#Thread: Instigator

[mxtxfanatic]

Did a little bit of googling for something unrelated which led me to think of something. Y’all do know that Suika volunteered to do the official mdzs, right? Like, she was not scouted for the project, she was an opportunist that hopped onto it before 7seas reached out to any of the actual mdzs fan translators? Is this common knowledge in the fandom?

[wavesoutbeingtossed]

The "Am I Allowed To Cry?" story reads to me like this:

I vowed not to cry anymore if we survived the Great War so I justified it. 

I didn't know if you'd care if I came back but at least I’m trying. The devil's in the details, but you got a friend in me, would it be enough if I could never give you peace?

I search for your dark side but what if I'm alright right here? Because I'm so terrified of if you ever walk away, but if the story's over, why am I still writing pages? I gave you so much, but it wasn't enough. What am I supposed to do if there's no you? This won't go back to normal, if it ever was, it's been years of hoping, and I keep saying it because 'cause I have to.

This ultraviolet morning light below tells me this love is worth the fight, and I wish you would come back, wish I'd never hung up the phone like I did and I wish you were right here, right now. You know I would stay forever if you say, "don't go," but you won't. If I had known what I'd known now I never would've played so nonchalant.

I wonder what we would've become if you were a better man, because you would've been the one if you were a better man. The battle's in your hands now but I would lay my armor down if you'd say you'd rather love than fight. Come on, don't leave me like this, I thought I had you figured out -- something's gone terribly wrong, you're all I wanted.

I could stand up and sing you a song but I don't wanna have to go that far. So, babe, if you know everything, tell me, why you couldn't see that when I left, I wanted you to chase after me? If you just said you're sorry I know that we could work it out somehow and if this was a movie, you'd be here by now.

But if I would've known how many pieces you had crumbled into I might've let them lay.

[aurouxa-potion-sin]

@pocketsizxxxdlawyer liked for a maid!Aurora starter~

Listen, the idea that Aurora needed to be dressed in a skimpy, bust-busting maid uniform while cleaning after hours seemed a little ridiculous, but this office paid SO well she always was the first to sign up for it.

She vacuumed the empty cubicles, wiped down and dusted desks and other surfaces, as well as the wall to ceiling windows that covered the office -- all that was left were the big wigs' offices.

And she'd complete them all, except for one-- Aurora opened the door without hesitation, only to jump seeing the lights still on and someone still obviously at the desk.

"Oh gosh, I'm sorry! I thought everyone was gone -- I just need to clean this office before I'm done." She explained, gesturing to the rest of the office before looking at him.

[parcxysm]

CAMELLIA ALDEN / TAG DROP

[stormtide-leviathan]

Has anyone written an AU where Snow stuck around in district 12 as a peacekeeper instead of returning to the capital and was there in Katniss’s time?

[girlfictions]

i feel like you make random blogs and decide to call yourself out sometimes

like i promise you people are doing that enough i don't need to add onto it 😭

[crustyfloor]

Till's point of view on his and Ivan's relationship - An (personal) analysis of Till's side of things leading up to Round 7.

As kids, IvanTill's relationship was tulmotious, to say the least.

Ivan would do things to rile Till up as a means of getting closer to Till when they were just starting out, and Till would fall for it.

Ivan would steal Till's things and turn around and give it back like some evil Christmas gift as a means of trying to get closer to Till, and Till would fall for that too, for some time.

But we all know Till isn't stupid. Till must've noticed after some time that the constant disappearance of his stuff only to be coincidentally found by Ivan every time wasn't actually a coincidence. And Till, being handled roughly his whole life by aliens naturally wouldn't have been so fond of the way Ivan would constantly instigate fights with him. All of these things that Ivan did, they did irritate Till. In any normal case they would've given all the more reason to avoid Ivan. So why did Till let him linger?

Well, I think Till actually considered Ivan at least a good friend, At least at the start. Ivan was strange, mean, and annoying but he was one of the only people who actually made an effort to stay and get close to Till. To have someone in a world like this would mean a lot to a kid like Till, even though Till and Ivan had their moments he was still the closest person to Till.

Other than that, Till is a high-spirited, compassionate, and emotional character. it's shown in a comic where Ivan and Till spot a crushed flower and Till tells it to cheer up out of sympathy, it's shown in the way Till cares about others around him even if he holds a cold exterior that keeps him from showing his heart often.

This isn't to say Till regarded Ivan because he felt bad for him, he didn't know the first thing about what went on in Ivan's mind. Till allowed Ivan around him because he cared about him enough to look past those aspects, Till is observant enough, so he was able to see that Ivan was just a kid trying. Till indulged Ivan, allowed him to stay because he cared.

And then we have the meteor shower scene. (pain&suffering.exe)

Ivan, motivated by his strong love tries to get Till to escape with him at the perfect moment. Keyword tries. Because they couldn't get far before Till stopped in his tracks and went right back to Anakt Garden, why? fear of the unknown? Of course. But it's because Till wouldn't have been able to live with himself knowing he left behind a person he loved so very dearly, Mizi. He couldn't possibly leave her there, aware of these deep feelings he had for her. He cared too much to leave.

Till probably felt guilty, going back to Anakt garden because it was all in wrong timing, probably felt guilty knowing he disappointed Ivan back there. But imagine just how much guiltier he felt seeing Ivan the next day. He followed Till back knowing there was no way he'd get the chance to escape again. And so this was the first thread of their relationship that was frayed.

After this point, Ivan was under the full assumption that he had been wrong about how he thought Till saw him so he gradually started to distance himself too, Ivan's antics seemed to have mellowed out, as they grew more distant but he still messed with Till, remained in his life in the shadows, and cared about him, becoming gentle when Till was unaware because even then he couldn’t force himself to leave Till’s world even if Till wanted to leave him in favor of a more bright, beautiful paint that permeated Till's dull canvas, that was so much different from his own bland, dark existence.

Till noticed their distance, and Till thought Ivan hated him for leaving him behind, so as a last effort to bring Ivan back to him and fix his relationship with his friend, to let Ivan know he wanted him near, he left him a message on graduation.

"You were the one who stole my pencil at that time right?"

That was in response to Ivan's "I hope you'll remember me" message.

