, as it shows that he was pretty aware of the real cause of the war, from the very start (Could it be cut content?).

Additionally, portraying Elgar’nan as overtly and unambiguously evil from the get go felt like a missed opportunity. It comes across as a convenient narrative shortcut rather than a choice that adds depth or moral ambiguity. A more morally grey portrayal, with a gradual descent into villainy, would have been more compelling. For this reason, I found Ghilan’Nain to be the more compelling villain between the two.

Although the DA writing team seems to have moved on from this storyline, I’d still love to see a novel exploring Arlathan in greater detail. Honestly, I wouldn’t even mind if they retcon a few elements—like reimagining Elgar’nan as a more morally complex character. Given that the memories we encounter are shaped by the Fade (which is inherently unreliable), it would even be one of those rare cases where a retcon would actually make sense. Either way, just because I’m criticising the elements in the story that don’t make sense to me, doesn’t necessarily mean that I don’t find it compelling or interesting enough to want more.

[curlyhairedbooklover]

What is the gender spilt of the murders in NBC Hannibal?

This is the third of three posts though this one works as a standalone, the first two are about the characters saying each other’s names and can be found here and here (I promise they are much more interesting than that summary makes them sound….) I decided to make this post because of this quote from Bryan Fuller; “And we are very conscious in the writer’s room; ‘Okay we just killed a woman, we have to kill a guy now.’” (47:20) And I always wondered how well they actually managed to do that…. thus I went out and collected the data and here it is!!

Adding a quick disclaimer that I did this for fun so I haven’t double checked it meaning there may be some mistakes!

As you can see from the data it turns out that they did kill less women than men during the show!!!! The total known kills in the show are 200 with 98 of them being men, 65 women and 37 were unknown!! I also kept track of who did the murder and those categories are: Hannibal, killer of the week, Will, and other.

To preface, I am only using “women” and “men” for my categories in this data as the show does not depict any trans or nb people (explicitly at least, there are a couple metaphorical/subtextual ones…) and if I could not tell the person’s gender or I simply did not see a body I categorised them as “unknown” 

You will be pleased to know that Hannibal killed 39.5 people (the 0.5 is Dolarhyde which I split between Will and Hannibal as it was a joint kill 😌)  over the show on screen and that 26.5 of them were men, 9 were women and only 4 were unknown! All I can say is that Hannibal is a feminist queen! That or women are significantly less rude in the Hannibal universe… although Freddie seems to defy that theory…. He does kill the most in s1 at 21 times! That essentially halves in s2 to only 12 times and again to 6.5 times in s3.. although it’s worth noting that I was unable to count his kills at Muskrat Farm as we don’t see any bodies on screen (though the script implies it was at least 7) and I only counted the Il Mostro kills that we saw evidence of instead of including the amount killed by the actual Il Mostro killer(s).. Not to mention that he spent half the season in prison! So all that said he did okay! Also I personally believe that his kill count across his lifetime is easily in the high hundreds, he has to meal plan if nothing else so let's put some respect on his name as Hannibal THEE Cannibal!

Unsurprisingly the killers of the week did make up most of the kills in the show, and killed 62 men, 56 women and 33 of unknown gender altogether. The killer of the week who did the most murder is James Grey at a whopping 50 but he did have a mural to create so that takes a lot of bodies! Second place goes to Lawrence Wells who murdered 17 people over his lifetime to create his totem pole, while Clark Ingram sneaks in at 3rd with 16 murders, although he only killed women and is the main reason why the women’s s2 kill count is higher than the men’s, boooooo! Poor Dolarhyde had to pick up all the slack in s3 as the only killer of the week but he did at least get 15 kills in! Sadly he was bound by the orders of the moon and could not do the suitable legwork 😔

Now Will DID get his own section of the table as is his right as the main character 😤 even if he only killed 3 people (which translates to 2.5 on the table as a result of having to share the dragon with Hannibal…). But they were all monumental kills, I mean Garret Jacob Hobbs haunted the rest of the show, Randall was turned into a magnificent tableau, and Francis was the culmination of his becoming and gave us That Ending!! It’s also not like he didn’t successfully manipulate multiple people into killing (or almost killing) people so I think he deserves extra points for those if only in our hearts!! Despite his low kill count he is the character we see commit murder the most on the show! He fantasises/imagines/hallucinates murdering 32 people across the show!! As the show moved away from the procedural nature he imagined killing less people; with s1 standing at 16, s2 moving down to 9 and then only 7 in s3! Just because most of the time he’s empathising with killers to recreate their kills doesn’t make the scenes any less sexy or iconic!!

The 7 other kills actually all come from women!! Another feminism win!! 3.3 is when Chiyoh killed her prisoner after being manipulated into it by Will. 3.7 sees Chiyoh kill again, this time’s it’s the 2 guys who were going to kill Jack and the 2 guards at Muskrat Farm, where we also we get Mason’s murder from Alana and Margot!! Then in 3.10 we get the flashback to Bedelia killing her patient! Go Girls!! Whooo!! 

In conclusion no one is surprised that there is a lot of murder in this show and Bryan Fuller while not exactly alternating each week in killing off each gender did not kill more women than men so arguably achieved his goal!

(part 1) (part 2) (part 3)

[queer-ragnelle]

All three! Apologies. I want to learn as much as I can about him.

You got it!

The first text that Galahad appears in is the Vulgate. His predecessors and legacy are first described in The History of the Grail; then he’s conceived, born, and raised during the Lancelot books; finally in Post-Vulgate he’s a knight on Grail Quest where he achieves his life’s purpose and passes away. Additionally, here’s A Companion to The Lancelot-Grail Cycle which may help you navigate the text.

Another book I suggest for your Galahad research is The Legend of the Grail by Nigel Bryant and Norris J. Lacy. It’s got a lengthy introduction about the history of the Grail story and touches on all the characters who’ve achieved it throughout Arthurian literary history including Perceval, Gawain, and of course, Galahad. Each chapter is taken from a different text and newly translated by Nigel Bryant for this publication. It’ll give you an idea of the progression of the Grail story which eventually led to Galahad and introduce you to some adjacent texts that may be of interest.

The next medieval text that includes Galahad is La Tavola Ritonda. It’s mostly a Prose Tristan story, but does cover the whole Grail Quest with a fun Italian Galahad named Galeazzo/Galasso. I enjoy this one a lot! Regarding Galasso specifically, it’s an interesting take on the character—he’s described as very gracious and he wields a cool named sword. Plus his purity grants him necromancy powers—at one point he convenes with the dead and doesn’t bat an eye. Just keeps on adventuring. Focused. In his lane. Pretty neat!

After that comes probably the best known Arthurian text, Le Morte d’Arthur by Sir Thomas Malory. I’ve attached the version of this story abridged by Keith Baines. It’s much easier to read with proper formatting to add quotation marks to dialogue and tighten up the prose. This one also comes with A Companion to Malory which I found exceedingly helpful in breaking down the sometimes convoluted plot threads and character dynamics present in Malory’s story. Many of the essays I’ve attached below relate to this text specifically.

Lastly I would be remiss to exclude The Arthurian Handbook by the goats Norris J. Lacy and Geoffrey Ashe. This volume not only covers medieval texts, but much of the art history that goes hand in hand with Arthurian literature too. There are many paintings, tapestries, stained glass windows, and murals featuring Galahad highlighted in this book. It also includes family trees, heraldry, and maps which can help you conceptualize things detailed in writing throughout the Vulgate.

Now I’m going to list essays without descriptions since there are so many and the titles are pretty self explanatory.

Absent Fathers, Unexpected Sons: Paternity in Malory’s Morte Darthur by Cory Rushton

Born-Again Virgins and Holy Bastards: Bors and Elyne and Lancelot and Galahad by Karen Cherwatuk

Constructing Spiritual Hierarchy through Mass Attendance in the Morte Darthur by David Eugene Clark

Disarming Lancelot by Elizabeth Scala

Galahad, Percival, and Bors: Grail Knights and the Quest for Spiritual Friendship by Richard Sévère

'A Mayde, and Last of Youre Blood': Galahad's Asexuality and its Significance in Le Morte Darthur by Megan Arkenberg

Gender and the Grail by Maureen Fries

Malory and Rape by Catherine Batt

Mothers in the Grail Quest: Desire, Pleasure, and Conception by Peggy McCracken

Seeing Is Believing and Achieving: Viewing the Eucharist in Malory's 'Sankgreal' by Sarah B. Rude

Wounded Masculinity: Injury and Gender in Sir Thomas Malory's "Le Morte Darthur" by Kenneth Hodges

And that about covers it! This should give you plenty to work with. Beyond these, we’re left with literature outside the medieval era, which is a different conversation. No doubt Alfred Lord Tennyson had a huge influence on how Galahad is perceived today, but that’s irrelevant to a discussion regarding medieval source material, and a topic for another time. Hope this helps you out and you learn all you want to about Galahad!

Take care!

[sonic-au-collision]

SONIC AU COLLISION: ROUND 2

click to see full image

Sonic Ghost Hunters AU belongs to @sharks3ye

Heart of Chaos belongs to @hyper-cryptic [link to masterpost]

Explore each world below the cut!

Sonic Ghost Hunters AU:

Just as the title suggests, their entire thing is about hunting ghosts! The world was somewhat rebuilt to be a bigger focus on paranormal rather than how sonic's original universe would be. Changed to be more realistic than not — having powers isn't normal.

Sonic got involved initially for simply the thrill of it, Tails is there mostly to make sure he doesn't die or something and knuckles was essentially bullied into joining. Amy barges in later as a news reporter after finding out about them. They all thought of her as a nuisance for a long time before she officially joined the gang (Sonic and her still bicker to this day).

And yes many other characters also are too involved n stuff its not jst these 4 (人^з^)-☆

Heart of Chaos:

Heart of Chaos AU is formed around a prophecy made by Tikal, one about a hero that can balance peace and chaos, who will be accompanied by an equidna warrior that will treat them like kin. This au idea is based on the super sonic mural :]

Of this prophecy comes out Sonic, later renamed to Spikes, years later after Tikal's wish. The Master Emerald itself taking the form of a new life, a being of chaos energy and flesh. Spikes is ""born"" in a hidden chao garden in Angel Island, and is taken care of by Tikal's spirit, as she is connected to Spikes, but so is Chaos. Later, around when Spikes is 4yr, she entraps herself with Chaos in the chao garden's pond so that Chaos possibly create a doomsday even using Spikes' body. The pond becomes frozen solid where not even the hottest summers can melt it.

Once Knuckles and Spikes meet, when he is around 10 years old, this kickstarts the journey back to Angel Island, which gets rudely interrupted by Eggman releasing Chaos, and SA1 events happen. This is where Tikal and Spikes get reunited once again and she tells both Spikes and Knuckles in-depth about the prophecy and the war. She informs them the great danger that Spikes and everyone in Mobius is: if Spikes' chaos energy were to become unbalanced, it would corrupt itself, the chaos emeralds and everything in it's path, causing the destruction of Mobius itself as it would transform Spikes into an almost unrecognizable version of himself: Dark Spikes.

This is where I start jumping around the timeline and doing my own fun stuff with this concept.

Three important arcs in Heart of Chaos are SA2, Sonic 06, ShTH and particularly Sonic Unleashed and Sonic Forces. :>

[theunvanquishedzims]

Okay, I'm making mummies the new monster du jour

We all know the story: daring adventurer and nerdy historian discover hidden treasure in a tomb, and just need to survive the undead and their curses long enough to douse themselves in holy water or whatever to sally off into the sunset with their bags of gold and live happily ever after.

What about the mummy's side?

You're dead. You've been dead for millennia, had your organs removed and rites read, been embalmed and dressed and laid to rest amid vast and well-appointed rooms chock-full of wealth. You strode into the afterlife like the king that you are, and have been reigning ever since. The river flows with milk and honey, eternal virgins attend your every physical desire, and your generosity knows no bounds as you shower endless wealth upon your adoring people.

