#The bullshit of fucking that shit no fuck off not fucking fair you get to experience all the worst bits fuck OFFF DDUDUEJDJJDDJJD

[hitlikehammers]

astral cartography✨💫

“And I did always say, right, that tattoos are a map of what you love.” Steve kisses Eddie firm, not least in appreciation for shutting Dustin’s harebrained bullshit down. But that doesn’t solve his original mystery.  “These aren’t a map, though,” Steve taps one of the new spots, smaller but still at the neck. No rhyme or reason to it.  “They’re the start of one.”💖

rating: t ♥️ cw: post-S4, extensive tattoo/birthmark/scar appreciation, established relationship, romantic gestures, a soupçon of angst surrounding some necessary work on self talk/body positivity re: extensive canonical scarring (it’s hurt/comfort in full service of fluff, so), little ✨sprinkling (lol) of humor, softness ♥️ tags: boys being tactile as shit, steve harrington being the canonical reason anyone ever called them ‘beauty marks’, eddie munson’s philosophy of tattooing, falling deeper in love

for @steddielovemonth day three: "if there is love, smallpox scars are as pretty as dimples. I'll love your face no matter what it looks like. because it's yours.” —Stephen King, 11/22/63

For all the attention he has wilfully, consciously, and very intentionally given certain elements of his appearance, Steve’s never though anything really about the fact that he’s got enough moles to dress up for Halloween as a fucking chocolate chip cookie.

Like, they don’t bother him at all or anything, but he’s never really understood how a handful of people he’s been with have just…zeroed in on them. Got a little crazy about them. Tracing them. Licking them. Nipping at them so they look more red than brown for a day or two. Whatever, Steve’s always figured. Everyone’s got their thing, and this one costs steve absolutely nothing to indulge, and if there’s one thing Steve prides himself on that doesn’t rhyme with ‘hair’? It’s making sure his partners leave satisfied.

But then there was Eddie.

And Eddie has a…well, a umm…

If you looked up the word ‘fixation’ in the dictionary, Eddie definitely has that.

Probably looking up the word ‘fetish’ might not be too far off, either.

What it means that Steve gets a little hot under the collar of his polo when he so much as thinks about either of those facts is a word he doesn’t know and isn’t going to bother looking up because why the hell would he, when he can just turn to Eddie, and…

Eddie’s fetish-fixations aren’t idle things, guy’s a man of action. Steve’s not gonna pick a book over what he gets out of the bargain like…for anything.

Plus, better stated—now there is Eddie. And Eddie…isn’t going anywhere, ever, if Steve has anything to say about it.

And it doesn’t cost Steve anything to lie there under his boyfriend’s unwavering, devoted attention. Kind of actually the sort of thing Steve never had before this, before him, and got addicted to quick—and that shone hasn’t worn off one bit. Isn’t actually showing any indication of everwearing off.

And when attention grows more heated, grows more more, well, then…fuck.

Ha, ha, that’s: fuck. Literally.

Point is, Steve doesn’t even really notice all the little dots on his skin, but hell if he’s not reaping the benefits.

——

It’s also not really fair to even consider judging Eddie for his fixation with Steve’s collection of birthmarks. Because Steve’s got his own not-quite-but-close-enough-the-distinction-doesn’t-matter obsession with Eddie’s skin.

Notably, but not exclusively, with his tattoos.

And more than that? With his scars.

Which is something that kinda comes about…tumultuously. Steve can acknowledge that.

“It’s too fucking hot, dude,” he’d frowned, rolling over and plucking at Eddie’s soaked-through shirt; “and you’re sweating buckets here.”

Seriously. The mattress was gonna get ruined at this rate.

“Jeez,” Eddie had snapped, straight off the bat; “sosorry we don’t all have central goddamn air.”

Which: the government hadn’t sprung for that, no. But:

“Don’t try and pull that shit on me,” Steve bit back, plain and simple, and it cowed Eddie the way it sure as hell should: he knew better. He knew Stevebetter, by now. They’d been fucking for months, since Eddie got the medical okay. They rarely spent more than a work-shift’s length out of each other’s sight. They were both—for the first time Steve’s ever got to feel it, both of them, together—clear-eyed on the way to bonafide bone-deep love; saying it out loud for keeps, and soon. They slept together every goddamn night.

So yeah. Eddie knew better.

He curled farther from Steve, into himself, but Steve just followed, even if doing so kinda exacerbated his complaint about the heat as a matter of course. He molded himself around Eddie and pulled him into his chest so he could murmur into the wet curls plastered at his ear:

“I get if you don’t want anyone else to see,” because wearing a shirt in this fucking heatwave really only made sense for one reason; “I get if you’re not ready yet, or if you’re never ready,” and Steve meant that: if Eddie was never ready to show off the worst of his scars? Steve would stand by him every day for the rest of his days.

That was basically the rule for…most things, now. With Eddie.

“But I already saw all of it, babe,” Steve tried to reason, because it wasn’t even that Steve was uncomfortable, mostly-nude in the bed himself; it was that Eddie’s misery hurt in his chest and he just…maybe it was selfish, to want to cast it out, but he just didn’t want Eddie to suffer. Ever.

“I cleaned them at their worst, y’know? I changed the bandages, I saw—”

“How much they look like Frankenstein’s fucking monster?” Eddie’d halfway snarled it, and Jesus fuck, no.

No.

“How much they almost make me fucking start crying,” Steve was willing to admit it, out loud, for this specific purpose alone, which said a whole fuck of a lot—

“Because they’re goddamn hideous—” Eddie tried to derail him but that wasn’t happening. Steve was on a mission, here. And Steve didn’t commit if he wasn’t gonna see something through past the finish line, and in first.

“Because they’re so alive,” Steve pulled Eddie in tighter, pressed his lips into Eddie’s neck.

“You have them, and you’re warm here next to me, I get to hold you in my arms like this and your fucking heart’s still beating, when I was so goddamn scared it would stop because of how torn up all this was,” and Steve laid just his palm blind to the deepest cratering of flesh that’s concave to the bone a little, knew where it was by muscle memory alone and he could feel Eddie’s pulse hammering for the fear and the shame and what had sounded too much like self-loathing, that Steve hadn’t realized was still so strong: but now he knew it. Now he knew, and he’ll wasn’t going anywhere, so he was gonna be right there, watching and helping and coaxing a way through it however he could.

“But it’s fucking beautiful, and it’s not red and torn open and bleeding out to take you from me anymore,” and Steve didn’t even think to feel ashamed of it when his voice cracked around how he didn’t realize that sore spot was still so close to the surface in himself.

“But now it’s pink and healthy and it stretches when you breathe in, because you’re here and you’re alive,” and there came the crack again in Steve’s voice but he expected it that time, and smashed his lips to Eddie’s neck again as he moaned a little:

“With me.”

And he breathed there as long as it took for Eddie’s breathing under his hand at the scars in his side to even out, and he just…appreciated them. Because they’d done the unthinkable; doctors and surgeons and modern medicine, sure, yeah, them too, but Eddie’s own body—the very skin under Steve’s hands—had decided to say fuck the reaper and knitted itself together the best it could, and the best it could had led them both here, had led Steve in Eddie’s bed, and Eddie in Steve’s heart, so.

Steve thought every single one of those scars was goddamn magnificent. He’d praise each of them in gratitude, separately and painstakingly every goddamn day, if he thought it’d convey how thankful he was for the textured artwork of Eddie’s left ribs, the way his whole side stood like a permanent installation in celebration of what it meant to demand to survive.

“They’re so,” Eddie eventually whispered, and it sounded already like he was gonna say something kinda like the opposite of everything Steve saw, so—they’d deal with those mean thoughts later.

For the moment though:

“You know how you said you’d never seen the ocean?” Steve had said, knowing it would sound like it came out of nowhere, but it wasn’t. “And I promised I’d take you?”

Eddie’d just turned, stared at him like he was losing it which…was fair. But Steve had a point to it, promise.

“I’ve seen it though,” Steve had closed his eyes and the memories are hazy because they’re so old but the feeling of it: s’not something you ever forget all the way. “Couple times, just because my parents had to be somewhere and I was too young to leave alone when the babysitter cancelled last minute,” and he’d reached out slow, opened his eyes to watch Eddie every millimeter his hand moved closer to the collage of divots and skin grafting and stitched-together planes that pulled too far to lie even when the staples came out. Eddie tensed, held his breath—it wasn’t that Steve hadn’t touched him here, far from it, but so intentionally, so eyes-open—but he didn’t flinch. And he didn’t stop Steve’s hand from pressing down.

His breath did catch, but so did Steve’s, just for clearly different reasons as Steve delicately traced the scalloped edgings and whispered, didn’t even try to hide how it made him feel kinda-sorta awed:

“It reminds me of the tides.”

“The sand goes smooth under the waves,” Eddie shot back, but without heat, more just…defeated as he muttered on; “even I’ve seen fuckin’ movies.”

“But the foam, like, of the waves coming up,” Steve pushed back; “it’s so pretty, that’s the part I want your to see most because it was so long ago, and that’s what I still remember,” and he’d sighed a little, going back to that place in his head:

“It’s like layers, and all the motion of it lapping up the coastline feels like like you could just lose yourself in the rhythm forever and never climb out,” and he’d let his eyes open slow, and he’d caught Eddie’s own and let himself do the same inside that gaze until Eddie got the fucking hint:

He was just ad beautiful, as impossible, as incredible as those tides.

“One wave after the next, in turns, crashing so strong but it’s not, like, violent,” Steve had let his thumb trace the raised lines under his touch back and forth; “it’s magic.”

Like Eddie. Who tucked a little further into himself before he turned, jostled Steve’s hand then burrowed into Steve instead:

“It’s not even smooth,” he protested all muffled; “you can’t even—”

“My nan loved photos.”

Again, Steve was pretty sure he sounded insane. But again, he was building to a point.

“Not even ones she took, most came from magazines. She couldn’t travel like she wanted to, my Gramp was building businesses but my Nan wanted like, adventures and the sights. So she made scrapbooks of wishes, she called them,” Steve had smiled at the memory, until the next one washed it away:

“My dad thought she was a silly old woman. We didn’t see her too much, in the end.”

Steve missed her.

“But the most beautiful thing she showed me once was this one tiny island somewhere way far in the north, where the beaches were made of stones.”

Eddie’s turned a little, frowned. It gave Steve access to his side again, though, and that’s all he needed, but his hand right back on that tangled-perfect marvel of scar tissue and indomitable life.

“Not pebbles, but big stones,” and Steve had outlined the larger waves in the flesh like examples with his hands as he spoke. “No rhyme or reason. It was special, the place itself, like it had some historic significance or whatever, but,” and Steve had let himself work around one knot of tissue he knew caused pulling sometimes, just in case it could use a little loosening, a little extra love, and he’d fought a full grin when Eddie’d grunted and caved under the attention, eager for the relief.

“The picture she had was of the waves crashing over the ricks and,” Steve had worked more at the knot as he searched for the right words;

“It was like the could have been at odds, like fighting each other, but instead they were this marvel that people came from across the world to just,” and he didn’t still his hands at all, but he did lean in to kiss behind Eddie’s ear; “just to have the privilege to see.”

And Eddie had shuddered, and his breath had caught hard, and Steve had turned him in his arms and slipped his hands under that sweat-soaked shirt and held held, held him, held him.

“Nothing smooth about it, really,” Steve had mouthed against Eddie’s jawbone then; “think that was most of the point.”

And Eddie’d slept without a shirt the rest of the unbearable second summer, chest-to-chest so Steve could feel the scars straight to his own skin, and from there on, it was understood.