Till's response sounds pretty straightforward, by design. but I read it as an indirect pointing to a direct message; "I know it was you, of course, I'll remember you. I'm not even mad at you for all of it...So come back?" unfortunately for Till, Ivan didn't read it like this because Ivan isn't a simple person, he needed more than Till could give him. So most likely instead Ivan ended up reading the message as Till still not caring this only motivated him to distance them more until they weren't even talking anymore.

And so after everything, round 6 comes. Till has to compete and win against Ivan.

Till went into round 6 with the full intent to kill himself on that stage and let Ivan win. He couldn't continue to live in a world he hated, in a world where he was tormented, was used, and had nothing else to live for. he couldn't continue to live in a world knowing Mizi, his only shining light and goddess was gone, most likely dead.

It's eerie just how close he was to succeeding, but his plan was thrown off as Ivan realized what Till was doing when he stopped singing and interfered before it was too late.

Ivan kisses Till, selfishly furious with emotions, and sentiments that haven't been addressed for years, but gentle in the message Ivan was trying to get across. Ivan chokes Till for the final blow. Till doesn't understand any of it, it's all too fast and it confuses him. it's hard to say what exactly Till was feeling in that moment, but Till doesn't fight back properly because he doesn't want to, he can't bring himself to show that spirit he had anymore, not the one Ivan saw in him when they were kids, that's been drained out of him because of years of the trauma, the torture, the pain, everything. He's tired. He's lost Mizi, and he's lost everything. If he's just meant to be lamb to the slaughter then why should he delay the inevitable fighting for a life he didn't want? So if Ivan was going to kill him in that moment, so be it. He was going to let him.

Only that's not how it goes, as soon as Ivan's hands leave him Till is disoriented. and then he is shocked, confused, worried? because he didn't expect, nor want this either, he didn't ask for this, he didn't ask for Ivan to take away that one thing he wanted. That expression on Ivan's face, he doesn't get it. But it hits him, that this was all a plan.

And at the end of the day, Ivan is dead, and Till is left staring at his peaceful corpse on the ground, with his blood staining his shoes like Ivan's actions are staining, permeating his perspective, giving him more questions and less answers. All while knowing that he is truly alone in this world now. He has been abandoned.

(I go over pencil.exe a little more in another post of mine if anyone is interested in reading keke)

[yuurei20]

Hello hello. If I don't mind asking, what's this Crowley's fan theory rejecting Deuce's application for a Magical Wheel club about?

Hello hello!! Thank you for this question! (and apologies for the delay!)

Crowley's rejection of Deuce's application for a Magical Wheel club is one of many threads connecting back to a popular theory that Crowley is making the overblots happen on purpose!

It encompasses many things, such as the three light-magic users: Kalim's enrollment is particularly suspicious, as he received his letter of acceptance a month into what would become his first year at the school.

Jamil observes, "And just like that, my nice, free campus life went up in smoke."

Kalim was homeschooled prior to NRC and Jamil says, "Some days I just didn't want to go straight home after school" (where he would have to tutor Kalim, in addition to his other duties as Kalim's servant).

Did Crowley (or someone 👀) intentionally give Jamil those two months of freedom so that he would feel the loss of that freedom all the more acutely, contributing to his overblot?

The admissions process may have been more straightforward for Silver and I do not believe we have heard anything about Rook's, but both characters were, like Kalim, the catalyst to their respective housewardens overblotting:

It is Rook who convinces Vil to watch Neige's rehearsal (which is what finally compromises Vil's tentative mental stability, and it is Crowley who put Vil in charge of production for the VDC), and Malleus' overblot is immediately preceded by a conversation with Silver.

There is also Ruggie, who says (twice) that it is rare for people from his home to become mages and who had never attended a school prior to NRC. He is an odd choice for a prestigious magic academy.

He has also only become a "middling" student thanks to Leona's tutoring, and Leona's desire to help secure a future for students like Ruggie has a significant influence on Leona's overblot.

(A point that is emphasized in the novel: "I cannot let the pack starve.")

Crowley offers the choice of retiring Malleus from the tournament in Book 2 in a decision that the famously perceptive Vil says “reeks of unconscious bias.”

Crowley also goes out of his way to emphasize how many Savanaclaw students aspire to play in the Spelldrive Pro Leagues, how Savanaclaw has lost in the first round to Diasomnia two years in a row, and how it is affecting their future.

Leona points out that he seems to be telling them to quit while they are ahead because he expects them to make fools of themselves.

When Crowley denies this, saying, "That is not my intention," Leona asks, "Then what is?"

Is it possible that Crowley never intended to retire Malleus at all, but he knew that threatening to do so would be the final straw needed to push Leona into desperation? Making him desperate enough to contract with Azul, which connects directly to his destroying of Azul’s contracts to cover up the evidence, thus instigating Azul’s own overblot?

This also ties in to some interesting coincidences around certain school events:

Savanaclaw being paired against Diasomnia in the first round of the Spelldrive Tournament every year since Malleus enrolled?

The members randomly selected for the Starsending? For Glorious Masquerade?

(Idia: "How do three Housewardens just 'coincidentally' get drawn in a raffle? That box is rigged." - Trey: "The headmage claimed he used astrology to pick us...you don't think he was lying about that, do you?")

Have all these things been as coincidental as Crowley claims, or are the suspicions of students like Trey and Idia correct and there is more going on than it seems?

There is also the inconsistency of Crowley’s money-mongering.

Is he actually interested in perks like 10% of profits from Mostro Lounge and donations from Kalim’s and Idia’s parents, or is that just his cover-up to get Jack (and thus Leona) to interfere with Azul, and to get Kalim and Ortho to NRC?

Then there is Crowley's encouraging of Ace to battle Riddle, and it is not impossible for him to be the anonymous person who reported on the school's overblotters in Book 6.

Idia himself asks, "Could someone be inducing overblots on PURPOSE...?"

To return to the original question: Magical Wheels are a hobby that Deuce has in common with Epel, as both characters discover about each other in Book 5.

Epel and Vil bond (briefly) over a blastcycle in Epel's dorm vignette, and Deuce goes on a long monologue about the freedom of blastcycles to Ace:

"If you're ever feeling blue, you just get on a blaster and tune out the world...I haven't been able to since the first day of school."

This all ties back to an even wider theory about time loops: is Crowley reliving these scenarios over and over again, and granting Deuce and Epel the stress relief of a blastcycle club resulted in an undesirable ending?