And then...it stops. The river dries up, sour milk rotting in rivulets across the sticky bedrock. The maidens have vanished one by one, carried off by callous, disrespectful hands. The gold that once towered in piles around your palace disappeared much more quickly, not a single coin or ingot left. And your people turn on you. Not in anger, but in fear, hands clawing you, gaping mouths screaming soundlessly, bodies flattening and fading like living murals.

Anubis snatches you out of the waking nightmare, to something much worse: judgement. What? You have been judged already! Your heart weighed against a feather, the wisdom and love you so carefully curated in life keeping it light enough to guarantee your safe passage into an eternal paradise.

Except not so eternal, it seems. Robbers, he tells you. You cannot believe it. Even the bravest, most brazen, most despicably faithless dogs would not disturb your rest. Raid your tomb, yes, take your finery, yes, strip your body of its ornaments and peel the gold off the sarcophagus, perhaps, but not you. Your body in its wrappings, your organs in their jars, should be left alone. They could dump your empty bones on the floor of the pyramid and walk away with every material possession your people saw fit to entomb you with, but nothing of consequence would be taken from you in the afterlife.

They have not just taken your possessions, says Anubis. They have taken you.

Taken the sarcophagus? Surely they would remove your body to lighten the load--

They have taken you, he says.

Removed me to some lesser grave, to set up some new king in a glorious pyramid he himself could not afford to build? Tacky, and rude, but it has been done before--

They have taken you, he stresses again.

...have I fallen so far out of favor with my people, with Egypt herself, that they would strip me of my title and my rest?

Your god crouches, and looks you gently in the eyes, and says again, They have taken you.

And then he adds: You have ten days to return.

And you awake on a boat, a horrific thing of metal and smoke, surrounded by treasures packed in wooden crates and straw, admired by an endless parade of foreigners who ooh and ahh over your dead body and do not, cannot understand what they are costing you, making you their macabre trophy of the dullest hunt you can imagine.

You will teach them what a real hunt is.

(The rest of the movie is a timed horror-thriller as the hero, trapped in his own desiccated corpse, shambles around London trying to find his heart and return to Egypt, while attacked on all sides by monster hunters and grave robbers who don't understand that they're the bad guys. It is an epic struggle to stay the course and not fall into a vengeful frenzy, to keep his heart pure enough to pass the feather again, to FIND his heart in the first place.)

[guitarstringed-scars]

colored pencils-koushi sugawara

masterlist

one:

you pack your notebook, pencils, laptop, and any other item you can possibly think of into your bag. it’s like you are 8 years old again, and getting ready for your first day of school, shoving all of your fresh new school supplies into the same dirty backpack from last year as your mom shouts at you to hurry up from the kitchen. this time around, there is no one to shout at you, all of your roommates fast asleep in their rooms. it’s 7 am, no wonder none of them are awake.

theres also no need to hurry. you’ve planned out this day plenty of times in your head, and now that you are all packed you have 15 minutes to spare before you need to leave the apartment to make it to the classroom on time. your version of on time is exactly 7 minutes early. early enough to make a good impression, but not so early that the teacher wont be ready for you.

as you throw yourself across the couch your shared cat, fern, looks up at you with pleading eyes. you let out a quiet groan before standing up from your comfortable position, walking over to the cabinet, and putting some food into her bowl. you kneel down next to her, petting her head as she licks it up.

“greedy, spoiled cat.” you coo quietly.

with one final pet, you stand up, grab your things, and head out the door. you still have 9 minutes before you technically need to leave, which gives you just enough time to stop at the convenience store below your apartment and get a coffee. you decide that the train ride will be just enough time to drink it. it would be rude to show up with a coffee just for yourself, so you make a mental note to ask your teacher and the other student teacher which kind they like for tomorrow.

the other student teacher, you think, i wonder what they’ll be like. i know that this elementary school is in the middle of two universities so they share student teachers from different schools, so it has to be someone from there. especially since no one else in my class has complained about it…

every single person you've met goes through your mind as the machine whirs, filing your styrofoam cup with coffee. you pick up the scalding hot cup and begin to fill it with creamer. the sounds of the morning rush hour pick up outside as you check out with the exhausted cashier and head out the automatic doors.

you spend your short train ride checking the time every 15 seconds. you're still on track to be early. the subway car is full, everyone in their own world. the man holding the hand of a child with a uniform and backpack on, the woman reading her book, and you, looking down at your new shoes and skirt, feeling like a kid again.

you step off of the train, heading up the subway stairs as you enter the schools address into your map app. you don't spend much time in this area, and you feel a little out of place in your colored clothing which clashes against the majority black, white, and beige.

you finally spot the entrance to the school. you stop for one second before you go in, taking a deep breath, and then open the door. the halls of the school are empty for the most part, only being occupied by a few teachers. the walls are covered in children's art scattered across bulletin boards, and murals on every corner.

you follow the signs pointing to the principals office, turning the handle to enter. you're greeted by the front desk secretary.

"good morning! you must be the other student teacher!" she has an infectious bubbly energy, you notice.

"yes, my name is y/n, it's nice to meet you!" you smile.

"so nice to meet you as well, you can just have a seat over there." she gestures with her hand to the waiting area. its occupied by a man your age with silver hair, and you assume this is the other student teacher. you sit down in the chair right next to him, quickly leaning over with your hand out.

"hi, i'm y/n l/n."

"koushi sugawara!" he smiles, eagerly shaking your hand. "so you're the other student teacher?"

"yep! i was surprised to see we'd be sharing." you reply.

"oh yeah, me too. nothing against you, but i was a little disapointed."

you laugh a bit.

"yeah, i was too, but we should be able to find a good balance. hopefully there are plenty of kids in the class."

sugawara opens his mouth to respond, but is quickly cut off by the creaking of a door. a short woman steps out from behind it, and greets the two of you.

"hello! come on in!"

you both quickly shoot up from your seats, rushing to the room. koushi steps to the side, letting you into the office first, then closes the door behind you two. you both sit in the seats across from the desk and yet again you are reminicing on your elementary school years. sitting in the principals office after a small spat on the playground.

you glance at sugawara through the corner of your eye. you notice his mole on his cheek, and the way his hair falls. hes quite pretty, you think. your thoughts are interupted by the principal beginning to speak.

"well, my name is mrs. akiyama, i'm the principal here. you will both be assigned to kindergarten class 4, which is room 1024. i'll walk you both there once its time. your teacher, ms. kato, will be there to greet you, and go over all assignments with you. any questions?"

"nope!" you both chime in, turning to look at each other in surprise about your synchronization.

"alright then, right this way!" mrs. akiyama stands up and leads the two of you out of her office, and down the long hallway, before stopping in front of a classroom. the nameplate reads 1024, and underneath the numbers is the name "ms. kato". the door of the classroom and the bordering walls are empty and drab, compared to the other doors throughout the hallway.

ms. akiyama pulls the handle and opens the door to the room, where you are greeted by the smell of coffee, and even emptier walls, almost void of color. it looks nothing like a kindergarten classroom.

your trio is quickly recognized by who you assume to be ms. kato.

ms. kato is a woman with messy, frazzled brown hair tied up into a braid, and the only sense of color on her outfit is her navy blue shoes. she looks exactly like the rest of the people outside of the school.

the colors of mrs. akiyamas pink blazer, sugawaras green cardigan, and your orange pants are contrasted from ms. kato and her drab room, and you begin to feel a pit form in your stomach as you think about it. there is little joy in this room, you decide.

"you must be ms. l/n and mr. sugawara." ms. kato greets, with her lips pressed into a straight line. you hope this is her attempt at a smile, but you think she might just not be too excited to see you two.

you and sugawara both nod, and stick out your hands to be shaken. she leaves both of you hanging.

mrs. akiyama seems to take notice of the awkwardness, and excuses herself from the room.

"look," ms. kato starts once she hears the door close behind the principal, "i only really asked for a student teacher because this work is getting too much for me. when i originally signed up for this job, i wanted to teach year 6, but they stuck me with the kindergarten. i've been stuck her for 5 years now, and haven't been able to escape. i'm finally switching next year, so i really just needed someone to take some of the workload. i guess i got lucky and got two of ya."

you blink.

"what i'm trying to say," she starts again, "is you'll be getting the most hands on teaching of anyone from either of your schools."

no, not really! you think. this is going to be bad.

a/n: i love this fic already having too much fun writing it.

taglist: @mylahrins @wyrcan @phoenix-eclipses

[th3-c0rps3-r0gu3]

Shadows.

Chapter one.

pairings: Natasha X Wanda, Natasha X umbrakinetic child!reader, Wanda X umbrakinetic child!reader, Avengers X umbrakinetic child!reader.

Warnings: swearing. That's it I think lmk if there's more.

Summary: Natasha and Wanda are used to the dark. But what happens when the dark isn't what they thought it was.

Umbrakinetic: the ability to move, manipulate,summon or control shadows or the absence of light. Can move through shadows or turn entire being into shadow.

3rd person.

Natasha woke up before Wanda which was unusual as her wife was always up before her and making breakfast. However Natasha often prefered when she woke up first. She enjoyed watching her wife sleep serenely. It was comforting and Wanda always looked absolutely adorable when she was asleep. However Natasha had things to do this morning and that started with a run. Natasha's days always started with a run no matter what.

The wind was cold against Natasha's skin as she jogged down the familiar streets. She ran her usual run. Natasha was a woman of rutiene and she liked it that way. If Natasha established a habit then that habit stuck. Unless it was Wanda. And today it was Wanda. Wanda was a woman who was proud to say that her and rutiene didn't belong in the same sentence unless it was with cooking. And Wanda being Wanda she had begged Natasha to try something new. Something different. And so now Natasha stood outside a small bookshop.

The bookshop had been a place Natasha had breezed by on her runs multiple times. However she hadn't taken the time to notice it properly. It was a rather wild bookshop. There was no order to it. There were murals on the walls of wizards fighting witches or dragons and knights in shining armour saving princesses. The bookshelves looked to be made of a dark oak wood and had intricate carvings detailed in them. And this was what Natasha saw through a window. And so deciding this is exactly what Wanda had meant Natasha entered the bookshop.

The smell of old and new books filled Natasha's sinuses. Somehow the whole store looked much more magical than it had outside the window. A kind looking woman in her mid 30s looked up behind a counter and smiled at natasha.

"hello there what can I do for ya?"

The first thing Natasha noticed was she had a thick Australian accent.

"Nothing in just looking around."

Natasha responded politely.

The woman simply nodded and smiled at her. There was only one other person in the store at the moment. A rather battered looking teen. Either 14 or 15 years old. However Natasha seemed to stare at the odd looking child. She had skin so pale one would think it white and hair blacker than the colour itself. But what intrigued Natasha most was the girls eyes. They were a pale grey blue but they almost seemed clear. Like coloured glass. The teen seemed to sense Natasha looking at her and looked up and straight at Natasha before shrinking into the bean bag she was in and burying herself back into the book she had in her hands. Her hands were another curious thing. They had black leather gloves on them. Looking away quickly Natasha moved to look at the shelves. She quickly managed to find the fantasy section and tries to find one Wanda might enjoy.

After a while Natasha has found 3 books. A fantasy one called six of crows by Leigh bardugo. A murder mystery book called a good girls guide to murder by holly Jackson and another fantasy book called the witch collector by Charissa weaks. Natasha held the books and walked over to the counter. The Australian woman looked up from the book she was reading herself and took Nats.

"these be all then?"

She asked while scanning the books.

"yeah."

Natasha glanced back at the teen in the beanbag behind her. She couldnt help it. Her appearance was so peculiar.

"if its not rude who's the teen?"

Natasha asked looking back at the woman.

"that's y/n. And if you dare say she looks freaky I will not hesitate to hurt you. Poor kids been through enough."

Natasha raised her eyebrow.

"what do you mean?"

"She's been living in the streets since she was 8 years old. And she refuses to talk about before that so one can only assume the worst."

The woman responded handing Natasha back her books. Natasha glanced back at the teen. The girl had looked rough before and now Natasha knew why. Concerned Natasha turned back to the Australian woman.

"So where does she stay?"

The Aussie womans eyes fluttered over to y/n before she sighed.