Maybe not for everyone, but definitely for Steve: they were maybe not quite welcome—yet—but definitely allowed to be worshipped for the proof of life, the gift of love that they fucking were.

——

The tattoos aren’t quite the same. Steve thinks that’s because they were something Eddie chose; the scars interfered, deformed—weren’t the marks in themselves.

But after getting the memo about how complicated the scars are, and knowing these marks are no longer unentangled with those ones?

Steve may be oblivious sometimes, but. Once he learns a thing—especially when it’s tied up with loving—he tends to remember.

“Do you mind, when I,” Steve pulls his head up to meet Eddie’s eyes from where he’d already been basically sucking the ghoul head thingy above Eddie’s pec into a purple shade for like fifteen whole minutes, like a free color-job. Steve does like to think Eddie could have stopped him—and definitely wouldn’t be so hard between where they’re pressed together—if he had had a problem, but.

Steve…likes to be careful. When there’s loving.

“Not at all, sweetheart,” Eddie fucking purrs, and Steve grins cheshire-sharp for it, pleased with himself. Hr actually kinda loves this particular tattoo especially; the scars that cut into it make it look like Mr. Zombie-face got into a nasty fight with Wolverine from X-Men—which yes, thank you Henderson, he already knew about before starting to screw your DM—but anyway.

“I just,” Steve traces one long scar of the three as he talks, tries not to grin too much when Eddie shivers, when his nipple proves it’s not too scarred-up to pebble under the attention fucking beautifully; “since you don’t want to get any more, and—”

“No, I don’t,” Eddie says simply, if a little breathy as he arches into how Steve does the same up what looks like the second claw mark, just a fingertip alone the line; “least not right now. But they’re still a map of the things with love, yeah? Present tense, past tense, it’s all a story.”

And that is…Eddie. That answer is so fucking Eddie.

And he’s worked so hard—both of them have—to say that kind of thing from a place where they could believe it, and damn if it doesn’t come out now like its said like a man who’s made his peace, and feels solid standing in it.

“And, like, maybe these are just ink from a really shitty apprentice artist,” Eddie taps at the weave of scars lower, the worst of them: his rocky beach on the waves, and fuck, if he’s willing to try even a kinda shitty joke about it all, in the privacy of their bed where there’s no need to fake it, or force it to make nice?

They really have made progress.

“Hmm,” Steve doesn’t take his hand from that second pseudo-claw mark but he does crawl down a little to get a better look at Eddie’s biggest set of scarring—not that he needs to, but if he’s gonna play alone he’s not gonna half-ass it, so he tuts a little and shakes his head regretfully:

“Honestly, I just don’t think the Upside Down has a real established scene to expect high standards,” Steve laments, shaking his head; “they can’t even keep the lights on down there, man, plus teeth for needles? Can’t be the best practice,” he sighs wearily. “Health code violations fucking everywhere, Robin would pass the fuck out—“

And maybe Eddie’s tackling him them, shaking with cackles as he takes the lead to pin Steve to the bed, sucks between the moles on his neck—perfect vampire bites, baby, marked just for me—and Steve maybe giggles for it, the impatience, the enthusiasm, the joy in the tussle. It’s basically perfect.

So yeah. Eddie’s as marked up as he’s probably gonna get, at least any time soon. Steve won’t let another round of violence touch him ever again, over his dead fucking body, and tats…maybe they’re gonna just stick with the story they’ve got on Eddie’s skin, close that chapter where it naturally turned a page.

To start this new thing, together. Where Steve leave the marks, and proudly, and touches them up as often as need be. With pleasure.

And if Eddie’s as happy about that as he currently looks, flushed and panting and far beyond ready to get on with more than sucking at skin?

Maybe that actually works out perfectly.

——

So, the point is, the love each others marks, the things that trace their skin to make them them, but blemishes but serial numbers: just more undeniable proof to celebrate the person they like most in the whole world.

Love most, as is becoming abundantly clear.

Which means they notice right away when so much as a bruise pops up from knocking into the kitchen table—but Steve’s not looking at a bruise.

He squints—this isn’t really a task he’d lean on his classes for but…so weird and also, odd fucking place underneath Eddie’s chin—

“Did your sharpie break?”

Because that would make sense. Eddie purrs on basically anything that can pass for a writing implement, if he gnawed to much, maybe he was lucky and the ink dribbled rather than sprayed.

“No,” but honestly, Steve is not convinced. It’s not a convincing denial, first off, but then on top of that, there’s more incriminating evidence:

“You’ve got marks, like, all over,” dark little speckles, like an egg at Easter before you dunk it in the bright vinegar water. It’s not sunny enough for his freckles to be coming out yet, is it?

“I do,” Eddie agrees, but kinda distant, like his head’s elsewhere. Steve looks up from where he’d become sprawled out over Eddie’s chest on the couch: he’s working on campaign notes and: oh look. Not a sharpie.

One of those Mr. Sketch monstrosities that smell like ‘fruit’ and everyone’s gotten high off of at some point, which 100% belonged to the school at some point, and 100% now has Steve’s boyfriend’s dental imprints on the end.

Steve just rolls his eyes and, which the colour still isn’t exactly—the speckles on Eddie’s skin really are a more chocolate brown—he’s gonna let this one go.

Maybe get up and make dinner or something, so he’s no stuck with that suffocating alcohol-licorice smell the black marker gives off.

——

“Are you sure you were using sharpie last week?”

Steve also means today. Or yesterday. Or right now. There are more…speckles.

He knows there are more of them.

“I didn’t use any sharpies last week,” Eddie shrugs, not looking up from his book but gesturing broad with his forkful of mac and cheese. “All mine are dried out and I keep forgetting to pick up new ones.”

Okay, well. That does track. He leans in closer, runs a finger over the first spot he noticed: same color, maybe a little less bold; the other ones look a little red around the edges, like when Steve’s moles get sucked at and—

“Look familiar?”

Steve turns, looks at Eddie who appears to have very quickly given up pretending not to care about the conversation. Steve blinks, looks a little closer, and…

That’s ink, alright. But it’s under the skin.

“I didn’t think you were gonna get any more,” Steve says, doesn’t expect his voice to be so soft. He doesn’t understand what they are, what they’re building up to be a part of but it looks like a big sort of project, and definitely in clearly visible places, so it feels worth some respect for the weight of the decision, what it means for Eddie who smiles small and nods; agrees simply:

“Me neither.”

“But, y’see, Henderson—”

“Ugh,” Steve groans because Dustin is, in fact, currently on his shit list. See previous ‘you only know that because you’re fucking my DM’ transgressions. Kid’s on thin fucking ice.

“No, no, it’s to a point,” Eddie soothes him, and it works, cause Eddie is always in his corner before anyone else’s, he killed Dustin’s character weeks ago and Steve still isn’t sure if Dustin’s stilll just watching when they get together, waiting to somehow find a narrative launch-point back into the action: “but he wants ink, which I told him, too fucking young,” and Eddie looks up to soak in the approval he knows is waiting for him in Steve’s eyes—he’s not wrong at all, and preens a little for it, too.

“But he was eyeing my bats, and he tried to say, well, what does it matter, they only meant something after,” and he gestures toward the bigger wound, the more unforgiving mark of bats opposite the still-fairly clean cookie-cutter type fliers on his arm.

“And that was just the dumbest attempt at an argument in his favor, because it not at all fucking true.”

For Steve’s part, it’s the one piece he’s never asked after. Too close to home. But he just figure…cool. Metal. Maybe about Ozzy.

“My mom used to read me nursery rhymes,” Eddie’s face goes so soft as his voice gets all fond, like it always does whenever Elizabeth Munson comes up. “Like, the old ones. And she did it way longer than probably most people, like, I was way too old for it but,” Eddie chews his lip and looks up at Steve like he’s confessing a secret:

“I just really loved it.”

Steve pushes and pulls Eddie a little until there’s the barest sliver of space at the back of the sofa for Steve to lie down in, wholly boxed in by Eddie’s weight, specially when Eddie rolls the priest bit into him to pin him close.

“My favorite one was about bats,” he whispers. “About hiding them from people who didn’t understand how nice they were, and how all they wanted as to do their thing, even if it wasn’t what everyone else liked, and be good for everybody by helping eat bad bugs or whatever,” he hums what Steve imagines is the rhyme; “so you put them under your hat, and give them bacon, and if they’re as good and as poorly treated for no good reason as you suspect is the case, you’ll bake them a cake. Because they deserve it.”

He doesn’t really have to say more for the connection to kinda stick out like a sore goddamn thumb.

“Couldn’t put it under my hat, but,” he ruffles his curls ruefully. “And I did always say, right, that tattoos are a map of what you love.”

Steve kisses Eddie firm, not least in appreciation for shutting Dustin’s harebrained bullshit down. But that doesn’t solve his original mystery.

“These aren’t a map, though,” Steve taps one of the new spots, smaller but still at the neck. No rhyme or reason to it.

“They’re the start of one.”

Steve frowns, so fucking confused, pulling back a little to try and see if he can read any answers from Eddie’s face.

But Eddie’s just smiling at him softer than he’d even been smiling before, thinking of nursery rhymes and the few good memories that came from the days before living with Wayne. He’s looking at Steve right now mostly like he hanged the moon itself.

“I’m gonna ask again,” Eddie breathes low, and grabs Steve’s cheek:

“Look familiar?”

And Steve, when it falls into place, doesn’t actually thing he should face any blame for not seeing it at first, or second, or even tenth glance. Because he’s never paid attention. Other people did.

But Eddie finally turns his neck and: vampire bites.

Marked just for me.

And then Steve starts touching each dot, and trying to find the sublest hint of a raise in the skin in the same place on himself. Every time, he finds it, some quicker with other slower, some needing him to look at the glass of the china cabinet behind the couch that’s never made sense there, but is reflective enough for the task and…they’re all there.

The marks aren’t…sharpie tips. They’re Steve’s, they, they’re all of Steve’s—-

“I love you something fucking fierce Steve Harrington,” Eddie bites out with what Steve gets the feeling is only a sampling of the very ferocity he’s speaking of; “and tolerating another second where I didn’t have you etched into my skin, the most important, most adored,” and Steve’s heart flips to hear it said so earnest, so felt full from Eddie’s heart:

“You not being on here was just fucking unacceptable.”

And goddamnit, Steve’s eyes are stinging. He, he’s…Eddie is…

“It’s like a star map,” Eddie murmurs, tracing the originals the way he often does, like connect-the-dots but reverent, always; “like how sailors navigated,” then he looks away, doesn’t move his hand but makes sure Steve meets his eyes:

“You’re my way home, because you are home.”

And yeah. No one could ever have expected him to hear those words and not let the waiting tears fall, okay? That’d be fucking insane.

His chest is so tight with so much right now, holy shit.

“All of it’s constellations made of you,” and he says that, too, has made up whole legends for the stars on Steve’s back; “so when I look at them, my heart’s always just that extra bit reminded where it’s meant to be, the direction it’s always gonna be headed, for forever.”

Steve’s breath catches loud and gaspy around a sob, and he’s not even speaking. What the fuck.

“Fuckin’ sap,” he says like it’s the highest honor he could give, and maybe here and now it is; “fuck, but love you,” and he draws Eddie in for a salty kiss that’s sloppy and heady and more heartfelt than Steve might just know how to stand.

When they finally part just for breath, Steve’s thumb is on one of the spots—on of the stars of the map.

“How,” he starts, because why, did he take a photo?

But Eddie just scoffs:

“Think I don’t know every inch of you by heart?”