If the freedom of their own club (and being able to confide in each other earlier on) resulted in them not going to the extremes that they did in Book 5 in order to escape Ace and Vil, it is possible that Deuce did not learn his unique magic in time to stop Vil.

And that fight on the beach that led to Deuce's UM? Was over a blastcycle!

To get Deuce and Epel down to that beach for that fight they had to be feeling stressed, trapped and desperate, to the point that they were willing to break campus rules (or were flustered to the point of forgetting the rules existed, in Deuce's case) to get there: and what better an opportunity than a long-awaited chance to finally ride one of the blastcycles they have both loved for years, but Crowley has been denying them?

No fight on the beach may have meant no UM for Deuce, which may have resulted in Vil winning the overblot fight and Crowley needing to reset the world in order to try again--and this time, without a Blastcycle club.

It is all theory and conjecture :> But very fun to think about!

[yorsgirl]

Sneak peek for my upcoming work:

Hint: Its a Yandere!Sukuna x Reader :) (yes, the anon who sent me that ask, I am working on it, its almost done)

"Don't you love playing with poison, wife?"

The sudden question made you halt your steps, you weren't even aware that he was present- shielded his aura, presumably. You turned around, raising an eyebrow with bewilderment.

"Pardon, my lord?"

Sukuna snickered, marching up to you, a smirk played on his lips. You had to make the effort of tilting your head to gaze up at him. His towering figure loomed over you, his lower left hand snaking around your waist - pulling you closer to him.

"You love poisons, don't you? Or in your words - herbs."

Your shoulders grew rigid, eyes widening with realization, a sharp breath hitting your throat. Your fingertips trembled with anticipation.

How does he know? You were sure to be discreet in your affairs, using the isolation he subjected you to at its best. Then... then... how does he know? But that was last concern, you need to face what was to happen now? What would he do to you?

Another night of horror where your screams would be unheard, your resistance proved to be futile, where you'd be left to suffer alone, where another shard of your remaining soul would be plunged by him. Another night where you'd again play into his whims... Or something more vile, leaving you physically disabled? Perhaps, even death...

The last is the heinous one but if you were to be subjected to his torment then you wished he'd just kill you, liberating you for once and for all.

Even so, survival is what the mind wants. Piecing through any tactic just to live another day. Denial, that'd be so.

Sukuna's affections for you worked as a double edged sword. In one end, you left you bleeding; the other end, made him open to inflict injury. You aimed to take advantage of it, in every way possible.

You instilled an inch of courage in yourself, standing your ground, you spoke "I don't know what you're trying to instigate, my lord."

He looked down on you, a coy smile uplifting his lips. He threaded his fingers through the knot of your kimono, leaning down next to your ear, he inhaled your scent. His lips brushing over your neck.

"I do not believe so, wife." He murmured, his warm breath hitting your skin, a range of goosebumps rising over your arm. "In fact, I think you clearly know, what I speak about."

Before you could let a word out, he straightened up, pivoting around, he pushed you to walk with him. His large hand still covering your back.

"Let me entertain you, wife."

Update: Here is the fic

[carelessflower]

Tmi gang and the perfumes they would use

your local tmi brained has come back with another analysis. this thread considered multi facets into picking a specific sense for each character, from their personality, occupation to their financial background. and feel free to add in any perfume you think also fit these characters 💖

Alec

Starting off with our beloved consul. After marrying into wealth and slowly moving away from the battlefield and into the office, Alec develops a penchant for light, comforting scents, thinking white floral, peony, and smell of freshly washed fine cashmere sweater. Note the sandalwood, through the influence of his husband

Magnus

The ever-elusive high warlock of Brooklyn. Gorgeous, exquisite taste. Say you can’t afford him and everyone knows it. Magnus loves a rich gourmand with bits of kick, much like his chaotic personality. He's a party boy at heart, but that family side sure brings out the sweetness

Clary

Clary is like the turning point between spring and summer. Windy enough for a lazy picnic. Floral but not too sweet. She needs something fresh, to roll out of bed every morning for shadowhunter training, art class, and then the occasional demon-hunting date night

Jace

The golden boy your parents warn you about. Is that the beast or the fallen angel? Can be seen either shirtless or sticking by his armies of worn leather jackets, Jace has no qualms about attracting eyes everywhere he goes. He would smell like he instigates a fight in some sleazy crowded bar, and win

Izzy

Classic. Feminine. Seductive. The fantasy of every man's dream. Vanilla, almond, and tropical fruits, it is as delicious as it get. But beware behind the sweetness, her sharp whip and sharper heels, ready to crush anyone and everyone getting in her way. And it would be an honor

Simon

He doesn’t know much about perfume but got this as a prank and refuses to stop using it unironically. He also thinks its' citrus and salt help with the sweat after training and band practice. He’s lucky Izzy happens to like his natural musky scent beneath all the spray

+ (2) BONUS

Alternative pick for Alec

Still his favorite white floral, but there's more push for fresh and fruity

Alternative pick for Magnus

A million different smells at once, smokey and sexy

tag list: @magnus-the-maqnificent @literallytypogod @hoezier-than-thou @sociallyineptbibliophile @queenlilith43

@khaleesiofalicante @wandererbyheart @raziyekroos @onetimetwotimesthreetimess @alexandergideonslightwood @andrwminward

@noah-herondale-lightwood @elettralightwood @dustandducks @deliciousdetectivestranger @delightfullyterrible

@letsgofortacos

@kita-no @thelightofthebane @secrettryst @goldendreams3 @cityofdownwardspirals

@stupidfuckindinosaur

@i-have-not-slept @rinadragomir @potato-jem @kasper-tag @cam-ryt

@banesapothecary

[taraljc]

Tortise Media has posted episode 5 in which two more women came forward to tell their stories. The audio is not working on their website, but it is working on Spotify.

The synopsis posted by Tortise Media is behind the Read More cut.

(I tried to add against to the ongoing discussion thread however it is very long, and it was not showing up under the tag.)

The two new accounts — published today in a new episode of ‘Master: the allegations against Neil Gaiman’ — have been corroborated through documents, emails, and messages seen by Tortoise as well as through interviews with friends and family who the women confided in. Gaiman did not provide any on-the-record response to multiple detailed requests for comment on either set of allegations.