"she mostly sleeps where ever she can that's sheltered. I don't know about food though. I let her stay here and read even after the stores closed but she helps with inventory to compensate for it."

Natasha nodded.

"do you think if I offered her a home she'd except?"

The womans face saddened.

"I doubt it. I offered her the spare room to my own apartment but she refused. Said staying extra at the shop was enough. You can try though."

"I will. Thanks for the books... uhm"

"Sandra. My name is Sandra."

"thanks Sandra"

Now filled with determination Natasha took the books and walked over to the teen and sat down in the opposite beanbag. Seeing her the teen hid behind her book again.

"hello there."

Natasha said softly trying not to scare the kid. Y/n just looked at Natasha obviously trying to figure out why she was talking to her.

"hello"

Y/n responded quietly. Natasha figured she would be shy. She glanced down to the book in y/ns hands.

"what book are you reading?"

Y/n searched Natasha's face again before responding slowly and even quieter than before.

"Two can keep a secret by Karen m McManus."

Natasha nodded.

"So what brings you to be reading at a bookstore instead of a library?"

Y/n looked down at her book.

"I'm not aloud in the library."

She murmurs. This makes Natasha frown. The library is supposed to be for everyone.

"y'know your a bit young to be out in your own."

Natasha said. It was obvious small talk to build up to offering a home wasn't gonna work with the kid so Natasha decided to get to the point. Y/n frowns at Natashas words.

"I'm 15."

She said somewhat defensively.

"still young. A kid like you shouldn't be in the streets. I may not know you but I'm sure you know me."

"your the black widow..."

Y/n said softly.

"mhm. And I know that whatever you've gone through is probably shit. There's space at the tower for you to stay."

Y/n seemed shocked and her head shot up and she stared at natasha.

"I can't stay with you... your a superhero and I'm a freak..."

Natasha frowned at her words.

"I'm not gonna force you to come with me but I am going to tell you that whoever called you a freak has made a major misconception. But the offer still stands. I'll come back here tomorrow at 10 am."

Natasha said. Y/n just seemed more shocked before she gently nodded. Natasha stood up and glanced one last time at y/n before leaving the bookshop.

As Natasha walked back to the tower the realisation of what she had done hit. She had just offered a homeless teen a place to stay and now she needed to convince the others to let her keep that offer up. This was not going to be easy.

A/n: and that's the end of the first chapter. Lmk if you want this to continue though I'll finish it anyway because ideas are spinning through my head rn.

[joelsmochi]

closer

rating: E 18+ pairing: tortured artist!Joel x black!girly!f!reader summary: Joel hits a creative block with a mural, leading him down a road of discovery and intimacy in ways he's never felt before. warnings: au/no outbreak, unspecified drug use + marijuana use, unprotected piv, sex while under the influence, consenting adults!!! age is not specified but we can assume joel is mid 40s, brief mentions of death + abusive relationships, ooc!Joel (he is not the same person he was 1/2 pill ago…), third person pov but most of it is from joel’s perspective, very fluffy sex they may have said i love you wc: 5.3k a/n: Happy New Year everybody! This was inspired by Closer by Goapele and Prisoner by The Weeknd & Lana Del Rey plus I was thinking too hard about the time I ate an edible that had too much THC for me to handle and I produced whatever this is. Hopefully tortured artist!Joel hasn’t happened yet because I felt creative with this one…

masterlist

ᝰ

The frayed paintbrush relentlessly slapped against the concrete wall, coating the discolored brick in thick layers of different browns, reds, and whites. Opaque smoke blurred his vision, yet he only let it inspire the strokes of his hand, creating a beautiful image that wasn’t clear to him yet.

Before he knew it, the sun had set; he sat on his hard leather sofa, massaging the twinge that had settled into his wrist while his face wore a disappointed scowl. He was displeased with his progress, the blob that was already half dry on the wall of his loft.

A rumble snuck into his stomach, forcing him to stand up and absentmindedly walk into the kitchen area. However, his disappointment grew when he opened the fridge to find nothing suitable for a proper meal. As he glared at the half-eaten yogurt and scarce 24-pack of beer, he decided to go and get Chinese food.

He lit up a cigarillo to accompany his walk around the block and across the street, tossing whatever was left into a sewer drain just in time for him to open the door to the restaurant.

“Miller,” a worker greeted with a smile, “your usual?”

Unknown to him, the smell of his cigar caught the attention of a waiting customer. She waited until he was done chatting with the employee to ask, “Cream?”

He did a double take, unsure if she was talking to him at first. She was tall, maybe five foot nine or five foot ten, with big hair and brown skin, and dressed in something far too lovely for her to be eating Chinese for dinner.

“I’m sorry?”

“You smell like cream-flavored cigars,” she said, sounding amused.

He felt unsure of how to respond, not wanting to seem rude, watching her diamond earrings gleam from the low yellow lighting. He paid for his food and answered. “Yeah, just had one.”

“Black and mild or swisher?”

“Blacks,” he answered, growing a little uneasy from the stranger questioning him despite the mundane topic. 

“My favorite,” she boasted, earning another look from him after he put his change in the tip jar. “They’re much smoother.”

The man didn’t respond, only offering a tight smile in return. The pair stood a few feet apart silently, listening to people chattering and utensils clanking behind the counter as they waited.

She smelled like expensive brown sugar perfume and cocoa butter, a sickly sweet combination that tickled his sense of smell. Her scent was reminiscent of a freshly baked cookie a kid couldn’t wait to dive into. She was dressed in a lovely skirt and a prissy top paired with a mix of gold and silver rings and necklaces and bracelets — two colors he usually hated paired together, but somehow, she made it blend beautifully.

Her makeup was soft, or so it seemed. It wasn’t too heavy, but her eyebrows were bold, as was the line drawn around her vermilion border. He noticed she blinked slowly but held her eyes wide as if she anticipated something to happen.

The employee’s voice brought the two adults out of their daydreams.

“Beef and broccoli and chow mein?” They asked.

The artist waited kindly for the woman to grab her bagged styrofoam container before reaching for his own; he walked a few feet behind her, suddenly feeling bad for his cold demeanor earlier once they were outside.

“You want one?” He called after her before she got too far away; she turned around with a frown, confused at his offering.

He reached into his pocket and held up a couple of fresh cigars. She grinned, secretly desperate for a smoke. Her heels clicked against the pavement as she strutted back towards him. She strutted like a cat, one leg crossing the other.

She allowed the man with the messy hair the privilege of placing the stick between her plump lips, keeping her eyes on his as he watched where he was lighting.

She took a long drag, waiting for him to get his cigarette lit before asking, “What’s your name?”

His eyebrow cocked up, and if she didn’t know any better, she’d say he was amused. But he answered anyway.

“Joel.” He sharply inhaled; she responded with her name and a smile, thick smoke spilling out from the spaces between her teeth as she gently exhaled. “You from around here?”

“No,” she said, “I like to travel. See new places. Find new things… Right now, I’m fixated on museums—art museums precisely.”

That piqued his interest. “Art? What kind of art d'you like?”

“Any art that speaks to me.”

Joel smirked at her answer as if it were funny. “Oh yeah? What speaks to you?”

Instead of her usual quick response, she pondered momentarily, trying to locate proper words to avoid rambling. “Suffering or excitement.”

He could only narrow his eyes at the vague response, but she spoke again before he could ask for an elaboration.

“You must like art,” she guessed correctly.

“I’m uh…” And there’s a long pause; the rhetorical shame of confessing what his job was had risen, but for what purpose? After a short internal debate, he finally admitted, “I’m an artist myself.”

Her eyes widened with excitement, which Joel found adorable. She asked him various questions: what kind of art he created, how long he’d been painting, his favorite creations…

He admired her interest in the subject and how she listened carefully and intently, clearly trying to understand as much as possible about him.

“How do you stay inspired all the time?”

Shit.

Joel’s mind ran blank for a few seconds, and he watched the woman’s face contort into confusion. She worried she’d brought up an unhealed wound and persisted that he didn’t need to answer.

“No, it’s nothing like that,” Joel assured, “I’ve honestly been at a block lately…”

“Oh.” She sounded relieved. “Do you do anything to help get over that?”

He sucked on his teeth as he thought of an appropriate answer, yet nothing came to mind. He couldn’t lie even if he wanted to. “Just wait for it to pass.”

“…Could... Could I see your art?”

For the first time, she seemed to be shy. Her teeth grimaced, and eyebrows crooked out of fear of rejection, but Joel was sure he was far more nervous than she was.

"Uh, sure..." He said hesitantly. "What I have at home is nothing special, but-"

"I'm sure it's beautiful," she interrupted. "I'm free right now if that works."

ᝰ

This was unlike him: inviting a girl he'd just met into his home. She had something that enamored him. What was it, he wondered with each passing minute, was it her beauty or curiosity? Was it the way she smiled or how sweet her voice sounded? He couldn't ponder for much longer as she had already begun complimenting his home.

"A loft," she said while taking in the brick walls of his home that were littered with several paintings that all seemed to be works in progress. "It's cozy." Joel watched as her painted nails gently trailed over the armrest of his stiff couch just before she reached up to feel a painting of what seemed to be a little girl.

His staring made the woman laugh, and while he could admit he was being a bit precarious, he just wanted to ensure she wouldn't mishandle that particular piece. She didn't. She just reached to stroke the texture meant to resemble the girl's curly hair; she touched it for only a moment before pulling away and turning around.

After realizing the painting was sacred to him, she asked, "Is that someone you know?"

His shoulders and chest rose as he sucked in a melancholic breath, and she couldn't ignore the sadness that swarmed his eyes.

The woman was satisfied with no answer and moved on quickly. "May I eat with you?"

Joel gave her a stiff nod, his thoughts still filled with the traumatic memories of the girl in the photo.

They sat quietly and slowly ate their food, the lack of heat from their containers making the meal invaluable. The silence comforted him as it felt much different than the cold silence he was used to. No. Her silence was warm and comforting... Like a mother caring for a sick or sad or sleeping child. She didn't offer any awkward glances or stiff smiles. She didn't hide her joy or her optimism despite his distant demeanor.

Her eyes weren't as big as they were just an hour ago. Perhaps the food made her sleepy, he thought.

"Where ya from?" He figured he should at least be a good host.

"Rockport. It's a small town in Massachusetts. You?"

"Born and raised here," he answered.

"Really?" She squinted at him while poking at broccoli with a fork. "Never wanted to leave?"

Shrugging, he said, "Thought about leaving, never needed to."

"Is that painting supposed to be the same girl?"

She pointed to the spontaneous mural partly done on the big red wall opposite to them. He looked at it, forming different opinions and thoughts on his work.

"No. Not entirely sure what that one is yet," he grunted. "Needed to paint something, but I can't quite figure it out yet."

"You should do a self-portrait," she suggested with a wide grin. "I'd love to see how you see yourself."

"Nah, if I did that, it'd just be a college-ruled notebook with a bunch'a scribbles in it."

She chuckled at his pessimism, gaining a confused look from him. "So? Maybe someone would see something between the scribbles."

"I don't like painting myself," he said firmly.

She couldn't care less about his seriousness; she saw his need for perfection and keeping busy with work. Seeing the distress on the average person's face wasn't unfamiliar to her; all she wanted to do was take it away.

"Your art is lovely, Joel," she spoke truthfully, "For what it's worth, I think you'd paint yourself beautifully."

He chewed on his bottom lip for a few seconds, taking in her warm smile and gentle words.

"You're very kind," he admitted, "thank you."

The temptress walked and stood in front of the mural to admire the thick blobs of paint that were still tacky. She saw the vision but just as quickly saw the block.

"You seriously do nothing to help the creative blocks?"

With a slight frown, he shook his head to confirm. "Just try working on something else until I find my rhythm again."

"Why not? Why not music or movies or going outside for more than Chinese on a Thursday evening?"

Feeling a bit antagonized, Joel scowled at her. "I paint what's in my head, not around me."

"Maybe that's the problem." She sat close to him on the floor and nudged his shoulder with hers. "Maybe you've painted all you know, and you're stuck right now because there's nothing new inside that pretty little head a'yours."