And yes, of course that earns him Steve trying to suck his tongue from his mouth for the explicit purpose of his soul coming out easier for the way he kisses him deep as he knows how. And they do that, for a long fucking time because…

Steve’s kind of reeling. Steve’s never loved more in his life but then, but then—

No one has ever loved Steve even a fraction of this. Steve’s never had this, never known this. Steve…

Steve thought loving that big was his fucked up burden to bear, but now—

He’s not alone in how deep it rubs. How far he’ll go, and gladly.

What. The. Fuck.

Is this what a cheat is supposed to feel like, is this how normal people who love normal amount so that they get loved back the same got to feel all along?

Steve…almost doesn’t think so. Steve thinks this is what it feels like to love extravagantly and with more than your full self as a rule to the point of insanity for anyone on the outside looking it, and to fucking finally find your match for it.

And to know, then, that it was never crazy. It was only ever exactly right.

“Two more sessions, just for time,” Eddie nips at Steve’s lower lip, slick for spit and tears in equal measure.

“You’re unbelievable,” Steve gales, grinning wide enough it hurts.

“Hey now,” Eddie nips a little harder, narrowing his brow playfully; “I got the little one under your balls and the sprinkle set on your taint this last time,” and Steve can’t help himself.

He bursts out laughing so hard his sides ache.

“Even I needed a breather, sitting on that to drive home!” Eddie protests as Steve straddles him fully, properly, and…

Gets ready to read some fucking maps.

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[rei-ismyname]

Thor vs Magneto - Journey into Mystery #109 highlights

This cover is fantastic. Look at Thor, the chump, losing Mjolnir to the power of the Master of Magnetism! At this point in time, if Thor stops holding Mjolnir he reverts to Donald Blake, his mortal form, after sixty seconds. I assume that the Brotherhood wear pink on Wednesdays but only Wanda and Mags remembered. I'm pretty sure Mastermind owns no clothes besides that potato sack, but he could use his illusions.

Thor is doing some 60s Thor bullshit, but I don't care. Magneto and the Brotherhood have a submarine, lol. I think he's in the Hudson River, looking for the X-Men of course. His lackeys are going stir crazy playing pranks on each other so he sends them on a mission - to find the X-Men! Once they leave he straps himself into a giant magnet (though not the biggest he's used) and just starts fucking around. It's the best.

The people of New York, including Donald Blake, wig out when objects start levitating. I kinda love that Mags is doing this for shits and giggles. It's not exactly a dastardly scheme. Thor the nerd just has to investigate, blowing off his dinner date with Jane Foster. Mjolnir leads him to the source of the chicanery without effort.

Ahh Magneto, you should have hid your periscope better, or just retracted it when you're not using it. Thor just bashes the door open and barges his way in. To a submarine. That's underwater. It's funny, whatever. Mags gives him a zap to scold him for his rudeness but then thinks he's clocked him as a mutant, so he offers an alliance.

Mags gives Thor a tour of the submarine, showing off his treasures, but the Prince of Asgard is not impressed. He strongly objects to Mags' plans for conquest, despite being royalty of the most imperialist polity in existence. The Nine Realms weren't lining up to be ruled by Odin, dude brutally subjugated them and stole their stuff.

Mags insinuates he's a hippie then wraps him in metal, presumably the stuff Thor smashed to get in.

Thor escapes from that pretty easily and throws Mjolnir at Magneto. It follows him around so he uses his powers to deflect it and leaves it stationary in the air. Bereft of his one good trick, Thor tries to punch Mags and gets laid out. For some reason he runs away, planning to sink the submarine with him in it. Thor's sixty seconds are up and he is now a powerless mortal.

Magneto doesn't know that, though and wonders why he's gone silent. After wondering where the walking stick (Mjolnir) came from, he decides fuck it, and goes to just kill him with metal. The very squishy Donald Blake should have absolutely died right here - if not from the rivets then that huge grille that pinned him to the ground. However, he's the hero, can't just have Magneto kill his ass, right?

Conveniently, he's distracted by a call from the Brotherhood. They found the X-Men and didn't consider the 'then what?' Yeah, that's a failure of leadership. Sorry Mags, you blew it. Check out the optic blast fucking shit up.

Somehow Thor found the walking stick and has all his powers again. Mjolnir's previously unseen magnetic powers drain Magneto's energy or something? Mags gets pounded, it's like he ran out of steam.

The Master of Magnetism drops down a hatch and arms a thermonuclear proton bomb. Silver Age Magneto loves nukes and gets his hands on a fair amount of them. The X-Men, despite not appearing at all, manage to A) be on this submarine and B) freeze the bomb. Is that how bombs work? I don't know. Realising that the plot is bending the laws of physics to defeat him, Magneto bails in his MAGNI-SUB! Sadly the MAGNI-SUB is never seen again, but Magneto gets away. I'm calling this a draw, which is pretty impressive for Magneto. When you consider that the unseen X-Men have an X-submarine and follow him after the story ends, it's like Thor wandered into an X-Men comic and has no idea what's happening. I love that Magneto has a submarine within a submarine. It's some real ACME Corporation shit. Fantastic.

[alaskan-wallflower]

(vent in the tags and under the cut. don’t read if you don’t want.)

sometimes i wonder if people would care if i was gone. there’s just no point anymore tbh.

[kawaii-killshot]

Having attachment issues and being self aware literally sucks ass. Do I know it's unreasonable and unhealthy and kind of stupid to be this conscious of another person to the point where I'm now feeling more resentment than affection for them? Yes. Do I wish I could stop? Absolutely yes, so now I have to play that stupid waiting game where I avoid that person and just stew in agony until things fade away naturally. I fucking hate when this happens

[mars-ipan]

this is gonna sound incredibly virtue signal-y i fear but i have been feeling. so fiercely protective of all the transfems i've ever met lately

[gayspock]

I lied I'm not done

It jsut fucking sucks no. Matter what I do I can't fucking do anything fucking right I fucking don't fucking know what to do I feel so fucking Stupid I feel so fucking useless I feel so fucking alone always fucking feel. So fucking alone and Like insanely fucking pathetic and fucking angry and fucking upset because can't fucking do anything but fucking fuck up and fucking whstever fucking fuck me I fucking get upset I fucking cry I fucking lose it I always fucking backin the same fucking place the same fucking idiot who fucking can't fucking whsreveri just fucking f. Whatever whatever what wer I wish I was safe or happy jsut one time it fuckingfell apart I wish there was anything else on the other side do youever ge tliei that 8 think about sincerely if killed myself it's just genuinely for the better for everyone and everything and I cannot fucking do anytjignever to doanytjing and I wish it meant something more ireally fucking wish it jsut meant slmetjign like it wasn't just always short fucking straws I can't fucking take it any more I really fucking cant

[himbopunk]

that being said wrt my last post, if i try doing a furry con i'll probably do a lot of accessories stuff as well as pumping out a few prints or charms at like a vendors room table. i think 90 percent of the people who buy my weird wolf head patch are furries. i see you

[rinofwater]

You know, I really do wish I was better at expressing my thinking on-the-spot, maybe I won't be the one feeling like the intolerant idiot when I try to counter the cold-ass talking points that seem to circulate around my office like water

[sloaneispunk]

“teacher’s pet”pt.2 (mdni 18+)

teacher!in-ho x you

getting involved with his student was risky, but how far was he willing to take it until he would be confronted?

༯ ──── ❤︎ ──── ༯

“you know, something’s up with you and mr in-ho… you’re like way friendlier than most students and teachers are.” you friend commented as you were walking out the school gate.

“what? no!” you glared at her, looking away.

to be fair, it was pretty obvious. you just didn’t want it to end, it felt good having a handsome man like mr in-house wrapped around your finger. but you didn’t know who you were trying to protect more, him or you.

the next day when you stepped into class, you gave him yet another wave, causing him to do the same.

if mr in-ho wasn’t so good-looking, you would say his lessons were mundane. but luckily for you, your interest had peaked miraculously ever since you started attending his class.

when the bell rang, you packed your bags, ready to leave. but just as you brushed past his table, you felt his hand grab onto yours.

“stay back.” he whispered, making you look back at your friends that had left.

“why? did i do something wrong?” you asked as he slowly but hesitantly released your hand.

“no, not at all… i just thought we could spend some time together.” he shrugged, seemingly with pure intentions.

but you saw right through.

bullshit.

“it is your lunch now right?” he asked.

he swiftly half sat on his desk, signalling for you to take his teacher’s seat instead.

“yea, it is. did you stalk my timetable?” you teased causing him to let out a chuckle.

“just happened to see it.”

“okay then. so, how are you liking this school?”

“oh, i’ve taught in this school before. i just haven’t been back into the teaching scheme in awhile.”

“oh, i didn’t know that.” you replied, hands rested on your hands as you stared at him, intrigued. “so i’m guessing you liked teaching him, or you would’ve found another school.”

“of course. there’s something in the air of this school, makes me keep wanting coming back.”

“maybe it’s the student… maybe a student.” you wiggled your eyebrows as you joked, testing waters.

“possibly.” he shook his head in disbelief.

“i’m assuming you don’t have a wife?” you questioned.

“well… i did, but she isn’t with us anymore.” he said, his tone changing, sounding much softer, much more vulnerable.

“oh…i’m sorry, i don’t mean to pry. i’m sure she must have been very beautiful… inside and out.” you offered him a smile as you placed your hand over him comfortingly.

in-house looked down to where your hands were meeting, breath suddenly caught in his throat.

“thank you.” he cleared his throat before gently pulling away. “so, are you doing anythung after school?”

“no, not really. alot of assignments are piling up, i should go home straight away.” you told him as he nodded sympathetically.

“so you’re a hard-working girl, huh?”

“of course, have you not seen me in your class?” you laughed.

“i have… alot.” the last word said almost in a whiser, barely able to hear if you weren’t fully paying attention to him.

you could feel a string of tension in the air, you breath quickened as he started to move away.

“i should go, should probably eat before my next class.” you made up an excuse, grabbing your stuff and dashing for the door.

before in-house could stop you, you were gone.

shit, did he take it too far?

for the rest of the periods, you couldn’t focus. it was so wrong. so, so wrong.

this was the moment you realised how bad you had it too. in-ho, the man you knew for barely a month had already had you in a chokehold.

when classes ended, you were going to head home. but then came a slight misfortune, it was pouring.

you stood at the gate with a huff as the rain grew heavier by the second. all your friends had took off, heading to a nearby diner together, leaving you behind.

fuck it, you thought. you walked in the pouring rain, feet dragging as you let out curses under your breath.

just then, there was a honk.

as you shielded your eyes from the rain you saw who it was, mr in-ho.

“what are you doing?!” he asked as he pulled up beside you, “get in before you get sick!”

with no other choice, you pulled open the car door, hopping into the passenger seat as you felt his eyes tearing into you.

“thank you.” you breathed out as you looked at yourself, you were soaked. “i’m sorry about the car seat, this looks like a really expensive car.”

“don’t worry about it… are you okay? is it still cold? i can turn off the air conditioning.” he replied, his eyes full of worry.

“no, i’m okay. thank you.”

“do you have an address where i can drop you off?”

in-ho gave you his phone, letting you put your address into his gps before he drove off.

at first, the car ride was silent. it wasn’t an awkward silence, it was a comfortable one. one where you could hear the humming of the engine and the water splashing onto the windshield.

“why did you take off just now?” in-ho suddenly asked, turning to you for a split second.

“i-i just… you- i don’t-”

“it’s okay, you don’t have to answer.”

“no. it’s just that i don’t want to misinterpret anything and end up regretting it for the rest of my life.” you vomitted out.

he stayed silent.