Caroline Wallner lived in a house on Gaiman’s property in Woodstock, New York between 2014 and 2021 with her three young daughters and, until 2017, her husband. Alongside her work as a ceramic artist in a studio in a barn on the property, Wallner and her husband worked for Gaiman and his then wife Amanda Palmer, including doing property maintenance, gardening, and grocery shopping. Gaiman had moved to the area to teach at Bard College.

Around the time Wallner’s marriage ended in 2017, which she said devastated her emotionally, Gaiman told her ex-husband that there was no more work for him on the property, which had provided the family’s main income. Wallner and her daughters were now dependent on Gaiman for work and housing. While she was in this situation, Wallner, then 55, said that Gaiman began pressuring her for sex.

Wallner said: “There were little hints of, ‘we’re going to need the house’. And I remember saying, let’s talk about it. Let’s figure it out. That’s when he would just come to my studio and make me give him a blowjob”. There is no suggestion of physical force, but rather of coercion in light of her housing and family situation. Wallner said: “And he can say it was consensual. But why would I do that? It was because I was scared of losing my place”, characterising Gaiman’s treatment of her as “sexual abuse.”

The UN defines sexual abuse as actual or threatened sexual contact by force or coercive conditions. The UN’s refugee agency, where Gaiman is a goodwill ambassador, has described the allegations against him published by Tortoise as “very serious”, adding that it is “assessing the detailed reporting”.

During Gaiman’s oral sex with Wallner, she said “he used to say to me ‘Call me your master. Tell me you want it. Tell me you want it.’ He would choke me sometimes.” Wallner recalled one incident where she had fallen asleep reading in bed: “When I woke up, Neil was in the bed and he put my hand on his cock.”

Wallner said that whenever she resisted his sexual advances, Gaiman would tell her Palmer wanted the house back where she lived with her three daughters, as well as the studio she worked in. Wallner recalled one occasion when she said Gaiman told her: ‘‘but you take care of me and I’ll take care of you”, understanding it to be a reference to what she called the “sexual trade”.

Gaiman’s position is that his relationship with Wallner was entirely consensual and denies any wrongdoing with her. His account is that their sexual encounters were instigated by her.

Palmer did not respond to multiple requests for comment.

When Gaiman left the Woodstock property during the Covid pandemic, Wallner said she felt “so, so relieved”. But then Gaiman began sending her sexually explicit photos and videos of himself, asking her to send him ones of herself. After Wallner stopped answering Gaiman’s sexual video calls, in June 2021, she said his business manager told her to vacate the property by December that year.

Gaiman’s position is that this request was always a possibility, as Wallner had been living there with her family rent-free for the preceding six years. This position does not acknowledge Wallner and her ex-husband’s work for Gaiman and Palmer while she lived on the property.

Gaiman’s business manager initially offered Wallner $5,000 as compensation for leaving the property, requesting that she sign a confidentiality agreement. The area saw the highest house price growth of any US metropolitan region during the pandemic, so Wallner asked for more time to find affordable housing for her and her daughters.

Wallner said she was treated for depression and post-traumatic stress during this period with the financial support of a friend. After finishing her stay at a therapy centre, Wallner emailed Gaiman’s representatives on 9 December 2021, saying she had tried “to come up with an amount that I feel justifies signing a release that in essence takes away my agency to speak freely about what I went through. 300K is what I came up with. 150 for the real estate issues and 150 for the sexual ‘trade’ issue – something that I am trying to come to terms with. Therapy alone is costing a fortune.”

Gaiman settled with Wallner for $275,000 and a non-disclosure agreement less than two weeks later. The NDA “disputes and denies that Wallner has sustained any losses, damages, or injuries for which Gaiman is legally responsible.” Gaiman’s position is that he settled with her to avoid expensive and protracted litigation.

The NDA prohibits Wallner from talking about Gaiman with “family members, friends, associates” and from filing, reporting, or prosecuting any action or proceeding in “any court, governmental agency, or before any tribunal whatsoever or wheresoever”. If Wallner is asked to make disclosures by a “valid legal process”, the NDA says she must give Gaiman 20 days notice and help him resist disclosure.

New York courts have voided NDAs that sought to frustrate official investigations and, across the US, NDAs are void when they attempt to limit reporting of criminal allegations by an alleged witness or alleged victim.

Gaiman’s position is that his NDA with Wallner makes no reference to law enforcement and that there is nothing to report anyhow. His position is that the NDA used language that was deemed appropriate to both parties’ experienced lawyers.

Andrew Brettler, who has acted for Russell Brand, Danny Masterson, and Prince Andrew, represented Gaiman. Wallner said she is looking for new legal representation.

She said she wanted to speak out against feelings of “fear and shame – those feelings don’t belong to me”. She said she wanted to tell her story to support the first two women who came forward, adding “the fact they were the same age as my daughters now was painful to hear.” Wallner said that the trait she shared with the two women wasn’t age, but vulnerability. “Saying ‘yes’ to an exchange with a powerful, wealthy man when you are vulnerable and fearful is never simple or clear,” she said. “Even if it’s seemingly consensual.”

***

Julia Hobsbawm OBE was a 22-year-old book publicist when in 1986 she was with Gaiman, then 25, at her studio flat in Chalk Farm, London. Hobsbawm said: “I literally have no memory of how he came to be back there. What I’m totally certain about is that romance was not on the cards, not for me. And I did not believe it was on the cards for him.”

In what Hobsbawm said was “an aggressive, unwanted pass”, Gaiman “jumped” on her “out of the blue”, forced his tongue into her mouth, and pushed her onto her sofa, before she wriggled free. Hobsbawm said she then cut off contact with Gaiman. She says she now wished she had called Gaiman out back then as she is plagued by the incident to this day and worries that she enabled his alleged misconduct to continue.

Gaiman’s account is that when he realised Hobsbawm wasn’t receptive to his attempt to kiss her, he stopped. His position is that it was no more than a young man misreading a situation, adding that its inclusion alongside criminal allegations – from Tortoise’s earlier reporting – would mischaracterise it.

While Hobsbawm’s allegation might appear less serious than other allegations against Gaiman, English criminal law defines sexual assault as one person intentionally and sexually touching another without their consent, and that there is no reasonable belief by the alleged perpetrator in the other person’s consent. It does not necessarily involve violence, but it can cause severe emotional distress, which is why authorities treat it seriously – and why Hobsbawm said she remembers the incident.