"Flattery only gets you so far, sweetheart."

"It got me in your apartment, did it not?"

His scowl grew, and he felt no need to hide his annoyance from her.

"Just tryna help," she smirked.

"I don't need your help."

"Clearly not," she simpered; she pulled a bag of ground weed from her purse and held it up for him to see. "Maybe you need Mary's help."

"You're fucking joking."

"It helps me," she said softly. "When I don't smoke, I'm a very anxious and shy person."

Joel's eyes fell to her hands, which were beginning to work the weed into a paper very carefully, watching her roll it precisely. "Really?" He asked incredulously.

"Mock me all you want, Joel, but I must say that even a couple of hits can make you feel ten times better."

"Not interested," he quipped.

"Well... If weed isn't your speed, then maybe..." She licked the paper shut and placed it on the table, then reached in her purse again for a bag containing different colored pills. "...ecstasy would be more fitting."

"You expect me to take drugs from a stranger?" He asked.

She leaned her chin on his shoulder and whispered, "I'm no stranger, Joel. I'm your inspiration."

He found himself laughing at her choice of words, not paying her any mind as she climbed into his lap. She placed a pill between the rows of her teeth and bit down to break it in half, offering him whichever half was smaller.

"You don't have to if you really don't want to... But it will help."

Her voice was so enticing that Joel was sure he was already high from the affection she persisted in giving him.

"Help me paint?" He asked, still not entirely convinced.

"Help you create."

Joel thought about it: he had nothing left in his life to live for other than his talent for painting, and he even felt that it was being wasted on unproductive days and constant disappointments.

For months, all he wanted was to create one last masterpiece and to feel proud of it. If all it took was to give in to some strange form of peer pressure, then that's just what needed to be done.

Almost an hour later, however, his worries about art were set aside.

With his head lying in the pretty woman's lap, he tried remembering why he had been so angry before. He let her stroke the curly hairs on his head and trace his lips over and over again.

"You're doing good," she cooed gently.

"You're very, um," he swallowed between his heavy breaths, "nurturing."

He noticed the woman's eyebrow shift upwards, and an amused hum left her mouth. "Hm. No one's ever said that before."

"Really?" Joel began to realize how dry his throat became. "Well, it's a compliment."

"Thank you," she giggled. "Thirsty?"

"Mmhm," he moaned.

Reaching over to grab the water bottle on the floor, she took a long sip as she felt parched before holding his head up to help him drink some. He felt her sticky lip gloss around the rim and found himself latching even harder onto the plastic container.

She let him drink as much as he needed before closing the bottle and helping him stand up, urging him to paint something.

He felt a wave of heat envelope his body, the hairs along his arms and neck dancing along his skin. He wanted to laugh, but nothing was funny, so he tried to hold it in. He followed her around the room and watched the ends of her hair bend and curl around her arms. She opened a few paint bottles, squeezing some onto his stained palette and holding the brush out for him. She couldn't help but laugh at the elation in his wide eyes; he was definitely in a much better mood than before.

He grabbed her wrist and pulled her closer, not bothering with the meaningless utterance of words and just giving into his need to kiss her. She wasn't surprised by the gesture, inviting his tongue into her mouth for more. She tasted the cigar on his breath and lips, ignoring how bitter it seemed.

The paintbrush smeared itself against Joel's elbow, causing him to jolt back in shock, only to laugh when he realized the purple-coated paintbrush was bending on its own. He took it from her hand and approached the wall, immediately getting to work.

While he worked and ranted about how the piece was "basically painting itself," she undressed slowly while prancing around the room and humming to some tune that found its way into her head. Joel saw the colors blend and separate, waiting for the wall to respond with where his next brush stroke should be.

The woman found herself looking at that painting of the little girl again. She was unable to quiet her curiosity.

"Is she your daughter?"

Her voice broke the string tying him to his work, and he stumbled around a bit before turning around and facing her with an asking face. He let his tools go and followed the sound of the siren, looking deeply into her wide eyes.

"She was my daughter," he admitted freely, something he refused to do as often as possible.

"Where is she?"

He noted how concerned she seemed and took it as an invitation to confide in her.

“She uh… She died ‘bout ten years ago.”

Joel felt her fuzzy arms weave around him, encompassing him with a sense of comfort. It was the first time he could talk about the tragedy without bursting into tears. Her lips pressed warm kisses into his forehead and temples as she attempted to bathe him in consolation.

He removed his head from the crook of her neck to look at her face. Her eyes, although appearing a bit lopsided, were still wide and curious, like she was still waiting for something. He tried to focus on just her, but all he wanted was to paint wanted was to paint wanted was to paint wanted was to pai-

A shriek broke him out of his trance: the woman seemed surprised about the splatter of paint that got on her bare chest and arms. Joel blinked rapidly and tried to decipher what had happened between talking about his daughter and... Now.

Had time managed to escape him? Was he too out of it to realize that? And who put on the jazz music?

The brown liquid dripped down her body and hid her nipples; he found the motion fascinating. How happy she seemed to be coated in the cold dispense helped him feel more at ease and join in laughing with her. Her hair, frizzier than before, somehow gave the illusion that she was underwater. It just flowed so freely.

"You are a mermaid in the most beautiful depths of the sea," Joel shouted dramatically.

"Wh-what?" She giggled before smearing a finger-lengths of paint onto his forehead.

His hand absentmindedly poked the paintbrush into her collarbone, tickling her in the process. "You are free... And kind... Did you turn the music on?"

And she's giggling again. God, he couldn't get enough of that sound. She was a siren, manipulating him with her songs of joy and laughter.

"You told me to," she answered; only Joel took a few minutes to process it. She covered her hand in yellow paint, cradled his cheek, and let the print of her hand stick to his face as if she were marking her territory. "I'm glad I met you tonight, Joel," she said quietly.

Instinctively, he beckoned for her to close the space between them. "Oh, yeah? Why's that?"

Her arms snaked around his neck as she looked at his aura and vented. "I was supposed to go on a date tonight with my ex-boyfriend. He wasn't the greatest guy. Abusive. Angry. But my parents love him, and they say he's changed, so... I wanted to try again."

Joel's drug-induced nosiness got the better of him. "Why didn't you?"

She sighed, a smirk daring to grow on her face. "I wanted to make him feel stupid."

He wrapped his arms around her waist at her wise words, holding her close as if she would blow away had he exhaled too hard.

"M'glad I met you too," he admitted. "Did I spill paint on you?"

"Just a bit, but it was my fault. You were in a daze," she admitted bashfully.

The pair took a few minutes to look at each other, feel their spirits, and soak up the serenity between the small gap in their lips.

"Do you wanna fuck?"

Those words would have left Joel speechless in any other scenario at any other time on any other day. But he was high out of his fucking mind, and once his brain had fully processed her question, he answered with a short and sweet "Yes."

He waited patiently as the vixen undressed him, and she took her precious time; her knuckles grazing the wiry hair along his pelvis sent hot shivers across his abdomen before his jeans pooled around his ankles. Lifting his arms to aid in the removal of his shirt, he flinched and giggled childishly when she placed a kiss or two along his collarbone.

She gasped at the nails digging into her sides, his hands begging for more because his voice was too weak to. The desperation grew in his eyes, and he wanted to feel close to her. To feel all of her depths and shallows and curves and grooves. Her essence rendered him helpless. The smell of her perfume was even more sickly than he recalled, but all the much more sweet.

Their bodies danced onto the floor, bending and curling around each other like snakes.

"I was always afraid of this," he spoke as she worked her hand around him, not that he needed it. "Feeling close with someone. After my last... You know."

She smiled at his words, telling him with her eyes: I know.

"I was so scared to feel close to someone..." She admitted. "After him, I wanted to be left alone. Untouched."

"What changed that- oh, fuck," Joel moaned, feeling her wetness encapsulate him.

"Someone found me, ha-ah, hmm... And took care a'me, just like I'm doing for you."

Joel clawed at her back, reaching for her hair, but his arms were too heavy, with the quick rushes of euphoria soaring through his veins. Her moans and pretty little sounds coaxing him into blindness. He couldn't see her face, covered in the universe of her bangs littered with stars and planets, until she leveled her happy face with his. The shimmer in her glossy eyes let him know she enjoyed this just as much as him.

"You are the most beautiful woman I have ever met, ever s-seen," he moaned.

Finally able to lift his arms, he used them to hold her face gently. He admired her refreshing beauty. She moaned something about how sweet he was, though it went unregistered to him.

All he could feel was her thighs flexing against his hips every time she rode down, and he felt his cock brush that sensitive sponge deep inside of her. Her hands pressed painfully into his ribcage, but he didn't mind. He loved that she needed him so much that it hurt.

She laid her body down on his chest, bringing her lips to his chin; he whimpered at the softness of her lips, his warm breath hitting her nose and making her body shudder. His mouth parted to stick his tongue out for her to lick and suck, which she did graciously.

He never knew his tongue could feel so ticklish or that having it licked would feel so damn good. It made his cock throb against her walls, forcing a moan out of the both of them. Her nails scratched his scalp tenderly, hips rocking back and forth, creating the perfect rhythm.

Her breasts dragged against the hairs on his chest, making some of the dried brown paint flake onto him; her nippled peaked, vulnerable from the friction.

Joel wrapped his forearms around the base of her spine and rolled over as carefully as his intoxicated body would allow. With hair splayed out, she looked so ethereal, like a walking painting herself.

Then, he noticed a bucket of paint sitting nearby and dipped two of his long fingers inside, dragging the white liquid down the valley of her breasts until he reached the peak of her belly. He noticed how her body reacted: all of the little shakes and shudders signs of appreciation made his heart swell.

His hand reached around her hip to grip her ass as he rested his body weight on her and enveloped her in more kisses. His hips rocked gently and slowly, careful not to hurt her. He wanted to feel her cum and hear her beg him to keep going.

To her, it felt like he pushed deeper with each thrust, begging her body to swallow him whole and allow him the grace of becoming one with her. Her eyes were so low, yet she was seeing more clearly than ever. Seeing his aura radiate off of his broad shoulders and tousled hair - it was a haze of blue and purple. But hers were shades of reds and oranges in his eyes, a fiery tyrant that bullied him with praise and adoration.

His nose tickled her chin while his lips made their way up to plant another kiss on her sweet, sweet mouth. The alcohol in her perfume singed the hairs along his face and nostrils, pilling the hairs on his arms.

"Harder, ngh- please," she murmured.

He saw her blown pupils roll gently beneath her eyelids as beads of sweat formed along her hairline. Her breathing was shallow and short. She was close.

Licking his reddened lips, he pushed her knees back until they were flush with her jawline and shifted his body weight from his knees to his toes, then changed the force of his hips without changing the rhythm.

She loved that he listened to her: harder did not mean faster, and he fucking perfected it. Almost like he knew just how hard to go.

Joel drove into her deep enough to make her cunt squelch and clench around his thick cock. He felt clumsy inside of her like he was tripping up over his own orgasm. He felt all of her ridges and curves, the smooth and the rough; everything intensified in a way that could only be described by the God he didn't believe in.

But she had him questioning that in the back of his mind. He would have believed that she was God herself if he wasn't aware of how high he was. She looked celestial, her mouth forming an 'o', and her hair sprawled around her shimmering face. Even with her mascara flaking and running slightly, she seemed so content, so pleased.

Joel's desperation to come inside of her was almost primal, instinctive... If her nails weren't digging so sharply into his forearms, he wasn't sure whether or not he would have been able to hold back.

He didn't ease up on her throughout her orgasm. Honestly, he didn't think too much about it. He never wanted right now to end. With a sense of ecstasy coursing through his veins, he managed to turn into something he tried so hard not to be. He craved her body, her kisses.

He pulled her into his lap before resting his cheek on her breast. He inhaled the musk of her sweat deeply, cherishing the divine woman she was. She felt as beautiful as she looked. She fucked just as sweet as she smelled.

His clammy hand ran over her flexed calve as she bounced on him. Her movements were sloppy from his tight grip, not that either of them cared. She was sure not to go too high or come down too hard, allowing her pussy to drip white remnants of her orgasm onto his balls. He licked and kissed and bit her tits as a submissive thank you.