“and what would that be?” he asked after a bried moment of silence.

“that you were into me…” you said softly, “…like how i am to you.”

he only hummed in agreement.

shit, was this it? did you mess up?

before you could somehow salvage the situation, the car came to a stop.

“we’re here.”

“i’m sorry, i knew i shouldn’t have said that. i-i was just misinterpreting the whole thing a-an-”

but you were cut off with in-ho’s soft hands cupping your face, barely giving you any time before his lips met with yours.

you let out a muffled gasp before you melted into him.

at that moment, he was all you knew.

in-ho, in-ho, in-ho.

when he pulled away, you involuntarily let out a whine, causing him to smile.

“it’s our secret.” he said as you nodded frantically. “you know what? since you’re my favourite student, i’ll give you my number…”

he then took out a piece of paper, scribbling his number on it and placed it in the palm of your hand.

“don’t lose it.” he instructed as you were still caught up in what exactly just happened.

with that, you exited his car, giving him a small wave as per usual. he made sure that you got into your apartment before he took off, a stupid smile never leaving his face.

that night, you were on your bed, tossing in turning. you couldn’t sleep.

‘maybe this was the time to put his number to good use.’ you thought.

you crawled over to your nightstand, taking you phone as you typed in his number.

‘hey! i hope this is the right number.’ you texted.

within a minute, your phone had buzzed.

‘Y/n?’

‘yea. sorry i don’t mean to bother you.’

‘It’s alright, i was just grading papers. It’s late, why aren’t you asleep?’

‘couldn’t. but if you’re busy we can talk when you’re free. :) ’

‘Nonsense. Papers can wait. Did you catch a cold?’

‘no, i’m okay. thanks for the ride though!’

‘Anytime, Y/n. You have my number, call me if you ever need a ride home. :)’

you were kicking your feet like a pre-tesn texting their first crush.

‘I’ll see you tomorrow in class okay? Get some sleep, need you to be awake for my class.’

you giggled.

‘okay. goodnight mr in-ho!’

‘Goodnight, Sweetheart. Sweet dreams.’

yup. you were fucked.

༯ ──── ❤︎ ──── ༯

( bungee jumping of their own - 2001 )

[i-miss-lotor]

Little bit of a vent cause I can't sleep cause of anxiety and worry

[loganlermanstanaccount]

Hello! Could you please write a stubborn, jealous hc for Miguel o'hara? Thank you!!

I had the brainworms, so I hope this is what you were looking for! Thanks for the ask <3

Jealous!Miguel O'Hara Headcanons

(AO3 Mirror), Main Masterlist

pairing: jealous!Miguel O'Hara x reader

summary: stubborn HCs for jealous!Miguel O'Hara. 

a/n: this was meant to be a drabble and i basically wrote a full fic. i have zero self control lmfao

warnings: smut (fingering, f receiving oral, slight brat taming, etc) right at the very end, 18+ from then onwards, the rest is more pg-13

wc: 3.5k ish

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Long story short: he's a stubborn little shit.

Pig-headed as fuck and it shows up in little things. 

Let's say you first met as coworkers, and you were a lab technician at Alchemax. 

Think: unstoppable force meets immovable object. He likes his labs just so, with very specific equipment in a very specific configuration. 

It drives you crazy, regularly having tiffs outside the labs; much to the chagrin of your coworkers. 

"Jesus." Your coworker mutters, wincing at the seemingly heated argument by the water cooler. 

"Ignore it, Maeve." Another coworker rolls their eyes, nudging Mave with a snort. "They're at it again . S'pose they'll tire each other out by the end of the day."

Not that they were wrong. But this time, it wasn't your fault: dealing with O'Hara's bullshit had really taken it's toll. He was insufferable, prone to nitpicking and just plain mean. You could hardly be blamed if you gave him some of your own choice words. 

"My notes were basically paint-by-fucking-numbers!  How could you mess up a simple distillation? When I specify precision glassware , you don't think that's fucking important?" 

"Your notes ," You draw air quotes pointedly at him. "-are illegible, you fucking cretin! Maybe if you didn't write like a goddamn pre-schooler-"

"- preschooler? Oh , fuck you!" 

"Get your nose out of that highschool Chem textbook, O'Hara, this is a fucking job."

"Yeah? Stop using it to wipe your ass and you might learn a thing or two."

"Oh , so that's what we're doing?" You laugh in his face, so angry your hand curls into tight fists. You get close, staring him down as you look upwards through your lashes. His own face is contorted into a grimace; bushy eyebrows furrowed into deep shadows around his eyes. You can feel his steady breathing before he speaks, low and rumbling. 

"I could do this all day, princesa. " 

You scoff, ignoring the way his words weaken your knees. The one time you asked for a break during a long lab and he won't stop calling you a spoilt princess. His laughter then stings in your ears now, the ghost of a smirk on his face as you storm off. Miguel O'Hara: smug bastard. He would be the death of you, you're sure. 

~~~

You spend many a late night with him, unwittingly, and find out he's more than a stubborn little shit. 

You find out he's funny, and shares the same anti-Alchemax tendencies you do: both preyed upon by the company immediately after graduation, young and naive. 

He's kind, even though he'd never admit it, often finishing up the lab notes and doing more than his fair share of work so you can go home at a reasonable time. 

You both still butt heads, but it turns into a tentative friendship - coffees in the morning hidden as blaise convenience, covering for each other at work, and defending the other when office gossip goes too far. 

That's why when he comes back to work after a week-long stint away - something about a blow up with the boss, an issue described as 'miscommunication, promptly smoothed over' by anyone official - you notice… something's different about him. 

You first noticed something was off when he walked in without a snide remark. You left a mug overnight at the counter, something that would usually draw a sarcastic comment at the least , but he gives you… nothing. Blank, glassy eyes as he opens up his workstation - clicking away at the keys without so much as a glance.

"O'Hara?" You call, but he doesn't even look up. You walk to his workstation and knock at the desk. He jumps. God, he looks worse for the wear. Heavy bags under his eyes and a bruise blossoming under his collar. 

"You okay?" 

He rubs his temples, eyes flitting up at you.  "Yeah, just…. just a long week, s'all." 

You put a hand on his shoulder, and you swear he leans into your touch. "We can reschedule, tonight. The calculations can wait, Miguel."

He gives you a weak smile, but a smile nevertheless. "S'okay. Need to make sure you don't fuck it up."

"Don't push your luck, O'Hara."

~~~

As you get closer, you notice just how stubborn he is to admit the growing tension between you two. 

Late nights at the lab turn into takeout at your place, morning coffee turns into a pleasant 20 minutes on the rooftop away from the hustle and bustle - just you and Miguel, talking and joking with a cup of shitty coffee in hand. 

Wholly, he seems more assertive at work, not as quick to roll over. 

It's hot, you have to admit; watching him fight with someone else other than you. 

You're at work drinks with the other technicians and engineers, nursing a watery beer when another colleague makes small talk with you at the bar.

You’ve never been that close to him, and the conversation is amicable enough, but you’re almost bowled over when you see Miguel, in the corner, staring straight at you with a stormy look.

You suppose it's a little pathetic, getting all dressed up for a casual drink. Lips shiny with gloss and gently powdered with makeup, you feel a little out of place. For all your talk at work, actually being here was another thing. Suddenly, your blouse is too tight and your skirt too short. With a manicured finger, you trace the lip of your glass filled with watery beer. You sigh. You don't want to admit it, but you were only here because of Miguel. He said he would come, and now you're sitting on a barstool counting the chips in your glass. 

It was probably for the best. You sink into the absentminded chatter of your colleagues around you, until there's a tap at your shoulder. 

"Is someone-" He clears his throat; a tall man dressed in a sharp suit nodding gracefully towards the empty chair. "-is this seat taken?" 

You shake your head, grateful for the company. He's handsome, sharp features curving into a wry grin as he calls for a drink. 

"...and something other than shitty beer for the pretty girl, too." It makes you laugh, light and lilting in the bustle of the bar. 

He stretches out his hand, and you take it. 

"Eddie Crouch. I work in marketing."

Eddie…. as in… head of the most profitable division of Alchemax? Your eyes widen involuntarily and you try to clamp down your immediate shock, somewhat unsuccessfully. He narrows his eyes as you tumble over your words. 

"Y-Yeah, same! I mean, not same , I just work in the l-labs and I thought it was just for us guys, working behind the curtain, y'know? Not that we're not thrilled to have you here, because we a-are." You spill out, wincing. "....Is this about the performance reviews? Because I know output was down this quarter but our projections are-"

"I'm not here to talk about work." He chuckles. You squint, not convinced. As if to alleviate your concerns, he loosens his tie and undoes his top buttons with a flourish. 

"Can I tell you a secret?" He leans in, and the air becomes thick with expensive perfume. He twirls the signet ring on his finger, a ring probably worth more than your monthly paycheck. 

"Your boss invited me," Discreetly, he stretches a finger at your boss; a man ruddy cheeked and red-faced with alcohol. "Guess he thought it would boost morale. He's a fucking idiot if he thinks having me, the one guy that could fire your entire department without recourse, exchange empty platitudes would boost morale. But, I digress. So here I am, dragging my feet to this bar, thinking I'm gonna get in, read the lines and get out. But then, " He pauses with dramatic effect. "I see the most beautiful person I've ever had the pleasure of laying my eyes on, just sitting by the bar. Like everyone isn't already falling over themselves to talk to you."

The irony is palpable. It's sickly sweet, and a line that wouldn't usually work on you. But usually, you weren't pining over a man so prickly and stubborn, you shouldn't have feelings for. Here you were, bright cocktail in front of you and a moderately attractive man by your side. He wasn't quite Miguel, but in the words of one of the greatest thinkers of the past age: country girls make do. 

And so you make lazy conversation with the man. So lost in a tipsy haze, you barely notice Miguel walk in; dark jacket on his shoulders and deliciously loose slacks. You're drawn to him, his eyes seemingly searching the room, and you sigh into your drink. Technically, he looks like shit: eyes dark-rimmed and sunken, a cut at his brow. You think he is gorgeous, eyes tracing the slope of his nose and plush lips. Like he can sense it, he glances over in your direction and you look away hastily. He's watching , you can feel its burn as you turn, pretending to listen to the man besides you. A little cruelly, you lean into him, not breaking eye contact and curling a hand around his arm to laugh at a stupid joke. Eddie laughs with you, oblivious, as you glance behind him. 