[bunnyreaper]

kinktober 1 - pegging 

power bottom dom!soap x top sub reader

18+/mdni, f!reader, anal play, degradation/humiliation

you hadn't been the one to bring up pegging, the thought honestly never having crossed your mind--it was all johnny, always the instigator.

in your relationship, you'd always been more on the submissive side, and you didn't want that to change. neither did johnny, which is why the idea had confused you at first, but johnny promised you that you'd enjoy it, that he had everything in hand.

he'd ordered everything on his own and gotten it delivered. bought a strap for you to wear--very approachable in size considering you knew that johnny's experience on the receiving end was limited. little did you know it was part of his game, chosen very carefully for what he had in mind.

one night he makes you put the strap on, yet he's still very much in charge. starts with you down on your knees, taking his cock deep down your slutty, submissive throat to get him all nice and warmed up. he has you choking on it, and as your eyes well with tears you absently wonder if you'll get to return the favour, if you'll get to make him choke on you for once.

his hand threads in your hair harshly, as he forces you down further, to his heavy, cum filled balls as you suck and lick them and worship them, and when he's had his fill, then he moves you down to his hole.

makes you rim him, keeps your head stuck in place while you tongue wildly at his hole, and start getting him prepared for what's to come. you're so confused, just mindlessly getting him wet and hoping it'll all become clear.

he's slow as he guides you through opening him up on your fingers, and you never thought you'd get to see him like this--eyes fluttering shut and mouth parting as you stretch him on your fingers.

but when it comes to you finally sticking the strap in him, his attitude changes once again.

you try your best to adjust to being the one thrusting, but it doesn't come easily nor naturally, your rhythm a stuttery mess. Johnny's expression is anything but pleasured.

"is that how i fuck you, lass?" he snarls at you--his face so disapproving, his voice taunting. "pathetic, you can do better than tha'. make me feel good bonnie."

you whimper and whine as you try to do better, but it's no use. johnny is still so unimpressed, and your failure cuts deep. you're so used to being good for him, to hearing praise spill from his lips that the inadequacy stings, makes you chase his approval even more.

"i can barely feel you, maybe i should've got you a bigger size." he's so cocky, so unaffected, unlike when he fucks you and you're a complete mess. his blue eyes are sharp, seemingly unclouded by lust despite the hard dick pressed against his stomach. "could never be in charge, could yer? could never be me."

he starts to laugh, wicked and mean. "considered getting one of them ones you could feel too, but am glad i didn't, you haven't earned it, bonnie."

he makes you jerk him as you fuck into him, and laughs at your attempts to match the rhythms and make him feel something, but the frustration drives you into trying to do a better job as you fuck him furiously.

it ends in defeated tears, as johnny just throws you off of him like you're nothing, easily overpowering you. he has you pinned, face down, as he climbs over you, palming at your cheeks. "it's alright lass, i'll show you how tae fuck an arse nice and proper, yeah?"

[the-kr8tor]

TTN hobie and reader during the middle/end of TTN when they r together but before she leaves for LA and r is helping hobie finish setting up his boat and r adding all of her belongings around the house before/while she moves in

-🕊️ anon

Hihihihi Thank you for the lovely request! TTN! Hobie has my heart ❤️

Pairing: Hobie Brown x fem! Reader/ Spider-Punk x fem! Reader

Tags: TTN! Hobie, TTN! Reader, kissing, suggestive content. Story is set before the epilogue and in the middle of chapter 10. Spoilers for thread the needle. Fluff.

Thread The Needle Masterlist

ʕ⁠·⁠ᴥ⁠·⁠ʔ

You didn't waste any time moving in with Hobie. No slowly leaving your things around the house, no slyly stashing your clothes right next to his, not even waiting for the day of your graduation. You and Hobie just decided on a date to move all your belongings to his boat and did it, no side stepping, no dilly dallying, no excuses. Just you and Hobie making round trips from your dorm to the houseboat, arms full of boxes and heavy bags.

The sewing machine was the challenge, being heavy and clunky. Yuri was kind enough to lend you her car for the day, but couldn't help you in moving since she had to study for a quiz. You were kind of thankful for that though, now you have more time to spend with just him and piles and piles of your belongings. Still, with the help of Yuri's beetle, it took two trips of packing and unpacking your stuff.

Hobie never complained nor huffed at the effort, eyes always on your form, arms at the ready to lift boxes for you. You're eternally grateful, that's probably why you're snogging him on the floor of his boat instead of setting up your sewing machine or unpacking your suitcases.

"I need" kiss "to" kiss "unpack." You say in between smacking of lips. Giggling, as if you're not the one instigating the kiss. Back on the hardwood floor, arms looped around his neck, your palm spread over his nape. You resist the urge to glue him into place with your legs, instead you lay limp under him. Eyes tightly closed, smiling through it all.

His strong arms lift him up for a moment before examining your flustered face, beaming up at him. Hobie tilts his head, contemplating if it's worth leaving your arms so you two could unpack. He weighs the pros and cons, deciding.

"Nah" you squeal when he comes back down, expertly moving his lips against yours, every curve and plushness of it already memorized. He knows what to do to incite that sound you make just for him.

You laugh loudly when he presses the soft skin just over your rib cage, ticklish, you pull away with a giggle. Pupils blown out, you stare at his equally large pupils. Breathing heavy, you pinch his nose as revenge.

He surrenders, coming down from the high of kissing you. Eyes roaming around his, no, yours and his living room full of your stuff littered around the place. The kitchen island with your Gromit mug that you claim to despise even though you always use it. Next to it is your school bag, pins and patches decorate the backpack, some of them you've nicked from Hobie.

On the floor next to you are boxes full of your projects, hours upon hours of hard work inside. You giddily showed it all to him before you ended up on the floor from teasing him too much. Clothes and pieces of cloth were put back hastily inside the box just before you descended on the floor. With Hobie's hand placed on the back of your head so you don't smack it against the wood.

After a minute of staring and your laugh bouncing off the walls, Hobie finally speaks, with the full intention of actually starting the process of unpacking.

"Where to first? I could set up the machine–"

"Bedroom" you say with a not so sly smile, half lidded eyes staring at him with fondness.