She kissed the top of his hair, strumming her fingers along his scalp. "Joel," she moaned, "I love you."

"I love you, too, baby," he grunted almost instantly.

Raising his head to look back at her blissed out face, he pulled her even closer. His chin dug into her clavicle, but his neediness only made her laugh softly.

Joel's face twitched as his body proposed its orgasm, his dick throbbed roughly against her sensitive walls. She gasped, taking it as a sign to fuck him faster despite the burning in her legs. He winced at her arms weighing heavier into his collarbones but just clawed at her ass to power through the pain.

She placed a hand over his heart and pushed gently, forcing him to feel the thumping against his chest. He felt so much of his anger and pain dissipate beneath her touch, instilling love and peace in place of it.

"You're so precious," he whispered. A lovely smile rose onto her face, one that drove him crazy. He looked at her with big puppy eyes that threatened to fill with tears. She licked along her teeth and bit her bottom lip. "I love y-you..." He knew he didn't mean it and that she didn't either, but he missed being able to say those words. "Tell m- oh, fuck. Oh, fuck. Tell me you love me," he pleaded. "Tell me you love me 'til I cum, baby."

"I love you, Joel.”

His eyes screwed shut, face falling into the curve of her neck.

“I love you, baby. I want you to cum for me,” she moaned, breathless from exhaustion.

His nails dug deeper into her flesh, he was clinging onto his climax as much as possible, wanting to wait long enough for it to destroy him.

“Oh, Joel, fuck!” She yelped. “I love you, I love you!”

And he broke.

His nails scratched lines up her back whilst he screamed into her chest. Her pussy throbbed against his sensitive cock from the arrival of her second orgasm, heightening his sensitivity.

A few tears shed his eyes at the closeness; Joel felt like he was falling into the Earth. He was so dizzy and confused, cornered by the affection clouding his judgment.

“I love you,” she whispered into his scalp, placing one last kiss before climbing off of his lap.

He hissed at the last stroke of her cunt but helped her lay down, using his t-shirt to prop her head up.

“I love you,” he said before kissing her head.

“You should drink some water.”

As soon as she said that, he felt the itchiness in his dry throat. He grabbed water from the table a few feet away and chugged as much as his stomach could handle.

“Will you bring me the joint and a lighter?”

Joel fulfilled her request and sat the water next to her, immediately looking back at his work in progress while she got herself situated.

A few moments passed before she spoke again. “Are you coming down?”

Confused, he looked down at her but saw that the colors weren’t so loud anymore. “Think so…”

“Take a few hits. It’ll help.”

He hesitated but sat down and did as she told him. 

“Thank you,” he said after briefly coughing and handing the joint back to her. “I think whatever that… Pill was actually helped.”

“If it wasn't the pill, it must’ve been the sex,” she teased, earning a laugh from him. She tapped his shoulder and pointed her head towards his mural.

ᝰ

A rough pounding woke Joel up from his slumber. He groaned, pressing the meat of his palm to his forehead and slowly sitting up before remembering the girl was still next to him.

He watched her sleep soundly, mouth slightly parted and a gentle snore creaking from her throat. The memories of last night flooded his mind, and while they were somewhat fuzzy, he remembered clear as day how it felt.

He felt most of his questions had been answered by something more complex than communication. It was frightening yet calming at the same time.

Her body stirring regained his focus, and he knew she must have been feeling the same tension headache as he was when she groaned before her eyes fluttered open. She squirmed from the cold air and looked up at the hungover man, smiling as she remembered the night before.

“Morning, Joel,” she said with a playful tilt.

“Morning, sunshine,” he said. “Your head hurtin’?”

“Yep,” she grunted while sitting up. “Ever been to that café on thirty-fourth street?”

He shook his head.

“I’ll take you there for some coffee and breakfast. My treat,” she told him.

Her eyes landed on the big, dull wall that had been taunting Joel for weeks, only to find it was a brightened, complete piece of art.

She admired the woman's beauty and asked him without looking away, “S’that me?”

Joel smirked and reached for his boxers, standing to put them on.

“She’s beautiful, ain’t she?” Joel kissed her head and walked away, leaving the woman alone to admire his masterpiece…

Her.

[letstrythisout4]

Mary and Harry

Part 1:

October 31, 1981

The sound of faint crying was the only thing that kept Mary from falling to her knees in the rubble beside James. James laid at the foot of the staircase, not a wand in sight, wearing those godforsaken snitch patterned pajamas Marlene had gifted him just two years ago. 

If it wasn’t for the way his chest was so still Mary would have assumed the fool had just fallen asleep standing, it wouldn’t have been the first time. 

The crying grew to wailing and Mary shook her head and raced up the stairs, tripping in her hast to not step on James. “Don’t think too hard about it.” Mary told herself, incredibly aware of the tears that streamed down her face. 

The second story of the house was practically not existent, the walls had been blown apart, leaving them in ruins. It was hard to believe that this was the same house Monty and Effie had gifted James just a couple years ago. The nursery was a shell of itself. Mary could remember spending hours painting the forest mural. Lily was insistent that Mary paint it rather than a professional. Lily said it would “provide a personal touch” and that “it’s rather rude to argue with me, I mean you wouldn’t want to stress the baby, would you?” , smiling impishly as she sat in the rocking chair, watching Mary slave away on the walls. 

Weeks were spent in that room, Mary painting, James, Marlene and Sirius cluelessly putting together pieces to make furniture, Remus laughing from where he sat on the floor beside Lily. Lily rocked back and forth watching as her family was all in one room working around the clock to make sure everything was perfect for their newest member. They had finally finished just a month before Harry arrived, the mural was a beautiful mix of greens, browns and blacks, with shadowy images of a deer and a doe hidden amongst the trees. The furniture was finished and strong, the room was filled with light from the bay windows and toys that Harry wouldn’t be able to truly use for years were waiting for him on the shelves. 

Now the nursery wasn't illuminated through the bay windows, there was no laughter, the toys were broken and Lily wasn’t in her rocking chair. No, now the windows were gone, replaced by a hole where the walls used to be, taking the mural with it. Remus had packed away his laughter when he began getting sent on missions with the wolves. And Mary couldn’t see Lily, only her shoes which peaked out from the rubble.

A sob tore its way through Mary’s throat as she took in the sight. A hot burn followed it and she nearly doubled over, sick with the realization that her life as she knew it was over. But a sob louder than her own took her focus. The crib was miraculously untouched, no rumble inside of it, the only thing to be found inside was a boy. Deep brown skin, jet back hair, and wet brilliant green eyes stared up at her. 

Mary picked up Harry as gently as possible, held his face to her shoulder and ran. Ran out the room, down the stairs, and out the back door. She didn’t stop until she was past the apparition wards, she took a breath and popped away.

—

“Name?” 

“Mary MacDonald.”

“Passport?”

Mary slid the booklet under the glass and to the woman. The woman had a rude voice but the darkness around her eyes spoke to more than just her being rude for the joy of it. The woman scanned the passport, checked her monitor and swiftly slid the passport back towards Mary.

“And you only have one carry-on, correct?”

“Yes, ma’am.” 

“Place your bag on the conveyor belt, walk through the metal detector. Your bag will be on the other side waiting for you, thank you for flying with us today.” the woman said, sounding robotic, and sloppily gestured to the scanner behind her.

“Thank you.” Mary walked towards the detector, attempting to appear more confident than she felt. Once given the green light, she snatched up her briefcase and hustled to her gate. She waited, impatiently looking between the tunnel entrance and her fellow passengers. A yawn escaped her before she could stop it, numbers began being called and she stood in line to board her plane. 

Seat 9A was an aisle seat as close to the front of the plane as could be without paying for first class. It gave her both enormous anxiety and comfort to be on a plane. On one hand there had been any attacks on muggle transportation yet but on the other she wouldn’t put it past the universe to decide her flight was going to be the first. Mary slipped her briefcase between her calves, holding the strap of the bag in her right hand, fist clenched tightly around it. 

She spent the next 8 hours like that, only allowing herself a few seconds to untense her legs or fist when they grew numb. They landed in Washington, D.C. around 2 A.M. Mary practically ran off the plane and out the airport. She managed to wave down a taxi and within thirty minutes, Mary was in her recently rented studio apartment. 

The apartment was completely empty, just a kitchen with basic appliances and a bathroom. Once Mary tripled checked the lock of the door, she got to work. She threw off her shoes -converse Lily had bought her ages ago- and walked towards the open windows. Floor to ceiling windows with a beautiful view that Mary immediately charmed to be practically indestructible and tinted. After pulling down the blinds purely for her own sanity, she charmed every inch of the apartment. No spell, no animal, nothing was to make it into the apartment without her explicit and willing permission. After setting up every protection and ward she could think of, Mary placed her suitcase in the middle of her living room floor, opened it and stepped right inside. 

Inside the suitcase was a ranch style house, unlike the apartment above, it was completely decorated and stocked with enough food to last her months. She walked through the main hallway to the bedroom beside the Master’s and found Harry sleeping away in his crib. The crib was a last minute purchase, it was good enough quality but didn’t hold the same memories as the one before it.

“I guess we’ll just have to make new ones, Harry.” Mary told the boy who was ignorant to her hovering. She ghosted her hand across his cheek, she had been lucky he had slept through the flight and airport wait. Mary knew she would have panicked if the charm to notify her when Harry awoke had gone off.

Mary felt her knees buckle and didn’t even try and stop herself from falling beside Harry’s crib. She laid there next to him, staring at the ceiling wondering how this could be. Sirius was the Secret-Keeper, he would never have allowed James and Lily to be compromised. 

…No. No, he wouldn’t. Sirius had too much love and respect for the entire Potter family to ever turn his back on them. He would never stand beside a cause that killed Fleamont and Euphemia, a cause that killed Marlene, a cause that killed James and Lily.

But if it wasn’t Sirius, who?

—

Author’s note: yes I am starting another series, but good news this one is actually entirely planned out (at least the first book/part of it is) so really this is fine.

[starlordcumidk]

New Kind of Love

~chapter 1~

word count: 3.2k

notes: slight ooc, reader wears glasses, this is an AU of TASM!Peter where he is a fraternity brother. reader is portrayed as rude/stand-offish. reader is a tad neurodivergent. playful banter. please read this knowing that i am a newer author and the plot is based on a song.

warnings: not proofread, minor cursing? does that count?

Enough of "Love Lite"

And "I Can't Believe It's Not Love!"

Monday, October 21st, 2024.

School started back up eight weeks ago, frat, sorority, club rushs and event posters making anyones head spin. There were at least forty parties that happened just in the first six weeks of school, none you attended. Right now, the school was setting up for their next pep rally, big decorations all over the place, even in Siebert’s courtyard. 

Empire State University was known for its largely populated campus, even for a private school. Truly, the scholarships they offered were the biggest reason anyone was able to go. Those from out of state were even encouraged with extra offers, you included. 

You have been living rather normally, even with the hussle and bustle through the dorm halls every night, your favorite being the RA catching the girl down the hall with two gallon size ziplocs with coke and her boyfriend naked in the hall in the middle of September. 

It was refreshing, almost. Being back in New York always puts an extra pep in your step, especially after a very long, very hot, very southern summer spent back at your parents house. Not only was it over one-hundred and five degrees most days, the humidity was consistently breaking the ninety percent mark.

Even though you weren’t as lucky this year with housing and got the road facing room, six floors up— with a broken elevator nonetheless– you were comfortable. The room was decorated meticulously, just the way you liked it. Warm lighting from lamps, the big light never on, a rotary fan at the foot of your bed. Perfect.

The cool seventy degree weather was a welcome breeze as you opened the window, allowing yourself to get the dry, definitely polluted air into your lungs. Looking down at the road, even though it was nowhere near as beautiful as the courtyard, filled you with excitement every single time. It was a beautiful swarm of colors, bright jackets and scarves creating a moving mural with the fresh morning sun.

I missed this. The thought floods your senses as you feel your first genuine chill of the year.