Miguel stands with a drink thrust into his hands, looking straight through him, eyes low and gazing at you. 

~~~

He insists on walking you home, a steady hand on the small of your back as you stumble through the streets of Nueva York.

You make light conversation, tipsy and giggly from the alcohol. Miguel seems a little more put together, but his chest still creaks with rumbling laughter.

He definitely walks on the side of the pavement nearest the street, because he thinks it keeps you safer. 

He walks you up the stairs and by the door of your apartment, like a gentleman. You watch him get nervous suddenly, and he hesitates, stubbornly digging in his heels and pausing you from opening the door and coming in. 

You don't want it to end, opting to take the walk up the stairs as opposed to the lift. It's one of your more questionable decisions as you stumble up the stairs, almost tripping over your own feet. Miguel is quick to catch you even though he was just as drunk. Arm around your waist, he leaves searing touches to your hip. You giggle despite yourself, and he can't help but smile at your clumsiness. 

"If you break your legs I won't carry you, princesa ." A lie and you both know it. He would carry you to the ends of the earth like a blushing bride, if you asked him. 

You both stagger to up the stairs and through the corridor until you reach your front door. You rummage around your bag for your keycard, it's contents click-clacking in the quiet of the hallway. Miguel watches, quieter than he was in the journey. If you looked up now, you would see something else behind his eyes - a storm of apprehension and tension. 

You find your keycard, and look up to find Miguel placing a careful palm on the door. He's surprisingly still, eyes on your lips as he steps closer. You look everywhere but to meet his eyes, tracing the curve of his collarbone, the slope of his exposed forearm, and the tempting juncture of his strong jaw. You watch it tense, as he brings a gentle hand to your chin. His thumb swipes over the fat of your lip. 

"Got somethin' right… there." He mumbles, before tucking his hand away. You can barely breathe. Without thinking you take his hand in yours, lacing your fingers together like a gentle hug. You bring his hand to your waist, and he squeezes, ever so gently. Your hand drops and he moves his slowly, knuckles dragging along the smooth silk of your blouse, and then sending shivers when he reaches your bare neck. 

He has to bite down the plethora of things running through his head - his drunken brain threatening to spill all his thoughts. You are so beautiful and soft it makes him short-circuit, desperate to pull you close. Instead, you do: hand inching up his chest and laying to rest on his shoulders. 

He kisses you, finally ; a little messy and impossibly soft. Like his lips on yours would shatter you both. You deepen the kiss and wrap his arm tighter around you, angling your chin to drink up even more of you. You both come up for air, panting in the heat of one another. Miguel's eyes are full of lust and blown out. 

"Do…do you want to come in?" You whisper. 

Something catches in his throat and his expression changes, like he just woke up from a dream. Do you just want to sleep with him? He's not built for one night stands, can't do just sex, especially if it's you. No matter how much he wants to, he can't, he won't, "....I shouldn't."

The disappointment on your face is palpable. You want to ask why - after he kissed you like that - why doesn't he want you? Instead you nod dejectedly. He gives you a chaste kiss on the forehead, lingering, and a shaky smile. 

You open your door with a buzz, and slam it in his face. 

~~~

It takes Miguel some time to properly put a name to what you two have: not knowing if the kiss was a drunken mistake, animal attraction or something more. 

He's not a grand gestures kind of person, he believes in action rather than words. 

Which is why it takes so long for him to admit just how in love with you he is. 

He steals glances at you all the time at the office, and tries to anticipate  all your needs. 

When you stretch and yawn in the morning, he happens to pass by your favourite coffee place and happens to buy one too many cups of your go-to order. 

So imagine his shock when he arrives from his lunch break, churros and coffee in hand, and there's one of the top brass from the night at the bar perched on your desk - 2 polystyrene cupfuls of something half drunk on the desk. 

He's never been insecure, but he can't help but feel possessive, something tense and tight growing at the base of his stomach. 

"What was it you wanted to talk about?" You step into the equipment cupboard, Miguel close behind you. You rub your temples, anticipating an argument. "O'Hara, if this is about my calibration tests this morning, I swear to God -" 

"No, no , nothing like that." He's quick to say. "They were… okay." He strains. 

You raise an eyebrow. Okay? Since when did Miguel pass up an opportunity for a mindless fight? Your mind races with his actions of the past few days. He has been different since the night at the bar, a little nicer, sure, but nothing this out of the ordinary. 

"That guy you were talking to. I saw him at the bar, and now here. Who is he?" 

Your eyebrows shoot up. "You do not have the right to ask me th-" 

"Are you fucking him?" A pause, and you study his expression, deducing that he is completely fucking serious . 

"Are you insane? You definitely don't have the right to ask me that." You make for the door, and he steps in front of it, blocking it with his body. 

"I need to know. Tell me and then I'll leave you alone, I promise." His voice is low and thick with something. 

You step closer and he wraps his hands around your waist absentmindedly. The pressure feels good, and makes your brain fog up. 

He repeats himself, softer. "Are you fucking him?" 

You look at him for a moment, before shaking your head. His facial expression  is steady, just as unreadable. 

"Do you want to?" 

You hesitate, wanting to be cruel and say yes, just to see his reaction. Perceptive, he sees your hesitance and says something that almost knocks you over. 

"I could fuck you better than he ever could," He kneads your thigh now, lips close to the shell of your ear in the tight space of the cupboard. " Princesa , look at me." 

You look at him, almost whimpering and putty in his hands. He's like a siren and you are lost in the pull of his gaze. It may be the proximity, but you swear you see a tinge of red in his eyes, like deep pools of lust. 

"Will you let me fuck you?" He pulls you closer so the meat of his thigh presses against your clothed cunt. Your stretchy pencil skirt rides up suggestively, and you rock your clit against him, searching for sweet pressure. You nod. 

Miguel titters softly, a hand on your chin pulling your lips to his. You moan into his kiss, body aching. It's hot and heavy like the kiss outside your door, but he swirls his tongue around yours and expertly nips at your lower lip. He guides your hips to rock against his thigh, tensing to make sure it's corded muscle hits the right places. He wants to break you apart, leave you so cock-drunk, you wouldn't think of even glancing at another man. 

You separate and he dips a hand under your skirt. He pulls it up and places a big palm at your pussy, with a well timed slap. You bite into his neck with the pressure. You definitely don't expect it when he rips open your stockings like they were paper. 

"Fuck, Miguel." 

"It's okay, baby, I'll get you new ones." Your eyes roll back as he slips aside the gusset to run a finger through your lower lips. Shamelessly, he slips a finger in, then two, basking in the wet squelch of your heat. You claw at his forearm, as he curls them into that sweet spot. 

You press your forehead to his shoulder, chasing his fingers with your hips. His sharp eyes watch every movement, every stutter and start that his fingers pull from you. He's practical, a man of action, and he is desperate to show you how much he cares. 

"I've thought about you… about this." He hisses as you cover your mouth to dampen your moans. 

"Wanted you for so long, princesa. Want to know how you taste, what this beautiful pussy feels like. What you look like when you cum."

His wrist aches with the back and forth motion but his pace barely faulters. 

" M-Miguel …"

He applies pressure to your clit, and watches in awe as you spasm, nails digging into his forearm. 

" Oh, there it is. Right there, hmm? Does that feel good?" 

You nod frantically with a stifled sob. 

"Not quite, baby. Need to hear you say it. Or I won't let you cum."

"...fuuck you."

" Oh, you'd like that. Still not what I want to hear. Tell me how much you like it when I fuck you with my fingers."

"F-Feels good." You stutter. He stops, wrenching his hand out of your pussy to leave you clenching around nothing.You almost scream.

"You're being a brat, not my princesa , hmm? Only good girls get to cum."

" Miguel , please. I'll do anything." He guides you along his thigh, still lodged between your legs, and licks up your wetness on his other hand. "You m-make me feel so good. So good. And I want you so much it hurts, sometimes. I just want to cum, don't even need your cock. Fuck me with something , please." 

"Miguel? Not asshole? Or fucking idiot, this time?" 

"Please, Miguel ." Your pleas go straight to his cock. He throbs with need, cock rock hard under his slacks. 

He relents, not able to bear your dopey puppy-dog eyes for much longer. He slips three fingers in, without bothering to prep you. He hisses at the tightness of your heat, pounding into you and knuckle deep with his fingers. Shamelessly, you fuck yourself back on them, hips rolling over his thigh. He can't tear himself away from the sight, palming himself through tented trousers. 

You kiss and nip at his neck, as he whispers obscenities at you under his breath. 

"Can you cum for me, princesa? Cum f'me, and I'll take care of you, I promise."

You clamp down on his fingers and moan into a kiss as you ride out your orgasm. It's intense: leg-shaking and leaves you shuddering in the aftermath. You were rusty, sure, hadn't had sex with someone in a while. But Miguel made you cum so hard you saw stars, with only his fingers. Your chest heaves with the thought. 

You thought he would leave you, torn stockings and all, in the little cupboard. But he stays, to sink down to his knees and lap at your folds. You rest a hand on a shelf for purchase, head back in bliss. You cunt is still sensitive, throbbing at the orgasm he's just given you, as you licks you clean. He's taking care of you. You card your hands into his hair, tugging gently as he moans into your pussy. 

He gives your clit a gentle kiss, and swipes up a trailing tear that rolls down your inner thigh. You watch as he pops his fingers into your mouth, cleaning off the cum. Your cum. 

Miguel gives you a lazy grin in the bare bulb of the equipment closet. He seems completely unfazed by the fact his fingers were in you not a moment ago. 

"Are you free after work?" He asks, and it takes a moment for you to process. 

"Uhhh… s-sure. Probably?" 

"Let me take you for dinner, somewhere nice."

All you can do is nod, dumbly, ripped stockings still around your ankles. 

"And then I can fuck you properly, princesa." 

_

_

_

[ishizizzle]

My 19-yo manager got upset off someone else's energy and talked to me stupid. I cared for hours longer than I should but thankfully, I'm growing apathetic to the whole person

[thekoalapastriesbakery]

I'M ONE OF THE GUYS

formula one x trans!male!driver!reader

request: how the fia would react to to y/n as a driver (or any of the drivers) almost being arrested in a country where it's illegal to be trans/gay ... that being a whole thing and the driver almost being kicked out of the race that weekend but doesn't and as a big f u to all the transphobic people running the race, they win the race that weekend - @moonandstarshyuck

summary: who gets arrested and then wins a race in f1? you.

warnings: swearing, transphobia, very minor suggestive content, very minor mention of oscar x reader, mentions of the fia and liberty media being assholes

face claim: faceless but uses pictures of other drivers + includes old/inaccurate photos for the plot lol, reader's team is inconsistent

fia.official

liked by pierregasly, f1, and 37,381 others

fia.official Statement regarding the events that occurred this morning.

tagged f1, youruser

                comments

user1 he got arrested???

user2 right? like what for???

user3 guys it's qatar, it's probably because he's trans

user4 HE'S TRANS???

user5 @/user4 you didn't know? bro is NOT secret about it?

user6 what do you mean he's not doing the sprint?

user7 the fia when a trans driver is subject to bigoted harassment: let's punish the driver! liked by youruser

user8 lmao y/n liked he's pissed

user9 oh he's gonna EAT this weekend i just know it

youruser

liked by lancestroll, logansargeant, and 1,258,770 others

youruser landed in doha! oh yeah, and i got arrested :))))

                comments

user10 he's so unserious help 😭

alex_albon what's with the last slide???

youruser idk it felt like an appropriate reaction

user11 y/n gets arrested and makes it the whole grid's problem

user12 he's so real for that i fear

user13 oh i am thinking Thoughts about y/n in handcuffs

"what do you mean the fia want me to drop out of the race?" you exclaimed, staring at your manager in disbelief. "they're too chicken shit to kick me out so they want me to drop out? fuck no."

"y/n, consider it, it's for your own safety—"

"bullshit, it is! they don't like that i'm trans and this just gives them a reason to get rid of me," you argued.

your manager sighed. she was used to you and your ... stubborn nature. of course, she understood your frustration. it was far from fair for the sport officials to try to kick you out when you were the victim. but sometimes, just sometimes, she wished you'd pick your battles a little more.

"so that's a no, then?"

"damn fucking right it is," you said, already leaving to get ready for quali, which you were now very nearly late for because the fia hadn't allowed you to participate in free practice or the sprint. "i'm racing. if they want to stop me, they have to do it themself. i refuse to be a doormat."

you were a good racer and a good driver, regardless of the situation, but it was impossible to deny that you were fiercer when you were pissed off. everyone talked about charles and max and even fernando being track terrors. usually, you were calm and collected and mostly flew under the radar no matter how well you did.

but this race?

there was no radar. there was just you.

qualifying p7 after not knowing if you'd even be allowed to race half an hour prior. the whole race had been a mix of daring overtakes, aggressive but fair battles, and a few shitty strategy decisions from your team. after a late pit stop that very nearly cost you the race, you managed to overtake oscar for the win.

f1

liked by kimi.antonelli, sebastianvettel, and 1,781,926 others

f1 Y/N L/N WINS IN QATAR!!!