He blinks in surprise, a low groan in his throat, smirk playing on his kiss bitten lips. "No time to waste then" lifting you up effortlessly, you hide your victorious laugh over his skin. Face hot on his neck. Equally hot hands on the back of your thighs, making sure you don't fall.

Hobie practically jogs over, kicking the door open. It hits the wall with a slam, he stops in his tracks after seeing more piles of boxes on his bed.

Guess you two actually needed to unpack beforehand, whoops.

A/n: Will be posting more of these separate from fluffy fridays! Thank you for reading! ❤️

[cool-fancier]

Midnight Whispers

Jisoo x Fem Reader

Word count:2k

Synopsis: A Chance Encounter in Seoul Sparks a Beautiful Friendship, Evolving into Love, with Jisoo at Its Heart

The bustling streets of Seoul were painted with the vibrant colors of city life, neon lights reflecting off the pavement. It was in this metropolis that your paths intertwined with Jisoo, the beginning of a story that was anything but cliché.

It all started with a chance encounter at a quaint café tucked away in a quiet alley. You were engrossed in a book, savoring the aroma of freshly brewed coffee when the door chimed, announcing the arrival of three lively individuals – Jennie, Rosé, and Lisa. They exuded an infectious energy, their laughter filling the cozy space.

Jisoo was the last to enter, her eyes scanning the room before landing on the only available seat – the one opposite you. With a sheepish smile, she approached, asking if the seat was taken.

"No, not at all. Please, have a seat," you replied, your heart doing a little dance at the prospect of new company.

The three friends settled around the small table, introductions flowing seamlessly. Jennie, the witty and outspoken one, Rosé, with her gentle and artistic spirit, and Lisa, the energetic and playful soul. The banter between them was effortless, and you found yourself drawn into their lively conversation.

Amidst the laughter and shared stories, Jisoo remained a quiet observer, her presence both calming and intriguing. She caught your eye with a subtle smile, her gaze lingering for a moment longer than expected. It sparked a curiosity that would eventually become the catalyst for something beautiful.

As the hours passed, the café transformed into a hub of shared laughter and exchanged secrets. You discovered common interests, shared passions, and a sense of belonging that went beyond mere chance. It was in that cozy haven that the foundations of your friendship with Jisoo were unknowingly laid.

Days turned into weeks, and your interactions with Jennie, Rosé, Lisa, and Jisoo became a regular occurrence. The group outings were filled with adventures, from impromptu dance-offs in the middle of the street to quiet moments spent stargazing on a rooftop. Each interaction was a thread weaving together the tapestry of your shared experiences.

Jennie, with her infectious energy, would often instigate games and challenges that brought the group closer. Rosé, armed with her guitar, would serenade everyone with melodies that echoed through the night. Lisa's spontaneity injected a burst of laughter into every gathering, making even mundane moments memorable.

Amidst this vibrant backdrop, your connection with Jisoo deepened. She was the quiet force that grounded the group, her wisdom and thoughtfulness shaping the dynamics. It wasn't long before you realized that your conversations with her were the highlight of these gatherings – a quiet exchange of glances, shared smiles, and unspoken understanding.

One evening, as the group gathered at a cozy karaoke joint, Jisoo surprised everyone by joining in on the fun. Her powerful yet melodic voice filled the room, captivating everyone in attendance. The harmony of her voice resonated with your soul, and in that moment, something shifted.

After the karaoke session, the two of you found yourselves strolling through the quiet streets of Seoul. The city lights cast a warm glow, and the air was filled with a comfortable silence. It was then that Jisoo spoke, her words a quiet revelation.

"I enjoy our time together," she admitted, her eyes meeting yours. "There's something special about it."

The confession was met with a shared smile, an acknowledgment of the unspoken connection that had been growing between you. From that point forward, your friendship with Jisoo took on a new dimension. The once casual encounters evolved into intentional moments, a journey of shared laughter, quiet understanding, and a growing affection that neither of you could deny.

As the seasons changed, so did the dynamics of your relationship. Jennie, Rosé, and Lisa were the supportive chorus to the developing melody between you and Jisoo. They teased and nudged, creating an atmosphere that allowed the budding romance to unfold naturally.

One summer evening, the group gathered for a rooftop barbecue, the city skyline providing a breathtaking backdrop. As the sun dipped below the horizon, casting hues of orange and pink across the sky, Jisoo found a quiet moment to pull you aside.

"I've been wanting to tell you something," she confessed, her cheeks tinged with a soft blush.

The rooftop provided a private haven, and in that tranquil setting, Jisoo's words flowed with a sincerity that mirrored the stars above. "I've enjoyed getting to know you, and I find myself looking forward to our time together. Would you like to go on a date with me?"

The question hung in the air, and your heart skipped a beat. In that moment, surrounded by the warmth of friendship and the potential for something more, you nodded, a smile lighting up your face.

The rooftop witnessed the beginning of a new chapter, as the connection that had flourished amidst shared laughter and quiet moments took a deliberate step into the realm of romance. It wasn't a whirlwind, but a gradual blossoming of something beautiful – a love story that defied expectations and was woven into the fabric of shared experiences.

From that point forward, your relationship with Jisoo evolved into a delightful journey of shared adventures and quiet moments. The group outings continued, but now with a new layer of intimacy. Jennie, Rosé, and Lisa, ever the supportive friends, reveled in the joy of witnessing your love story unfold.

The seasons cycled through, and with each passing day, your connection with Jisoo deepened. The shared laughter, the supportive glances, and the comfortable silences were the threads that wove a tapestry of love, resilience, and genuine companionship.

— — — — — — —

You missed Jisoo for the simple reason that everything felt a bit off-kilter when she wasn't around. It wasn't some grand, dramatic affair; it was the small, everyday things that became a tad emptier.

Her laughter, the one that could turn a mundane moment into something worth remembering, was noticeably absent. The shared glances and inside jokes lost their charm without her. The quiet talks, the ones that stretched into the late hours of the night, felt like a one-sided conversation.

Jisoo had this way of reading your moods without you uttering a word. It was a kind of understanding that made the days smoother and the problems more manageable. Without her, those daily nuances turned into a solo act, a bit lonelier.

It wasn't just about missing a person; it was about missing a constant. Her presence was a comfort, a steady beat in the background that made the routine less mundane. When she wasn't there, it felt like something was on pause.