This was home. Being surrounded by tall buildings, loud and awful people, hagglers and one very fit red-blue spandex hero, was comforting. Back home, there were no heroes to swoop in if you were threatened. Spider-Man was always a welcome guest, and you’ve definitely seen more of him these past few months than before. 

Maybe your paranoia was bad, but the idea of a sticky-gross-web man sweeping in and saving you made those thoughts calm down. Even if you thought the idea of being part spider was less than exciting. 

It was Monday, all of your aggravating and mundane classes were scheduled for this morning. It took effort to get dressed and go to your first lecture, but eventually you did.

As you walked across campus, you messaged back and forth with your close friend who still lived in your home state, so many thousands of miles away. 

Delilah: girl u have to go out and make more friends. i’m tired of being your only one. you: you know that isn’t happening right now. people find me too abrasive and that makes it hard enough as is. Delilah: ok well maybe be nice to people babe ? you: ehhhh not really my thing but maybe i’ll try for you < 33 Delilah: u better !!!!!! Delilah: hugs n kisses < 333 i gtg, reed is here you: it’s not even 9am so idk how you’re already at it with him… have a good day lilah.

You shake your head at the quick interaction and feel a moment of missing her before shoving your phone back into your pocket and taking a deep breath. Opening Dr. Howards lecture doors and seeing that you’re the first to show again, a small smile graces your lips as you make your way to your seat. 

It’s not long until the small, bubbly, blonde seventy-year-old woman walks in, big binders and a mug in hand. Following her are more of the students, none of which you know or care to know. You look away for a few minutes to gather you notebook and pencil to scribble nonsense notes to try and dissect later. 

And the lecture begins. 

—--------------

Peter, frankly, was over everything. He was the one who had to organize where people would be sleeping, how they’d fit into the chapter house and he even had to argue with the stupid underclassmen asking why he was the one with a private bathroom. Being in a frat was tiring, he was only here for the scholarship and housing opportunity. 

It was always the same, but luckily this was his last year he had to be involved with it. 

After this year, his bacholers in hand, he could just worry about graduate school. Everyone and everything outside of bioengineering and Spider-Man would wash off of him. His hands clean and life lonely, just as he liked it to be- with the exception of May. 

Even if one fleeting conversation leaves him enamored with the wrinkle of your nose, the way it caused the inner corners of your eyes to crease. He hadn’t been this way since highschool, it was scary and unwelcomed. Something he’d rather kill off and walk away from, but every day in the courtyard or the times you happened to be on the Q train at the same time as him, the weird adrenaline rush would light him on fire.

Mondays, Wednesdays and select Fridays were the worst. He was sure of it. 

Environmental Managment, a dumb class, but he took it to get his credit hours up, hoping to balance out his GPA…. Somehow, you were here too. Almost like a curse, he has to look at you from the back row of the class, the closest seat to the back entrance. You sat alone, front and center of the lecture hall. You were always there on time, which urged him to be too, it gave him extra time to stare. Even with this, he was never sure of your name.

—--------------

The teacher was droning on about some mudslide somewhere in California, babbling about the random effects it had on the surrounding citizens, the heavy rain that caused it. Your pencil was etching into the paper lazily with each slide. 

A small timer went off which indicated the end of class, but before you could react there was a loud clap and Dr. Howards mic was turned on. She only used it for important announcements or when the frat boys in the back wouldn’t shut up. 

“So, this semester is going really well. Many of you are keeping your grades and positivity up! But, we still need to discuss our final exam.”

A symphony of deep groans sound from the back, you feel your eye twitch at it. 

“Thank you, boys.” A pause and a glare, “Anyways, I have decided your final will be a presentation on a hypothetical scenario. In groups of two, that I assign, you and your partner will have to decide on a catastrophic event, it can be any of the ones we have discussed or any you find in your books. After picking the event, choose the setting, it can be close to home or even Australia, just make it realistic. No monsoons in New York. You two must decide how devastating it is and how the community will recover. The groups are in the class Canvas. Take care! Go Otters! Excelsior!” She closes her laptop and is out of the room before anyone can complain about her groupings.

You are quick to start thinking over ideas, most of which are tornado-centered. You’ve never experienced one, but the movie Twister was a classic at home when you were little. Quickly, you write down some ideas, tornadoes, hurricanes, mudslides…. 

You pack your books away and look into the list the professor had composed on your phone, scrolling through too many names before your gaze lands on yours next to… oh no.

Peter Parker. 

You feel dumb for a moment, you hadn’t realized he was in this course let alone the same exact class as you. Turning around to look for him, it’s hard. The cluster of bodies was too big to just be pairs discussing their ideas.

Then, your eyes meet a messy mop of brown, leaning over a laptop and the same sweater from back in summer all the way in the back. You feel nervous just looking at him, but you swallow the hard lump and start towards him. Of course he’d be all the way in the back, surrounded by sport and frat bro’s. 

With a deep breath, you tap on his shoulder. It causes him to jump, and for a moment he looks as nervous as you feel, but it disappears quickly and is replaced with a smile. 

“Hey, I know you.” Peter says it with a warm tone.

“Yep. Uhm… we were partnered for the project?” You say it coolly, staring down at him.

“Ah- so that's who you are, huh?” He tilts his head, slowly shutting his beat up laptop and leaning back in his chair. He says your name a few times under his breath, as if reciting it to himself. 

“Uh-huh….” You nod, something weird stirring in your stomach at the timbre he uses when whispering your name to himself. “So, what days are we meeting for this thing?” 

“Uh- we could use the free period on whatever days you want. As long as it isn’t at night, I have a job.” He shrugs, looking up at you and his smile falters. 

“Monday, Wednesday and Friday it is then.” You decide, grabbing the paper you scribbled ideas on and hand it to him.

He takes it and looks it over, his brows furrowed for a moment before looking back up to you. “We can’t meet today, but if you give me your number I’ll look these over and text you.” He is so soft spoken compared to the other frat guys around you, it is almost shocking.

“You have my school email. Use that.” You shrug, your tone almost rude as you speak. “Sorry, I mean- just email me about it and we can talk Wednesday….” It’s kinder this time, but the tone correction feels embarrassing.

“Oh- okay. Sure thing.” He nods and starts to gather his things around, looking you over before slinging his backpack over his shoulder, you couldn’t help but notice the skateboard sticking out from it. “See you then.” He says your name then he is gone, quickly leaving to go wherever he needed to be.

—-------------- <pbparker@empire.edu 

Sent at 2:27pm 10/21/2024

Let's do the hurricane and Louisiana idea. Meet me at the library at 12:30. 

Peter B. Parker

Get Outlook for iOS>

—--------------

Wednesday, October 23rd, 2024

You walk into the library, your eyes scanning the large area. Peter and you had agreed to meet on the first floor for ease of finding one another, but he hadn’t specified if he was at a table, a computer or in a private study room. You groan at the fact you never asked for any more specifics.

The building had three levels, ground floor was all peer-reviewed journals, textbooks, anything that was used for research and could be ran through scribbr for essays, the middle floor was dedicated to fiction and had very limited stock, only a few of the books were actually worth a read, the top floor was just old archives, nothing that was allowed to leave the library. 

It was a very tall, circular shape. Each floor visible from the entrance, glass sidings and the small tables or armchairs pressed against them. Red and gold quotes painted along the walls. Your personal favorite was by Madame Curie, it was directly above the checkout desk.

"One never notices what has been done; one can only see what remains to be done." 

Slowly walking through the shelves, looking at each and every table and bean bag, you can't seem to find that stupid mass of brunette hair and slushy posture anywhere. In all seriousness, you’re getting angry. Had he stood you up? Was he running behind after he set up the whole meeting in the first place? 

Just as you were about to give up you felt a hand fall on your shoulder, a breeze of honey and pine enveloping your nose. 

“Finally, I found you!” Peter's voice was easy to recognize, especially with how sweet he smelt. 

You turn and look up, giving him a skeptical look. “Where are we going to study?”

He took a moment before pointing at the private study hall, his smile smooth and easy to take in. With a quick nod, you walked towards the hallway, looking in each room to decipher which had his items in it. To your delight, it was easy. Every other room was filled with people, some studying, others playing some tabletop games. You walked in, sat at the empty seat closest to the computer and started pulling your notebook out. 

He was right behind you, closing the door and settling in across from you. In one foul swoop his legs were propped on the table and he leaned back a bit. “So do you really think this assignment is going to take ten weeks to research?” He sounded so… carefree.

You respond with a shrug, looking at the page on natural disasters. 

Peter hummed a small ‘mhmm’ and drummed his fingers on his chest, staring at you. “So, are we gonna challenge ourselves and use just our textbook as a reference?” A small smile.

“That's dumb.” You scoff and put your book aside, logging into the school computer and doing a quick search for Louisiana and scrolling through its map, trying to find the city to zone in on.

“Oh. Okay… uhm….” He sits forward, dropping his legs and leaning forward, craning his neck a bit to try and get a peek at the screen.

“New Orleans is probably a good one. Super populated, a staple for tourists. It would be a big tragedy for it to get destroyed.” He pointed at the spot on the screen, his tone still just as warm as usual.

“No, too predictable.” It comes out like an insult, and you internally kick yourself.

There's a pause before a defeated sigh and he points out another spot on the map, it’s random and his smile is gone now. “What about there? Grand Isle?” 

You take a long look at it before nodding and writing the town name down, looking over at him with a forced smile. “Cool.”

“You know, we’re gonna have to talk like real people eventually, right?” It’s frustrated and a bit.. sad. Another internal kick.

“Listen I-” you pause, not sure of how to put it at first, “I’m not good at talking. Never have been.” 

“Yea, I’ve noticed.” He shrugs and pulls out the most beat-up laptop you’d ever seen. “But, that night in the courtyard you seemed pretty chatty.”

The memory flashes in your mind and you touch your nose, your new pair of glasses hasn’t arrived yet. “It was a momentary lapse. Probably won’t happen again.”

“Why not?” He stares intently, a stomach turning, heart flipping look on his face as he asks.

“Why would it?” You stare back, your hands starting to fidget with your jean pocket.

“Cause we’re friends now.” He spoke so nonchalantly.

“Not friends.” A groan

“Oh come on, you’ll learn to love me eventually.” His voice was soft and he brought the backside of his fingers against his chin, batting his eyelashes.

“Eh, doubt it. I’ve had enough of love lite.” You said it, genuinely grossed out.

There was a moment of silence, the buzzing LED above you making you think you won Peter's yap battle.

“What?” It came out after a hearty laugh, one that felt like it had to come from his stomach.

You roll your eyes, looking into Grand Isle, writing its population count down as you respond. “Don’t worry your pretty head about it.”

“So you think I’m pretty?” He gasps, his hand pumping in the air as if he’d won something.

A shiver runs down your spine but you don’t let it show. “Sickening thought. Thanks, Mr. Aracnophile.” You grimace, making a fake gagging sound even though deep down you were enjoying this stupid conversation with him.

“Oh ew- never call me that again. What did I ever do to you?” His hand flew over his heart, squeezing his pullover with a dramatic gasp.

“You haven’t shut up since we got in this room.” You looked him in the eye, an almost unamused expression on your face outside of the small smile that was fighting its way past your ever slipping mask.

Peter is quiet for a moment again before rolling his shoulders back and sighing. “Got you pretty chatty though, didn’t I?” A shit-eating grin and a teasing tone accompanying his words.

You go to speak but nothing comes out. He did get you chatty. For some reason it makes your face heat up and you roll your eyes before looking back at your computer screen. “I’ll look into the town, you look into the likeliness a hurricane would destroy it?” 

He nods and opens the laptop, it has several cracks in the screen and duct tape holding a few of the plastic parts down. You take a mental note not to ask about it right now, but maybe later. 

The next hour progresses quickly, handwritten notes torn out of notebooks and stacked neatly into a pile in between the two computer screens. There are a few sneezes and quick exchanged glances while you work, but you ignore it. No reason to think too hard about it. 

As you start to type a few sentences into a digital outline, your phone buzzes, indicating your next class would be starting in twenty minutes. You sigh and start to boot down the computer. Peter lifts his head, looking at you and furrowing his brows a little bit. 