After a rocky weekend and numerous distractions, Y/N proves once again that he belongs on the top step of the podium!

#F1 #Formula1 #QatarGP

tagged youruser

                comments

user14 KING SHIT

user15 who gets arrested and then wins a grand prix

user16 Y/N L/N, everyone 👏

user17 he's insane

user18 user17 he's an icon is what he is liked by youruser

user19 "rocky weekend" HE GOT ARRESTED

user20 not f1 posting this like they didn't try to get y/n to drop out of the race-

youruser

liked by jensonbutton, francolapinto, and 2,938,567 others

youruser say it louder, optimus prime

                comments

mercedesamgf1 y/n please take this down - toto

youruser no ❤️

user21 DADDY CHILL HE'S ONE OF THE GUYS

youruser fia.official f1

user22 oh he's MESSY messy

user23 i mean i'd be pissed too. they tried to make him drop out of the race. liked by youruser, lewishamilton, charles_leclerc, and others

oscarpiastri mega drive mate 💪

youruser thank you for recreating the fourth slide and drowning me😑

oscarpiastri youruser you know you liked it

user24 youruser on a mission to turn the whole grid gay

user25 the random mika/michael pic he's just like us fr

maxverstappen1 usually i'd be mad about the second photo but i think i'll let you have it this week

youruser like you could stop me any other week

f1 admin is very sorry ...?

fia.official seconded 🙇‍♂️

user26 i don't even follow f1 but i might start watching because y/n is unfairly cool for a man who drivers fast cars in wonky circles

youruser vroom vroom

user27 HELP

©thekoalapastriesbakery :: please do not copy or rewrite my work on any platform !!

author's note: first smau! hope you like it 🫶 partially inspired by the ve'ondre remix of it girl lol

comments + reblogs appreciated!

credits: photos from pinterest!

taglist: @raizelchrysanderoctavius @crispysoup318 @op-81-lvr-reblogs

[pyrrhiccomedy]

A DM’s Fair Play Guide To Plot Twists

I love running a game with a lot of surprises. The challenge to pulling this off well is that, unless you’re playing a one on one game, your players outnumber you: and between them, they have a good chance of figuring out what’s going to happen, no matter how sneaky and clever you are.

The first way of dealing with this - which I’ll just call the bullshit way - is to not give your players the information they need to solve the mystery. Don’t let them find out about the secret society until it’s too late. Don’t give them any reason to suspect that their NPC ally is planning to kill them. Don’t let them find the murder weapon, don’t let them locate the witnesses, don’t give them the chance to skip to the end of their investigation.

This sucks, and if you run your games like this, you’re going to piss off your players. Because it isn’t fair.

In mystery literature, a “fair play mystery” is one where the reader is given all of the information they need in order to figure out the solution before the Big Reveal. It’s what makes the reveal good: that GASP, the “oh shit, the knife! the knife from the party! that was hers! I forgot!”

Pulling off a twist in a fair play game is an incredible feeling. Your players will think you’re a genius (or an absolute dick bastard, which is just as good) and they’ll respect it more when they land in hot water that they plausibly could have avoided. So how do you run a fair play game without your players figuring out the twists ahead of time, given that you’re definitely not smarter than all of your players put together?

By fucking with their expectations.

Here are some things that I keep in mind, to keep my players guessing. And it’s important, with all of this, that if your players see through something, let them have it. They should figure out a lot of things on their own! But if you’re regularly seeding your stories with all of this stuff, eventually your players will miss something. Those are somethings you can build on. The same way that a low level enemy who gets away once can keep coming back again and again until they become an important antagonist, a misapprehension your party proves to have a blindspot for can grow and develop until they get smacked with a breathtaking twist. 

What’s a twist if not the sudden overturning of an assumption you never thought to question?

1: Make your powerful friendly NPCs know a lot...but not as much as the players think they do.

Player characters often end up with powerful allies. It would be very convenient for the party if those allies always had accurate information. Make sure they don’t always enjoy that convenience.

It’s a balancing act: you want your powerful NPCs to be powerful. You want this alliance to be meaningful and beneficial to your players. But give your NPC an Achilles heel of some kind, when it comes to the information at their disposal. The Noble General commands powerful forces and knows the lay of the enemy’s land well...but that doesn’t mean he knows what every squadron and scouting party is up to. The Political Mastermind may know the ins and outs of the court, and have keen insight into the motivations of others: but he has an enemy who pisses him off so much that he loses all objectivity around her. The Powerful Wizard can call upon great magic to aid the party: but his divinations aren’t as accurate as he thinks they are, and he’s prone to finding, in his signs and omens, what he wants to see, more than what’s actually there.

Most of the time, their information should be good! That will make it more likely that your players will trust them the one time when it isn’t.

2. Let (apparently) less powerful NPCs sometimes know more than the players think they do. 

Most NPCs aren’t the Noble General or the Powerful Wizard. Most NPCs are Daves, designed to get the players from place to place. Most of those Daves know about as much as you’d expect them to. But some Daves have plans of their own.

You don’t always have to signpost with big blinking lights which of your NPCs are ‘important,’ and which ones are ‘unimportant.’ Sneak in a crafty Dave from time to time. That assistant they talk to, every time they go to see the prince? That bitch knows everything, and she’s almost ready to make her move. 

3: There is no such thing as a completely reliable witness. 

If the players only get information from one person, that information should be flawed in at least one, potentially small, but important way. Smart players will seek a second opinion, or at least allow for the possibility that their information may be incomplete. But even smart players get out over their skis sometimes.

4: Let your NPCs be aware of the power of a first impression. 

If an NPC gives a strong first impression of being a particular kind of person, it’s because they’re comfortable giving that impression. That might be because it’s who they are. But maybe not.

One of the first characters the PCs met in a VtM campaign I ran was Gawaine. Gawaine was a good old pine-scented man’s man, with salt and pepper stubble and a blue Ford truck. He listened to AC/DC, and talked about the war. He was affable and honest and willing to lend a hand. You already know Gawaine. Everybody knows a Gawaine. Gawaines are trustworthy, salt of the earth types. You don’t necessarily think to question a Gawaine.

That’s exactly why Gawaine was such a useful persona for Krystiyan, the Tzimisce Voivode, a cruel and alien sculptor of flesh who “never left his haven.” There were plenty of clues that they were the same person, but that campaign was in its endgame before the players put them all together.

5: Sometimes, dangerous and villainous NPCs should be helpful and cooperative. 

Not even necessarily because they’re manipulating the players, or even deceiving them about their true natures, but because their interests and the players’ interests genuinely align...for the moment. 

One of the easiest levers in your players’ brains to exploit is the expectation that people who help you are your friends. Even if your players know, consciously, that they shouldn’t trust this person, most of the time they kind of can’t help it, if the NPC is genuinely helpful to them and at least a little charismatic. 

6: Sometimes, good and valuable NPCs should be unhelpful and uncooperative. 

No matter how mature your players are, there’s a natural tendency to react to uncooperative NPCs with a reflexive, “Hey, fuck you! We’re the protagonists! This guy is an asshole!” so from time to time have a helpful, honest, good-aligned NPC have a wholly justified but as-yet-unknown-to-the-party reason to flatly refuse to deal with them.

7: Every NPC should have a secret. 

Not necessarily a bad secret. Were it to be revealed, it might even make the party like them more! But for their own reasons, the NPC does not want their secret to come out, and they will lie to the party to protect it. Players go crazy when they realize they’re being lied to, and often jump to some wild assumptions about your NPC’s motivations. I’ve had an NPC lie about the opening hours of a shop, and had the PCs assume that they were black market dealers for the villain when the dude just wanted to be able to close early so he could go smoke weed in the park.

8. As a DM, it’s polite to remind your players of the common knowledge their characters would possess...even when it doesn’t reflect the truth.

We all know it’s tedious when the DM calls for a roll when you’re just asking for common knowledge. I shouldn’t have to make a roll to know the dumb space word for plastic in a Star Wars game. I shouldn’t have to make a roll to know who the Holy Roman Emperor is in a game about medieval vampires. The DM should supply common knowledge for free, whenever it comes up.

That doesn’t mean common knowledge is true.

This is different from just lying to your players, because you don’t put the weight of DM word-of-God behind it. It’s not “You would know this guy is a Ventrue, based on XYZ.” It’s “it would be a common assumption that this guy is a Ventrue, based on XYZ.” He might not be a Ventrue. It might in fact be extremely important that he is not a Ventrue. But if it is commonly assumed that he’s a Ventrue, that is - word for word - something you can share with your players. If they don’t look any deeper than common knowledge, that’s on them.

9. Obviously untrustworthy NPCs provide great air coverage for less obviously untrustworthy NPCs.

The obviously untrustworthy NPC might or might not be planning to betray the party. But if you introduce two untrustworthy NPCs in the same storyline, and one of them seems normal and cool and has a genuine plot-related reason to be there, and the other one is Jaffar, Jaffar’s gonna get clocked, but Susan over there will probably slip under the radar, and might even get tapped to help out with the whole Jaffar situation. They might get Susan’s number, by the end of the session. Susan might become an ‘ally.’ Susan might even get romanced by a party member. Play your cards right, and Jaffar might just end up a footnote in the introduction of Susan, Scourge of Worlds and most hated NPC in the entire campaign.

10. Your villains should always have a secret plan B.

Your villain isn’t stupid, right? And your villain probably isn’t so arrogant that it is inconceivable to them that their plan might fail. They’ve been planning this ritual for ten thousand years, after all. It’s always possible that some plucky band of heroes could show up at the last minute and murder your high priest, or steal your amulet, or seduce your second in command. So what does your villain have in his back pocket to make the players go, “Oh, shit - he planned for this!”

This may mean that there is a whole separate plot happening, running alongside the main story. This is great, because when weird things happen, the players have to figure out whether this is part of Plot A or Plot B, and working out who did what and why gets a lot more interesting. If they end up foiling Plot A, great - your villain was also secretly behind Plot B the whole time, and will transfer all of his resources over to that. 

Sometimes your players will figure out that Plots A and B were both the same plot the whole time, with the same villain at the head, and they’ll feel like the smartest people on the planet, and it will be their favorite moment of the entire game. That’s great! You gave them that!

Sometimes, they won’t. And when the villain of Plot A, apparently defeated, starts laughing and reveals that he was also the mastermind behind Plot B, which is now too late to be stopped, that will probably be your favorite moment of the entire game.

[little-wicked10]

buy me presents🎁

Summary: Soldier Boy can’t help his obsession with his little Beverly Hills beauty and spoils her for Christmas.

Warnings: Smut 18+, cursing, dirty talk, unprotected sex, daddy kink, sugar daddy vibes, possessive behavior, subspace, degrading, praise kink, creampie, and lots of other goodies🔞☃️

Notes: OBVIOUSLY inspired by “buy me presents” by Sabrina Carpenter. I went REALLY feral with this one🤭 Merry Christmas @jays-bonnie-on-the-side 🎄

//

“I sure wish you were coming here for Christmas, daddy,” she purred into the phone, twirling the cord around her manicured finger.

Ben groaned on the other end of the line, “Gonna get me hard on set, doll. Don’t be naughty. You know I got a shit ton of PR bullshit to do ‘round here.”

“I’m starting to think you don’t wanna buy me any presents,” she pouted her red lips.