The late-night talks and shared silences were like a familiar routine disrupted. Her absence created a void in those moments, a silence that lacked the shared laughter and unspoken words.

In the simplest terms, you missed Jisoo because she was the missing piece that made the puzzle complete. Life was a bit duller, a bit quieter, and a bit less vibrant when she wasn't around. It wasn't about grand gestures; it was about the ordinary moments that felt extraordinary only with her by your side.

The soft glow of the bedside lamp cast a warm hue across the room, enveloping you and Jisoo in a cocoon of intimacy. As you lay in bed, the memories of your journey together flickered like shadows on the walls, merging seamlessly with the present moment.

Jisoo's presence, now settled beside you on the bed, echoed the warmth and familiarity that had characterized your friendship from the beginning. The ambiance of the room seemed to carry the echoes of the laughter and shared moments that had defined your connection.

"What are you doing home?" you stammered, almost disbelieving of the scene unfolding before you. The past moments flooded your mind – the cafe encounters, the rooftop barbecues, and the quiet strolls through Seoul's streets. The journey that began in chance encounters and blossomed through shared laughter had brought you to this unexpected midnight reunion.

A soft smile played on Jisoo's lips, and the warmth in her eyes mirrored the memories that danced in the air. "You missed me."

The incredulity in your voice reflected the surreal nature of the moment. "You came home because I missed you?" It was a statement that sounded too poetic to be real.

Jisoo, ever graceful, moved with a quiet elegance as she settled beside you. The mattress dipped under her weight, and the scent of her perfume lingered, an olfactory reminder of shared adventures and unspoken confessions. "Yes," she replied, her sincerity a gentle echo in the quiet room.

The pulse in your veins quickened. This midnight encounter felt like a culmination of a story that had been written in the margins of your shared experiences. Jisoo, your anchor, had traversed the snow-covered city to be with you.

Propped up on an elbow, her palm supporting the back of her head, Jisoo watched you with an unfathomable gaze. The room seemed to hold its breath as she explained, "Because I wanted to be where you are."

The words resonated, weaving a thread between past and present. The memories of shared laughter and the unspoken understanding you had cultivated during your time together were the foundation of her unexpected arrival.

The air thickened with the weight of unspoken truths. Jisoo, a comforting presence, had driven through the snow and darkness to find solace in your company. The tender confession of her longing and the acknowledgment of your hard work became threads in the tapestry of your shared story.

In the dim light, Jisoo's features softened, her confession continuing. "You've been working so hard, and I missed you." Her voice was a gentle murmur, wrapping around you like a comforting embrace that transcended the physicality of the room.

The touch of her fingers tracing the outline of your jaw felt like a continuation of the gestures that had defined your connection – a silent language that spoke volumes. The night unfolded in whispered confessions, a continuation of the stories shared in cafes and on rooftops.

As dawn approached, Jisoo's presence became a living testament to the resilience of your love. The city outside, blanketed in snow, seemed to echo the hushed whispers of your shared history. The first light of dawn peeked through the curtains, illuminating Jisoo's eyes as they met yours.

Time stood still in that moment. The warmth in her gaze served as a reminder that your connection, born from chance encounters and nurtured through shared laughter, was a sanctuary where love was the only truth that mattered.

The falling snow outside became a serene backdrop to the quiet revelation within your apartment. Jisoo's presence, unexpected yet welcomed, marked a turning point in your journey – a reminder that the love story, rooted in shared experiences and genuine companionship, could weather the darkest nights and illuminate the path forward.

And then, as if the quiet confession had unlocked a new chapter, Jisoo's gaze lingered on yours. A playful smile danced on her lips, and she whispered, "You know, I missed more than just your company."

The air between you two shifted, charged with a different kind of energy. It wasn't just about shared memories anymore; it was about acknowledging the deeper, more intimate feelings that had blossomed between you. The room seemed to shrink as Jisoo leaned in, her lips brushing against yours in a tender kiss.

In that moment, the soft glow of the lamp and the quiet snowfall outside became witnesses to a new layer of your relationship. The whispers of shared confessions evolved into the sweet murmur of exchanged endearments.

"I missed this," Jisoo admitted between kisses, her voice a gentle melody in the stillness of the room.

You couldn't help but smile, your heart brimming with warmth. "I missed you, too," you replied, the words a soft echo against her lips.

As dawn painted the sky with hues of pink and orange, your apartment became a haven for shared affections. The intimacy between you and Jisoo unfolded like a delicate dance, a symphony of whispered words, laughter, and the sweet warmth of each other's presence.

The falling snow outside, once a silent witness to your shared history, now provided a serene backdrop to a new chapter – one filled with the quiet beauty of love, acceptance, and the unspoken promise of many more midnight reunions.

[wmarximoff]

Prompt: y/n is best friends with Pietro, he knows everything about his ex who cheated on her . (Y/n doesn't know that Wanda is Pietro s sister)

So what will happen when Pietro introduces his sister to Y/n not knowing that they are exes .

just tonight | w. maximoff

summary: it should just be a night out with friends that you weren't even interested in going to. it wasn't in your plans, of course, that your ex-girlfriend who cheated on you would be your best friend's twin sister.

warnings (18+): heavy angst, cheating, hints of internalized homophobia, brief smut, oral sex (Wanda receiving), drinking, smoking.

pairing: Wanda x fem!reader

word count: 7k

A/N: okay, that's sad. i'm sad i wrote this, not gonna lie (but it's not like i don't like angst content lol)

(by the way, if anyone is interested in a closed ending for this fic, I suggest you read this little thread here about the possibilities after the end of the story)

|masterlist|

༺ᱬ༻

The aroma that permeated the atmosphere was a distinctive mix of freshly brewed full-bodied coffee and a compact cloud of despondency typical of towering over the heads of tired adults; those who wake up early to go to work only to return to their homes, exhausted and hungry and lacking of doses of patience, when the sun has already said goodbye to the horizon and the white of the streetlamps have already been lit – a wrapper of annoyance, a set of tired faces gathered inside the same room like an adoption fair of dejected people.

It was a rectangular room, spacious and well-ventilated, though sparsely surrounded by second-hand furniture, lit by large glass windows set behind skinny blinds of cheap plastic – a beam of golden morning luminescence penetrated the room through the cracks open there, sunrays that crossed your still warm coffee cup, projected in three specific points through the serene countenance pierced by the placid extension of your face.