“Got somewhere to be?” He says your name so smoothly, you almost miss that he said it at all. 

“Yea. My next block of classes is about to start.” You shrug and sift through the different notes he and you had written, letting your eyes graze each one to see what’s what and how you should organize it in your folder. 

“I can take those.” He gently taps the top of the papers and you’re reluctant to hand them over. It was hard to say yes, because what if you needed to double check them and retrace your steps before- “I’ll scan them and send them to you after work tonight.”

A wave of relief washes over you, and you nod, letting his hand take them from you. “Sounds good, Spider-guy.” You say with a tight lipped smile and start to leave the study room. 

“Hey, wait. Let me walk with you.” He calls out to you but you put your earbuds in and pretend you didn’t hear him. 

—-----------------

<pbparker@empire.edu 

Sent at 3:06am 10/24/2024

2 attachments (4 MB)

Here you go, just as I promised. Oh, also, here’s my number, you know, if you want to be a normal 21 year old someday. Also, can't meet Friday. Something came up.

See you soon, trouble.

(xxx) xxx-xxxx

Peter B. Parker

Get Outlook for iOS>

[feyhunter78]

Pink Pastels Pt 21

Description: After your almost disastrous encounter in the O'Hara household, you spend some time debriefing with Janey, and Miguel asks for a second date.

Pt 22

So, you what, jumped out a window?” Janey drawls, her expression both intrigued and unamused, her image freezing for a second as she moves to a part of her apartment with better Wi-Fi.

“No, I hid in his bathroom until he’d convinced Gabi to go play in her room, then sprinted into my own. Janey, it was so embarrassing, I looked like a fucking toaster strudel.”

Janey chokes on her drink. “Not a toaster strudel…”

You bury your face in your hands. “I seriously have a problem, like I need to stay away from him. That cannot happen again, it just can’t.”

A text pops up on your phone, making it vibrate.

Mr. O’Hara: Hey, I’ve been thinking about yesterday and I acted inappropriately, could I take you to dinner tonight, to make up for it? I know a place, it’s a bit out of the way, but there’s no chance anyone from Gabi’s school will see us.

You changed his name back from Miguel to Mr. O’Hara, wanting to remind yourself of the professional boundaries.

“Y/N?” Janey asks, waving her hand, trying to catch your attention.

“Yeah, sorry, anyways, I need to get a handle on myself, I swear I haven’t been this…ya know…in ages.”

Mr. O’Hara: My treat, obviously. I think I make three times what you make.

Mr. O’Hara: Shit, sorry that was rude.

Mr. O’Hara: Anyways let me know.

“I mean, technically there’s nothing in the rules that say you can’t date a parent, it’s just frowned upon.”

Y/N: I’d love to pick me up at six?

Mr. O’Hara: Absolutely, I’ll see you then.

“Yeah, but still.” You glance at the clock, it’s five ten, you definitely need to start getting ready. You pick up your phone and move into your bathroom, continuing to chat with Janey as you get ready.

Six o’clock on the dot, Miguel is at your door. He’s dressed casually, which is a relief because so are you.

He hands you a bouquet of flowers, roses, a bit basic, but beautiful. “Again, my apologies, and I’m glad you’re letting me take you out, I really do like you, y/n, as cheesy as that sounds.”

You take the flowers and quickly put them in a vase before following Miguel down to the parking garage.

It’s a long drive, maybe an hour from your place, but once you arrive you understand.

It’s a small restaurant out of the city, a bit run down, but the neon sign is bright, and you can already smell food.

“This is the best Mexican food in Neuva York and the surrounding area, my mother used to take my brother and I here on our birthdays.” He explains as he opens the door for you.

The restaurant is beautiful, hand painted murals, wood carved booths, warm lighting, and soft music streaming through the speakers hidden amongst the beams that hold up the ceiling.

Once you’re seated and the waitress takes your order, you sip on your water awkwardly. It’s been a while since you’ve been on an actual date.

“Do you like Mexican food?” Miguel asks, looking at the drink menu, his eyes darting to your face every other second.

“Yeah, yeah, my mom is actually from Texas, so we’d get Tex-Mex every time we went to visit her family. I know it’s not the same thing, but…”

“Gabi said your mom has lived in Nueva York her whole life?” Miguel’s eyebrows furrow and you bite your lip.

“Oh umm, so my mother, was born and raised in Nueva York, but my stepmom is from Texas. She married my dad when I was a baby, she’s basically the only mom I’ve actually had. My bio mother sued for joint custody when I was a kid, but I…I didn’t want to live with her. Scheduled visits were enough for me.” You explain, cursing yourself for even mentioning your biological mother to Gabi.

It was a rough day for her, after you learned about her mom from Melissa. You only told her to make her feel better, to let her know she wasn’t alone, but now you were kind of regretting it…

“I don’t talk about her much, she’s—she’s just a lot.” You wave your hand in the air dismissively and plaster on a smile.

“I thought my stepfather was my dad until I went to high school.” Miguel admits, setting down the drink menu.

“Oh?” You’re a little shocked, but hey, you’ve almost fucked multiple times, you’re close enough to share childhood traumas.

“My boss is my father, my mother had an affair with him, I have a half-sister, Monica who is a notorious gossip, but might be my best friend, maybe my only friend? I’ve got coworkers I occasionally get drinks with but…”

You giggle, half at the way he says it, half out of nerves. “Sorry, sorry, please go on.”

He gives you a sheepish smile. “It’s pathetic, I know, a grown man whose best friend is his sister.”

“No, no, I think it’s sweet.” You reassure him.

“And what about you? Siblings? Friends?” Miguel scoops some salsa onto a chip.

“I’ve got a younger brother, he’s a pilot, never around, always sending photos from exotic places, and then Janey, she teaches with me, and she’s my best friend.” You stir the queso in front of you with the spoon provided, watching as the jalapeños sink into the cheese.

Miguel nods. “The tiny black woman with the brightly colored outfits?”

“Everyone is tiny compared to you. But yes, she is short.” You defend Janey playfully, knowing Miguel doesn’t mean anything by it.

“It’s not my fault I was blessed with the stature of a Greek god.” Miguel shrugs, a teasing smile tugging at his lips.

You roll your eyes. “It must be so difficult for you.”

“It is, actually, do you know how many old ladies hit on me?”

You laugh at that, picturing giant, buff Miguel running from grandmothers chasing him down with their canes and walkers. “I am so sorry for your struggle.”

He laughs as well. “I appreciate it.”

“Is your mom still in Neuva York?” You ask, taking a bite of a queso covered chip.

“Yeah, I have her set up in this nice apartment, it’s quiet, she can get her groceries delivered to her if she wants, there’s a pool she and Gabi go swimming in, and she’s on the building’s HOA which is always entertaining.”

“I can’t imagine the stories apartment HOAs have to tell.”

Miguel pitches up his voice, laying on a thick Mexican accent. “Mijo you will never guess, the man upstairs, with the little dogs, a killer, the police came today, took him away. Dios nos salve a todos.”

“That means like God save us, right?” You ask, trying to remember what that Catholic dude from Law and Order: SVU used to say.

“Close, God save us all.” Miguel smiles at you, then the waitress when she sets your food down.

Your waitress’ face tints red, and you feel a wave of jealousy wash over you. You wait until she’s gone, then continue the conversation. “Wait, was he actually a murderer?”

Miguel chuckles. “No, his dogs have been killing birds, squirrels, and other small animals outside the building. He’s been cleaning them up, but apparently disposing of them in the wrong dumpster. Maintenance in the building just wanted to show him the right one to use.”

“Ah, I see.”

“My mother has a wild imagination; I think she gets bored sometimes.” Miguel says. “I should take Gabi to visit her more often but…”

“Being a secret superhero takes up a lot of time?” You joke in a hushed voice, looking around to make sure no one is paying attention.

“Exactly.” He takes a bite of his food, carnitas.

“Sure, keeps you out late, on the street, rooftops, balconies…” You trail off, taking a bite of your quesadilla.

Miguel swallows hard. “I like keeping people safe.”

You nod. “And you’re good at it, I’m glad to have a superhero living in my building.”

“Thank you.” He says softly.

For a moment, you wonder if anyone ever thanks Miguel for what he does. You’re sure people thank him when he saves them, but outside of that? When he’s just patrolling, watching over the city?

“Last time I talked to my mom, she was complaining about my dad keeps the house too cold, and that there’s nothing good on TV anymore.”

“She’s right, there’s nothing good on TV anymore.”

“There’s some good movie though, like that one that came out a bit ago, based on a comic book?” You wrack your brain, but can’t remember what it’s called.

“I only see the movies Gabi wants to see.” Miguel admits sheepishly.

“Well, good thing she’s got good taste.”

You both walk back to Miguel’s car, hands brushing against each other, pinkies almost linking then shying away at the last second.

“Thank you for this, it was nice.” You say, looking up at him, the moon a halo behind his head, dousing him in an ethereal glow.

“No, thank you, I know we’ve kind of gone about things backwards, and that you’re Gabi’s teacher, but I…I really do like you, y/n. I enjoy spending time with you, I like hearing your stories, and telling you mine…”

You take the plunge and link your hand with his. “I like spending time with you too Miguel.”

His fingers interlace with yours. “My work is having a gala in a few weeks, would you come with me? As my date?”

Janey is never going to let you live this down.

“Yeah, sure, sounds like fun.” You tell him, heart skipping a beat when he lifts your hand to his lips and presses a soft kiss to it.

“I’ll give you more details as I get them, but I promise it will be a night to remember, even if all you remember is my coworkers getting drunk off their asses.”

You thank him when he opens the car door for you, then he slides into the driver’s seat.

Miguel walks you to your door, lingering in its frame as you hold each other’s gaze, silly lovesick smiles on your faces.

“I should go to bed.” You say, making no attempt to break away from his gaze.

“Me too.” Miguel echoes, also not moving an inch.

“Thank you, again, for dinner.”

“It’s no problem, I’d like to do it again if you’d let me?” He tilts his head to the side, a soft smile on his face.

“I’d like that.” You tell him before you finally take a step back and into your apartment. “Goodnight Miguel.”

He grabs your wrist, gently, reverently, and presses his lips to your palm, the warmth of his face feels nice of your cold hand, the slight stubble tickles your skin, and his lips are soft. “Goodnight y/n.” Then he releases you and turns to go into his own apartment.

You shut your door, face burning. How was it, that out of everything Miguel’s done, that’s what makes your head spin a thousand miles in every direction imaginable?

He really is something else, huh?

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[blindmagdalena]

A Transactional Relationship ( Homelander x Victoria Neuman )

18+ 2.7k mild coercion, transactional sex, blood/period, cunnilingus.

In exchange for aiding her in her political campaign, Homelander makes an outlandish request of Victoria. She attempts to dissuade him, but what's a little blood between two serial killers?

people have been asking me for a fic where Homie earns his red wings since i started writing him. i've done it. written for this prompt by @deliciouskeys! 🖤

Throughout Victoria’s life, she’s come to terms with a great number of what she would consider to be necessary evils, and there is no better example of this than being forced into doing business with Homelander.

Admittedly though, there is some satisfaction to be found in dropping in on him unannounced. It’s late enough in the evening that she doesn’t risk drawing undue attention to herself, and perhaps enough that she’ll catch Homelander entirely unawares. 

As she waits at his door, part of her wonders if he’ll answer it in cute little American flag pajamas.

She could use a good laugh.

Victoria straightens up slightly when the door swings open. To her delight, Homelander does look properly caught off guard. 

No pajamas, though. Too bad.

His brows are reaching for his hairline, his lips parted in bewilderment, though the curve of them melts slowly into an incredulous smile as he looks around her, confirming that she is, in fact, alone.

“If it isn’t my good friend Vicky Neuman,” he says, forearm braced in the doorway. “Don’t tell me Singer’s got you campaigning door to door for him.”

“Singer doesn’t know about this,” she says brusquely. They both know that. He just takes pleasure in making her out to be a lackey. “Are you going to let me in or not?”