His chuckle in her ear sent tingles across her skin, “I’m startin’ to think all you want is my black card.”

“That’s not true!” she playfully whined, “I want your dick too.”

Ben smirked, “I know you do, baby. Daddy’s been dyin’ without that sweet lil’ pussy on his dick, his mouth, his fingers.”

He was trying to tease her, but his plan backfired when he felt his dick strain in his pants. The little pathetic whimper he heard made it twitch. “Shit, you better not be playin’ with yourself!” he growled.

“N-No, I’m not, daddy. But, you’re being so mean and unfair,” she whined.

“I know, honey, I’m just a bastard, aren’t I?” his cocky tone made her groan in annoyance, “Keep bein’ nice, and Santa is gonna spoil the shit out of his Vixen.”

She moaned and rubbed her thighs together at the playful name. Damn Vought for making him work. Damn the modeling agency for making her work. She’d give anything to skip her latest photoshoots to be back in the arms of her Supe lover. It’s been weeks since the last time she was wrapped around him, and the ache was starting to get unbearable. Chills trickled down her spine remembering the way he slammed the head board of his Alaskan King bed into the plaster as he felt her creaming all over his pistoning cock. By the time she had to leave for Beverly Hills, the whole damn tower knew her name.

As the memories swirled in her lust riddled eyes, a whimper slipped from her painted lips. Ben’s deep groan pulled her from her thoughts. “Whatcha thinkin’ about, baby? Thinkin’ about how daddy had your naked body pressed against the cold glass of his penthouse last time you were here? ‘Cause I think about that all the time. How hard your nipples got, how our body heat fogged up the glass, how you soaked the carpet underneath us by the time I was done with ya,” he grabbed his bulge, “Bet those assholes in make up had a hell of a time coverin’ up all those hickeys.”

She clutched the phone tighter in her hand, panting and moaning into the receiver. He didn’t play fair. She wasn’t allowed to touch herself unless he said so, and he rarely said so. Soldier Boy was a glutton for her suffering and neediness, for those desperate pleas for sweet release. She only disobeyed him once, concluding he couldn’t possibly tell the difference, but he certainly did. The punishment was fucking herself on him while he didn’t do shit, simply sitting back and smoking a joint while she weakly tried to get off without his help. Absolute torture.

“Please, let me touch myself, daddy,” she whined pathetically, “Could be an early Christmas present.”

His laugh made a pit of disappointment settle in her stomach, “Nuh uh, sugar tits. You can wait till I get there next week.” Suddenly, there was the sound of voices in the background. The supe barked at them to fuck off he’d be there in a minute. “I gotta go, honey.”

She pouted, “Fine.”

“Be good, Vixen,” he chuckled, “Santa’s coming to town real soon.”

They were having way too much fun with the Christmas themed teasing.

//

It was around 10 o’clock the next night when a knock echoed through her empty home. She’d fallen asleep draped across the couch waiting on their nightly call. She yawned as she sat up and rubbed her eyes. Adjusting her silk robe, she slipped off the couch and padded towards the door. She wondered who could possibly be knocking this late as she slipped down the main hallway. A familiar figure came into view, identity hidden by the frosty privacy glass around the door. She didn’t need to see his face to know who was standing on her front porch. A delighted squeal left her lips as she rushed towards the door and flung it open.

“Ho, Ho, Ho,” Ben smirked.

“You better not have any other ho’s,” she playfully scolded, “What are you doing here? I thought you had PR with Vought.”

“Yeah, I told those fuckers to gargle my ballsack I gotta see my lady,” he smiled.

Removing the duffel from his shoulder, he swept her into his arms and walked into her home. The metal buckles of his suit were cold through the thin silk of her robe and pajamas. Lipstick marked his skin with every kiss she bestowed upon his handsome face. “Save some of those kisses for later, honey. You know how much I love lipstick on my cock,” he growled into her ear.

“Depends on what Santa got me before I decide if I’m feelin’ generous,” she teased.

“Well then let’s get to openin’,” he smiled as he carried her into the beautifully decorated living room.

Once he set her down, she bounced onto the couch, sitting on her knees patiently. Ben sat next to her with a huff and swiftly unzipped the black bag. She giggled excitedly as he began pulling out the most gorgeously wrapped gifts and set them on the coffee table. The paper was a shiny baby pink wrapped with a velvet hot pink ribbon. Once all the presents were spread out for her to pick apart, the supe propped a foot up and lit a cigar. She took a moment to admire the handy work of some poor intern at Vought Ben had most likely intimidated into doing it. Soldier Boy didn’t wrap gifts.

He watched with an amused grin as his spoiled lover suddenly perched herself on his knee and opened every expensive gift he’d picked out: beautiful jewels from Cartier and Tiffany (he couldn’t decide which was better so he went with both), designer clothes and shoes from her favorite name brands, lingerie, and even a sable fur coat.

“Ben! Oh my god, baby! Is this real?!?” she gasped as she held the fur to her chest.

“Of course it’s real. Only the best for you,” he smirked as smoke curled from his perfect lips.

She wrapped her arms around his strong neck and passionately kissed his lips, tasting his cigar. A large hand held her waist as he slipped his tongue against hers. She was quick to face him and straddle his lap properly, “I’m feelin’ very grateful, Santa. I must have been an awful good girl to get all these presents.”

Ben squeezed the plush of her ass, “It’s the naughty things that got you on my nice list, Vixen. And, Santa’s got one more for ya.”

“Oh I can feel it,” she ground her hips down into his.

He clenched his teeth and groaned, “Not that. That’s in a minute.”

Ben picked her up and placed her on the couch, setting his cigar in an ashtray. Kneeling down before her, he took her right leg in his grasp, resting her foot against his shoulder. She leaned back and shivered as his soft lips and rough beard tickled her ankle. They dragged up towards her calf, smirking into her skin when he heard her quiet moan. His free hand reached into his pocket to pull out a small silver chain with a charm dangling from it. The metal was warm as he wrapped it around her slender ankle. Once it was clasped and freely hanging, Ben sat back to let her look at it.

“An anklet?” she asked curiously.

“Mmhm. Look at the charm,” he encouraged.

She removed her foot from his shoulder and tucked her leg against her body, looking down to admire the charm. It was an exact replica of the metal eagle patches on the upper arms of his suit. Her fingers felt engravings on the back. Flipping it around, she read the words, ‘Property of Soldier Boy.’

“I would have paid for a tattoo, but I know that’s not your style. This is muuuuch sexier,” he brought her ankle back to his chest, admiring the silver gleaming in the dim light, “Had it made special for ya. Something pretty to dangle in your face when I’ve got ya bent in half.”

“Isn’t that what your face is for?” she teased as she push her foot against his chest.

With a deep chuckle, he caught her behind both knees and yanked her legs open, pulling her to the edge of the couch, “It’s also a little reminder of who owns this ass.”

She wrapped her legs around his waist, “Make sure no body touches what’s yours, daddy?”

“Oh nobody would ever dare come near ya. If not from my lil’ reminder, then your expensive taste would bleed’em dry,” he leaned forward and kissed her neck.

She thread her fingers through his soft hair, “Your fault for spoiling me so much. Ruined me for any other man with that black card and thick dick.”

“Damn fuckin’ straight, honey,” he bit down hard where her neck and shoulder met, “Ya gonna let me unwrap my present now? Drink you like a warm glass of milk? Santa’s pretty thirsty.”

She nodded with a sweet sigh as his hands began to roam her body with determination. A moan slipped from her throat when he sucked on her jawline below her ear. Small hands slipped down his body and expertly began to unbuckle his suit. Ben let go of her long enough to slip it off. Her flimsy robe went next as his hands greedily shoved up under her tank top, groping her breasts in his large hands. She whimpered as he bit her lip and pinched her nipples.

“Fuck me, I missed these tits so much,” he groaned. She moaned into his mouth and ground her hips into his abdomen. The warmth from her pussy radiated through her flimsy shorts and into his skin. Every pass of her hips made her wetter, soaking through the silk. “C’mere,” Ben yanked her closer to wrap her legs around his waist and stood up.

It was a quick sprint up the stairs before entering her bedroom. He tossed her to the mattress, and she bounced, tits jiggling beautifully. “Naked. Now,” the order was gruff as he began unbuckling his belt. The green of his eyes turned dark watching her slip out of the cute little sleeping set. Only thing left on her body was a silver anklet and a sultry smile. She maneuvered herself on the bed to lay on her stomach, face inches from his hips. Ben’s gaze never left hers as he tossed his boots and pants aside.

He had a cocky swagger as his hard dick bobbed with every step. Her mouth watered, and she licked her lips at the sight. A deep chuckle reverberated from his chest, running his fingers through her hair before taking a handful, “I know that look, doll.” She bit her lip and stared up at him through her lashes, her crossed ankles swaying in the air. She leant forward and placed a bright red kiss mark at the base of his cock. He shuddered at the feel of her soft lips and warm breath.

Just as he asked, she decorated his cock in her lipstick. First, leaving kiss marks all the way up to his head. They all began to smear once she took him into her mouth, bobbing up and down until she was ready to take more. The hand tangled in her hair started guiding her as his hips started fucking into her mouth. Tears burned in her eyes, mascara beginning to run, but she kept going. He was taking it easy on her considering how long it had been since the last time they’d fucked.

“That’s my girl. You remember how to do this. Relax your throat a lil’ more for daddy,” Ben growled, “J-Just like that. Fuck, you’re such a good girl!”

She moaned around his length.

“Gonna cum down that pretty throat, honey,” he growled, “Swallow it. Fuckin’ swallow it!”

Her throat constricted around his girth as he came. He slowly began to pull his cock out, still throbbing and squirting into her mouth. He smeared the head of his dick against her tongue. She held her tongue out to show the last of his essence before swallowing. Ben kneeled with a sly grin and wiped her tears with his thumb, “That’s my good lil’ slut.” Her eyes were glazed over and her lips wet as she nuzzled into his hand. He suddenly picked her up and laid her against the plush pillows.

He caught her shamelessly watching his muscles stretch and flex as he laid on his stomach, throwing her legs over his broad shoulders. The tinkling of the anklet made a feral feeling settle in his body. “Your turn,” he grinned.

“Oh daddy!” she cried as his mouth enveloped her pussy.

The way he swirled his tongue around her clit then dip into her entrance made her begin to pant. Tiny, pathetic whimpers escaped her lips as she tried to roll her hips against him. The scratch of his beard her favorite sensation when he went down on her. Ben moaned and shook his head side to side, letting his tongue and facial hair rub against her sensitive folds. “I fucking love your beard, daddy! I want beard burn on my pussy!” she cried. His chuckle vibrated against her. He loved the sound of her desperate babbling.

Her small hands grasped at his hair frantically when he stuck his tongue inside her and ran his thumb over her clit. The calluses on his fingers added to the sparks tingling her nerve endings. She suddenly arched her back to rub her pussy against his face more. Two thick fingers replaced his tongue, and he sucked her clit into his mouth. Hooking his fingers, he assaulted that sensitive little spot inside her.

She nearly screamed as the damn burst, and she gushed all over his face and hand. “Fuck, fuck, fuck! YES, DADDY!” she screamed.

Ben’s groan vibrated through her and helped in adding to her pleasure. Her body trembled and spasmed as the waves crashed over her. Her first orgasm quickly bled into another as he kept up the pace. He only stopped when she began to push his head away and whine. “T-Too much, daddy! Need your cock! Now! P-Please!” she hiccuped.