His expression falters at that, gaze dipping to give her a once over. She’s not dressed any differently than usual, but he’s looking at her like she just broke out into a completely different language. After a beat, he turns sideways and extends his arm, gesturing her inside.

The door closes behind her with all the weight of an iron gate, and what greets her on the other side of it renders her momentarily speechless. The rich, dark walls of Homelander’s penthouse are decorated nearly floor to ceiling with replica paintings of various historical Americana. Historical figures–primarily presidents–spy her every step into the house while gaudy statues adorn every corner she rounds, all of them leering at her with hollow stone eyes. 

She knows she wears her distaste plainly because Homelander is quick to say, “I didn’t have much say in the decor.”

“I don’t believe you,” she responds simply, giving the statue of Atlas a poke. It’s solid marble. Vought clearly spared no expense in Homelander’s eerie little superhuman terrarium. It reminds her of a themed fish tank.

God knows she’d much rather be on the outside of the glass, tapping at it just to see how he squirms.

“Rude,” he snorts, though he doesn’t press the matter. Caught him.

It’s obvious even in casual conversation that Homelander isn’t accustomed to being contradicted or corrected. He watches her with an unsettling sort of bemusement, and there are times where she gets the sense he says things just to see if she’ll refute him. She makes a point to keep it up.

“Please, sit,” he says, gesturing to a stiff looking sofa that has a very large American flag mural for a background.  Of course it does.

“That’s not necessary, I’ll be quick,” she says, reaching into her bag.

“Ah, ah, ah. I insist. Sit. I won’t listen to a word you say until you do,” he says, causing her to look sharply back up at him. He’s smiling cordially, arms folded behind his back. No matter how garishly they dress him or how lightly they bleach his hair, there are moments when the predator lurking beneath cannot be disguised.

Her upper lip twitches, her initial satisfaction with whatever she thought she had accomplished–inconveniencing him?–disappearing in a flash. Of all the things in this world to despise, men and their insufferable little power trips sprinkled into every interaction certainly rank the highest. With an unfriendly smile, she sits and brandishes a thin ring binder from her bag, offering it to him.

“Don’t tell me it’s another senator,” he says, taking the binder from her. He begins flipping through. Despite his insistence that she sit, he remains looming over her. She leans back against the couch, disinterested in being face to face with that ridiculous codpiece of his.

“Nothing so exciting. More of a laundry list. Simple but tedious tasks. You can handle that, I’m sure,” she says, trying to keep too much of the venom on her tongue from permeating her words. 

“I’m not your errand boy, Vicky,” he says, lacking any of her vitriol. He actually seems to be in a strangely pleasant mood. Still, she loathes how ugly he’s made her name with his snide use of that little nickname. His brows pinch as he reads. “Scholarships for Godolkin?”

“Pawns on a chess board,” she says vaguely. “Keep reading.”

He does. After a few more pages he scoffs out a half-laugh, closing the binder. “You want me to shmooze for you?” He asks, gesturing with it.

“An election is nothing but schmoozing. Your side is pro-supe, and we need that. Like I said: simple but tedious tasks. Nothing you aren’t already used to,” she says, crossing her legs.

Homelander looks down his nose at her, studying her while he absently taps the binder against his palm. “And… What do I get out of this little transaction?”

She really wishes he wouldn’t play coy. As if they haven’t established this already. “Quid pro quo,” she says, lifting her hands in an open gesture. “Tell me what it is you want. We negotiate from there.”

He gets a look to him that tells her that’s exactly what he wanted to hear. Casually, he tosses the binder onto the far end of the couch. “Alright,” he says, and to her confusion, he lowers himself into a kneel. She draws her legs more snugly to the couch, but it doesn’t stop him from putting a hand on her knee. “I want to taste you.”

His words are immediately followed by a piercing ring in her ears, like the blare of sirens. She stares numbly at him, replaying the words again and again in her mind until they begin to lose their meaning.

“Excuse me?”

“C’mon, Vicky. Don’t play dumb with me. You really think I believe you came here to ask me to run errands?” As he speaks, he pries her legs out of the tight cross she’d put them in. She fights it, but you wouldn’t know it by watching them. The machine press of his strength is so overwhelming, so utterly insurmountable, she’s briefly dumbstruck by the feel of it. “You know what I think? I think you like having me in your back pocket. I think you enjoy feeling like you can control me, showing up out of the blue for your petty little favors,” he says with a truly feline look of self-satisfaction, settling on his knees between her legs. “But y’know what else I think? I think… I can do so much more.”

“I don’t want more,” she says through her teeth, jaw clenched. She grips the armrest of the couch tight enough to make the wood beneath the leather groan. “I want what I’m asking of you. Or are you incapable of following a simple agreement?”

He laughs, kneading both of her knees through her pants. “I’m abiding by the agreement. You said I could have whatever I want.”

He really just hears what he wants to hear. She narrows her eyes. “Not once did I say that.

“Don’t be pedantic. You asked what I wanted. I want this,” he says, sliding his hands up her thighs, thumbs pressing firm lines along the inside of her legs. “Just this. Just a taste. Just until you come.”

She slaps her hands down on top of his, halting his hands at her midthighs. “If I say no?”

Despite the minimal hold she has on him, his hands stay still under hers. It gets under her skin the way he looks up from her hands on his, how pleased he looks with the whole situation. She despises feeling like the mouse in this game between them.

Those gaudy eagle epaulets bounce as he shrugs. “Then there’s no deal. Your loss, honestly,” he says, evidently content to leave his hands right where they are.

“You’re disgusting,” she says, no longer withholding the acrimony from her voice. He looks unaffected by it–no, not unaffected. Amused. She gives his hands a shove and they lift away so easily she almost forgets how heavy they felt a second ago, poised in the air like a sign of surrender. She snaps her legs tightly shut. “Besides, it’s a bloody mess down there.”

“Oh, please,” Homelander scoffs, lowering his hands to either side of the couch, caging her in. “Don’t tell me that you, of all people, are squeamish about blood. You’ve already put blood on my hands, congresswoman. What’s a little on my tongue?”

“There is something profoundly wrong with you,” she says, feeling claustrophobic with the way he’s bracketing her in.

“And yet you haven’t said no,” he points out, leaning closer, pressing her knees into his sternum. She puts a hand on his shoulder to halt him and a little thrill runs up her spine when it works. She feels as though she’s holding a tiger at bay with her bare hands. His nostrils flare, taking in some scent that curves his parted lips into a faint smile. “In fact, you’re actually getting off on this.”

She briefly considers making her move. Boom. One big surge. All that hot blood rushing to his skull with such speed and force that not even that thick neanderthal skull can stay in one piece. Or maybe it would be the only thing that remains and all his blood and brain matter would just go shooting out of every orifice like a macabre sprinkler.

Victoria swallows the thought like bile, clearing her throat. If it doesn’t work, she’d be dead faster than a drop of blood left his nose.

“Fine,” she says eventually, ignoring the way it seems to fill his chest with air to hear. “In exchange for everything in that binder. Everything. No half-assing. Full measures taken.”

She can’t afford to lose. She keeps that in mind as she unbuttons her pants.

“Rest assured, Vicky. I’ve never half-assed anything in my life,” Homelander purrs, taking hold of her slacks and underwear in one go, helping to slide them down her legs. He slips her heels off with them, setting them aside.

Meanwhile, she slips out of her jacket, tossing it over the arm of the couch. It feels too strange to be so dressed only from the waist up. 

Looking back, it sincerely bewilders her to watch him take a moment to fold her slacks before he puts them down next to her neatly placed shoes.

There’s something freakishly clinical about him sometimes.

Turning, Homelander takes hold of her ankle, and slips her heel back on.

“What’re you doing?” She asks suspiciously.

He glances over at her, and for the first time, she doesn’t see arrogance or condescension in his expression. He looks a little sheepish, actually. “I like them,” he tells her simply, putting the other one back on as well. 

Deciding to let it go, Victoria leans back against the couch. Homelander eagerly nestles back between her legs, spreading them. She reaches backwards in an arch, behind her head, and grips the back of the couch, tense and thrumming with a sickly kind of anticipation that makes her gut churn. She glances down at him, and to her dismay, she finds him just staring between her thighs, gloved fingers digging into her inner thighs where he’s keeping them spread. 

“What? Do you even know what you’re–” looking for, she means to ask snidely, but the words turn into a hiss as he dips down and ruthlessly sucks her clit.

“Mmmmhm,” he hums. Even the sound of that is smug. The pull of his lips is indescribable, so relentless that it doesn’t feel human.

“Jesus Christ, Homelander,” she grits out, her other hand moving to grab a fistful of his–surprisingly soft–Barbie blond hair. “Softer. Your mouth feels like a goddamn Dyson,” says, giving his hair a harsh pull. It makes him moan. Embarrassingly, the combination of that noise and the way he instantly, obediently eases his mouth on her feels… good. Very good.

Initially, she’d resigned herself to closing her eyes and enduring him until the stimulation provided a bodily response that would satisfy him enough to stop. Instead, she watches him, taking in the sight of her hand balled up in his hair, his expression. His eyes are closed, head slightly tilted. He looks different like this, expression content. Downright blissful, even.

“Use your tongue,” she hears herself say, giving his hair another yank. Already she’s more of a participant than she told herself she would be, but if she’s going to do this, she may as well do as she pleases. He lets out a light grunt, flattening his tongue and nuzzling in against her, moving his head back and forth. It sends a spark of pleasure through her that makes her buck her hips, breaths coming in progressively more shallow huffs.

Lifting her leg, she catches her heel on his shoulder and jams it in, using it as leverage to grind up against his mouth while simultaneously pushing his head down. He’s so compliantly loose-limbed that she can almost believe she’s overpowering him. Using him. He makes an appreciative noise low in the back of his throat, holding her thighs tightly to either side of his head. 

She can tell from the way he’s rocking that he’s thrusting his hips, but there’s nothing for him to move against. He’s putting his all into laving his tongue in aggressive patterns, matching her energy as she fucks herself harder and faster on his tongue. Insufferable as he may be, he eats pussy well enough that she can feel herself climbing steadily towards the edge of climax.

All she has to do is come, and then this is over.

She gives his hair a sharp upward pull, but aside from a moan, his pace doesn’t lessen. “Stop,” she growls with another pull, and this time he lets her lift him. She doesn’t know why, but she knows she has to see him. Look him in the eye.

Their eyes meet, and the state of him makes something in her stomach lurch. He’s a fucking mess, blood smeared on his mouth and chin, tongue dragging hungrily along the seam of his lips. He looks drunk on her, eyes hazy and blown so black she can hardly see the eerily bright blue of them.

Victoria swallows, her mouth dry and her heart pounding. She holds him there, but he doesn’t speak, doesn’t protest. He just watches her, wholly pliant and awaiting her next move. He’s so utterly beneath her at this moment, stupid for the taste of her cunt and eager to please. It’s so intoxicating that it would make her angry if it didn’t feel so good.

She shoves him back down on an upward thrust of her hips and he moans for her. That tongue of his is immediately back on her, swirling as he absolutely devours her, hungrier for her than ever. This time she skyrockets back up to the precipice, biting back strained little moans. She doesn’t want him to know just how good it feels; the fact she’s actually going to finish is bad enough.

She bites down on her tongue and comes hard, her whole body tensing up as she all but crushes his head between her thighs, arching her back. Maddeningly, he licks her through her orgasm, moving his tongue with the pulse of her body with inhuman precision. It makes the aftershocks last twice as long, which leaves her limp and panting on the couch, his face pressed firmly between her thighs while she savors the process of coming down with his tongue still tracing languid figure-eights on her pussy.

“Enough,” she says eventually, lazily pushing him back with the heel she has on his shoulder. He falls back onto his ass with a satisfying thump, his hair thoroughly mussed and his face a mess. He smiles so dreamily at her, you’d think he was the one who came. He licks his lips in a slow, purposeful display that should make her roll her eyes. Instead, her sensitive clit throbs as she follows the movement of his tongue.

Fuck, she thinks woozily.

This may just be the beginning of a problem.