His hot breath panted against her abused center. Their eyes met, and he could swear he saw cute little pink hearts in her blown pupils. Sitting up on his knees, Ben wiped his beard before pulling her hips to his. Her legs wrapped around his waist and his massive length rested against her slick sex. He held her hips in his hands as he watched her large breasts heave with each pant that escaped her bitten lips.

“Those fuckers you work for should put this image right here on the cover,” he felt her pussy lips clench on the underside of his cock, “Fuck, you like the idea of people seein’ what a cock drunk lil’ whore you are, baby?”

She dumbly nodded, not a thought forming in her fuzzy, lust-fueled mind.

Ben rut his hips back and forth, coating himself in her slick, “That face right there is why Santa was so good to you this year. Ain’t even put it in yet and you’re already a fucked dumb whore.”

She whined and whimpered, hips wiggling in anticipation as he notched his tip at her entrance. The need burned deep in her stomach, but she was being patient for him.

“My fucked dumb whore. My pretty lil’ slut,” he started to press his hips forward, “My favorite girl. Daddy’s spoiled princess.”

Ben moaned as her cunt clenched around him at his praises. He was a possessive son of a bitch, and feeling that anklet pressing between his lower back and her ankle made him fucking animalistic. His right hand slid from her hip to circle her clit with his thumb. She cried out and he moaned when their hips were flush together, tip kissing the back of her cervix. She never got tired of that overly full feeling only he could give her. That sweet stretching of her opening was addicting. Ben leaned over her, left hand holding her hip while right leaning against the mattress next to her head. Just as she was about to beg for him to move, his hips snapped forward. Each thrust hard and deliberate in reshaping her plush, velvet walls to his cock again.

Small hands held on to his strong neck and broad shoulders as her eyes watched his abs flex. She drooled over the way his body looked as he fucked her. She didn’t know what possessed her mind to conjure it, but she thought he was so pretty. Prettier than any gift he’d gotten her. It was odd to think of a man so ruggedly handsome as pretty. His forest green eyes dark with lust, his long hair hanging in his face, perfect smile adorning his face every time she cried out his name. It was beautiful.

“Sss…ssso pretty, d-daddy,” her right hand skimmed down his chest, red nails tracing down his V-line, “Prettier t-than m-me.”

Ben chuckled down leaned down on his forearm to brush his lips against her cheek, “Not prettier than you, baby, but I appreciate the compliment. Ya like daddy’s pretty cock inside ya?”

She gasped when he picked up his thrusts. The way her nails kept tickling his V-line made him shudder. Suddenly, he took her hands in his, intertwining their fingers and holding them above her head. Her legs wrapped tighter around his hips as he drove into her deeper. The only sound leaving her lips ‘uh, uh, uh’ over and over again. He sucked on her neck, leaving large bruises all over her neck. Each love bite soothed over with the pass of his tongue.

Her whole body was tingling and writhing. This was why he didn’t want her to play with herself. Her body was so sensitive and responsive to him it was insane. Selfishly, he wanted her to only get pleasure from him. Only cum when he wants her to, in the way he wants her to, however many times he wants her to. She was completely at his mercy, addicted to his touch. He suddenly flipped them, placing her on top before letting go of her hands to wrap his arms around her. She slipped hers around his neck and head, grasping his brown locks to make him look her in the eye.

His thrusts continued at a brutal pace. His teeth bit into her bottom lip as she moaned and trembled. When his right hand trailed up her spine, he took a fist full of her hair and pulled her mouth to his. The mind melting way he kissed her made her move her hips more with his thrusts. Suddenly, his left hand moved down to harshly grab and slap her ass. He swallowed her gasp when he suddenly circled his finger around the hole he wasn’t fucking. “O-Oh, fuck, baby!” he stuttered as her inner walls choked his cock, “Didn’t know you wanted daddy to play with your asshole, did ya?”

She could only whine, enjoying the constant circling of his middle finger over the small hole. The way their bodies pressed together made her rub her clit against his pelvis. She frantically rode him as he kept fucking up into her. Her voice went up higher in pitch the closer she came to exploding. “Look at you! Gettin’ off to daddy teasing your ass and fucking you raw. I’m gonna have to pull out.”

She gasped and held him tighter, nearly sobbing, “No! D-Don’t pull out, daddy! Stay i-inside! Want…huh…it inside!”

Ben smirked at the sound she made when he ground the tip of his dick into her cervix. He fucked her like a beast, primal need driving him to claim her in the most feral ways possible. And, she was going to let him for as long as he pleased. Her orgasm hit them both like a truck. She dug her nails into his chest, screaming and whimpering as she squirted all over his lap. The wet sounds filling the room were fucking obscene. It sounded like a dog drinking water as he kept ramming into her.

“Oh fuck, you can’t stop,” he laughed, “You can’t stop cummin’, can ya? This pussy won’t stop squirtin’!”

She let out little panting whines as her body jerked and convulsed. A scream of ecstasy came from her mouth when Ben hooked the tip of his finger into her asshole and slammed her on his cock. Both nearly blacked out as he came deep inside her with a loud roar that bled into a moan. The way her walls constricted and tried to push him out made him pump harder, deeper, forcing her sensitive body to spasm around his cock.

The two rode their highs, gently rutting against one another. Sweat clung to her skin while only a light sheen dusted the his. It would take a couple of rounds before the supe truly broke out in a sweat. Ben whispered sweet things in her ear as she floated down to earth.

“You did good, baby. Daddy’s so proud of ya,” he cooed into her ear, hands moving soothingly over her skin, “Best Christmas present I could’a asked for.”

She only hummed as she littered his chest and neck with kisses. Neither moved from their position, staying as close as possible. She stayed pressed against the expanse of his chest as he leaned over and took a joint from the night stand. The lighter flicked to life and the smell of weed filled the air. Her mind was still foggy and lightheaded, snuggled up in a syrupy sweet state. If he pulled out right now, she’d throw a desperate and pitiful tantrum, but he had no intention of leaving her insides any time soon.

Ben heard her heart rate slow and breathing begin to equalize. Her mouth nuzzled against his jaw playfully as her hands wondered over his muscles, “I have a present for you, daddy.”

“Another one? The only present I want is to do THIS until one of us passes out,” he smirked.

“We do that all the time,” she giggled, “Grab the black folder from the drawer.”

Holding the joint between his lips, he once again reached to the small table. He opened the drawer to find black folder with his Supe name printed on the cover in silver letters. Ben settled back onto the bed and opened the gift to reveal a spectacular sight. Picture after picture of her in the most revealing, jaw-dropping lingerie, while posed in the most ball-achingly, sinfully delicious positions.

“Holy shit! When did you do this?” he asked looking down at her.

Her giggle turned into a whimper as she felt him begin to throb and harden inside her, “Playboy asked to do a shoot with me a few weeks ago. I asked Hugh if I could borrow the set up for something special for America’s Hero.”

The more he kept flipping through the glossy pictures, the stiffer he became inside her. She weakly pushed herself up to sit up and on his dick. By the time he tossed the folder on the bed, she was rolling her hips and frantically fucking herself on him like a bitch in heat. “You read my fuckin’ mind, doll,” he moaned as she took his large hands and placed them on her tits.

“One…one more…present,” she panted, hands encouraging his to be rougher with her chest.

He couldn’t tear his eyes from where his dick disappeared inside her, “Thought I was supposed to spoil you? What else did ya get me?”

Her eyes had been pinched closed, but she pried them open to look at him. She bit her lip before finally letting it slip, “I want you to f-fuck me at H-Herogasm. In front of everyone, daddy!”

Ben almost came again, “Goddamnit, seriously?!? Are you for real?”

She nodded frantically as she kept bouncing, “Only you. N-No one else!”

His head thumped against the headboard as he groaned in deep satisfaction, fingers pinching her nipples, “Just me, honey, you got it! Christ on a cross! I think I’m in love!”

She let out a breathy giggle, eyes rolling into the back of her head, “M-Merry Christmas, daddy.”

“Merry fuckin’ Christmas, baby,” he moaned.

//

Have a very Nonsense Christmas🎄💋

[mymoshangthoughts]

the thing about my mobei jun hcs are that i believe two things are equally true

mobei jun is helplessly in love with (airplane) shang qinghua and would do literally anything for him, finds him charming, wants to spend the rest of his life with him, would simp 100%, very in love

mobei jun absolutely hates that sniveling motherfucking stupid piece of dumb shit (airplane) shang qinghua and spends many days thinking about how nice it would be to pop off his stupid little head so that he'd stop with all the fucking bullshit and also, fuck that guy

like i think he finds pathetic crybaby airplane to be the cutest thing ever. and he simultaneously thinks he's the most obnoxious bastard ever.

to be fair, i think most of his hate comes solely from the fact that:

airplane is clearly lying to him, has been clearly lying to him, their whole fucking relationship is basically a lie from day 1 and getting him to say anything sincere is like pulling teeth

airplane is not his type. oki bear with me, i know that i SAY two-faced crybabies are his type and thats because THEY ARE. but its like, he doesnt REALIZE that's his type and it's also the type he hates. highkey, this man has 'uncle issues' and realizing that his type is lowkey similar to his uncle is a reality that he is NOT ready to cope with. so he very much THINKS thats the type of person he hates most, even tho he's weak to it

airplane is NOT RESPONDING APPROPRIATELY TO ANY OF HIS COURTING ATTEMPTS, NOT EVEN GIVING AN APPROPRIATE REJECTION. IT IS MADDENING. try being strung along for many years with someone who keeps kinda giving you HOPE they miiigggghhhttt like you back, but then they rescind it just as quickly. over and over and over until you kinda hate them a little bit

i just love the contradiction of mobei jun being very ready to be a devoted and loving partner while also being very ready and happy to punt shang qinghua into a death-cave, oki? like he's been strung along for WAY TOO LONG not to have some hang ups about his shitty not-boyfriend

in other words, our beloved ice demon king is a motherfucking tsundere. to his very core, this trsundere is dying at all times because he simultaneously loves and hates the object of his affection and feels deeply embarrassed by his own feelings and equally shameless about them. mobei jun is pretty much ready at all times to completely deny any affection ever held for shang qinghua with a cold passion AND to shamelessly announce that this is his consort, his husband, the owner of his heart, and the only one he ever wants near him and the person he cares for most in this world

our precious tsundere king is sliiiggghhttly just trying to guard his heart from breaking because shang qinghua basically sends him every single mixed message in the world and LOOK IT MAKES HIM A LOT INSANE

when he tastes even a whiff of rejection from shang qinghua, mobei jun is ready to close himself off and haughtily sniff "i never liked that human anyway, fuck off. im not crying at all". at the slightest indication that shang qinghua returns his affections, he's ready to throw away almost all of his pride and cling to him desperately

i love him so much. mobei jun is so fucking silly and i love it. he absolutely is mad at shang qinghua and holds a grudge against him (for various reasons). but he's also so down bad for shang qinghua that it's a bit sad lmfaooo

expanding upon my previous thoughts of "shang qinghua totally tricking mobei jun into marrying him without his knowledge", i'd just like to say that i think it's a particularly amazing thought with regards to mobei jun's Very Conflicted Heart in mind

like he's split in equal parts "omg omg omg im his!? he's mine?! WE'RE MARRIED?!?!?! HE LOVES ME?!!? HEAD EMPTY, NEED QINGHUA, WHERE QINGHUA, MUST QINGHUA, LOVE QINGHUA, AHHHHHHHHH, NEED HUSBAND NOW" and ".........im going to kill him. im going to skin him alive. im going to roast him over one of those fires he loves so fucking much and eat his organs in front of him while he pleads for his life. THAT MOTHERFUCKING PIECE OF SHIT I CANNOT BELIEVE HIM IM GONNA--"