You were seated at one of the many small circular tables dotted around the room (in the middle of the open door was a brass plaque that spelled out the words “staff room”). The Staff Room, that place whose lands are outside the students' domains.

From the medium cup you then sipped a long sip of warm coffee, your eyes spilling over a handful of papers chaotically deposited on the face of the table as if you'd accidentally spilled the entire contents of your bag there.

So, in sequence, you picked up the last traces of the drink by sliding the tip of your tongue along the commission of your lips, the bitterness of the coffee courting the harshness of a freshly smoked cigarette on the face of your tongue, to which you added both woody palates in a single homogeneous flavor inside your mouth. The inside of your throat was grateful for the momentary source of heat.

It was cold in Westview. Cold enough that you would have left your house on the lower north side of town, still in the preamble to that very morning, braced by your thick polyester coat and a high-necked shirt made of dark wool, your armor draped over your body for a battle waged against a merciless cold – or, perhaps, a severe hypothermia. A pair of thin-rimmed glasses peeked out from the bridge of your nose.

Wintry coldness took possession of the small town so that the leaves of the trees took on endogenous shades of orange and red, and the sky, in turn, became more gray and opaque each day, instigating mornings covered by clouds so gray and thick as the down of a wild raccoon. But despite the seasonal frosts, it still hadn't snowed.

More swigs of coffee came and went until a male figure passed through the front door (he was wearing a thick beaten leather jacket and a navy blue scarf around his neck), his short hair dyed in a platinum color that reminded you of those wedding cake frostings, drawing the ugly scowls of some of the elderly gazes (thick glasses, bald heads, pompous, incongruously old-fashioned hairstyles) from the little table that held the group of older teachers, the ones who weren't very fond of you or the young lad who was Pietro.

The elders, still drinking from that out-of-date fountain from back when teachers were real devils in the lives of a bunch of lost teenagers, muttering insults among themselves and following Pietro with a contemptuous look, just thought you were a couple of incompetents for being so much younger than them (Miss Harkness, with the profuse dark hair, who always had that brooch pinned in her lapel, was a welcome exception, but perhaps she was only friendly because something in her liked to take drags of your cigarettes in between classes).

But your friend didn't give a damn about such a bad reception, and so you chose to do the same, keeping your eyes down on the line you read in a ninth grader's essay. A student who thought the musical Hamilton was inspired by a Shakespearean play. That piece of paper deserved to be marked with a big, red, round zero.

Pietro, therefore, merely pulled out a chair opposite your own and sat down, placing his leather mailbag there on the table, next to your papers, with a yawn hollowed out in your direction like a newly awakened dog.

He was charismatic and charming, a real hit with impressionable students who always asked you if he was your boyfriend, but to you Pietro was nothing more than a friend figure, even a brother just a few months younger than you – the best of them, perhaps the only and most sincere among the others, but still, just a friend. He had a half-bitten doughnut in his right hand, and sugar porridge pasted at the corner of his lips.

“So,” he had said, who coached the school’s football team (the Avengers), known for being averse to getting out of the sheets on cold mornings, “You’re going tonight, aren’t you?”

“Good morning to you too, Piet,” you teased morosely, still not setting your gaze on the blue of his irises.

“Yes, I'm having a lot of fun checking these hundreds of essays about students' familiarity with Shakespeare's works, thanks for asking me. And how are you on this cold morning?”

Pietro, however, never touched by your condemnations of him, just brandished his bitten doughnut in your direction.

“C’mon, Y/n, I scheduled it like, two weeks ago,” and then, he finally took another bite of the fried dessert, barely bothering to chew and swallow properly before resuming his own speech.

“You need to go, it's important to me that you go. I want you to be there! My sister recently moved to town, you know, and I want you to meet her.”

The enthusiastic fervor in Pietro's voice didn't go unnoticed. Not when you remember him parroting about his twin sister left and right throughout the course of the last week – like an intersection, it was that one project of his, a well-crafted, weird project that he was working too hard on to your liking, like a kid building a volcano for a school science fair.

After all, his beautiful, cool, amazing single (single!) sister was in town after recently asserting her sexuality to the world, and it turns out you were the only queer person he knew who was single too – so it was a match, a perfect couple forming before his eyes, as a screenwriter then makes the two main characters of his play consummate a kiss with a happy ending so longed for by the audience.

For Pietro, it was like a well-accepted convenience – two worlds colliding, two of his favorite people together in one place, two single (single!) and financially stable adults of the same age, in comfortable careers and experienced enough not to be sacals, that he, as a good older brother and a then discovered true matchmaker friend, should bless and sponsor in a relationship that, in fact, was only planned within his utopian daydreams.

“I have to grade the exams from last week,” you replied in a monotone, a little dull in your words.

“Fury will be pissed if I pass the grades to the report card late again, you know how he is. Last time this happened he was talking my ear off for a week.”

“Yeah, yeah, I know, I know. But you can do that on Saturday,” reiterated the man with the neatly trimmed beard, always so adamant when he wanted to be convincing.

“C’mon, it's just a Friday night to drink with friends, have a few laughs, relax a little, take your mind off work for a change. Have fun. And you sure need some fun in your life, dude.”

“Please Pietro, don't start it,” you huffed.

“But it's true! You know it's true!” Exclaimed Pietro back, raising both of his thick, dark brows, “Your life is all work and home, Y/n! You need to relax a little! Maybe hang out more with us, or maybe even go back to the dating scene–”

“No way,” your gaze then finally unscrewed from the papers to soar up to your friend's vigorous face. Behind your glasses was only expressive displeasure, translucent in irises sprinkled with disdain.

“You know I have no interest in this at all, man. I don't really need this in my life, not again, not right now. I have better things to do than go on stupid blind dates with people I know will lead me to absolutely nowhere.”

“C’mon, Y/n, everyone likes a little fun now and then,” he whimpered, though he wasn't at all really bothered by his friend's grumpy mutterings.

“And you really need to get laid, you know? You need to relax more, man. Do more with your life besides being a boring high school teacher. Did you download Tinder like I told you to?”

“Christ, no,” the word was unrolled from between your lips, dry as a rag, “And I'm fine just the way I am,” you muttered grudgingly, then groping with your open right hand for your cup of coffee, “I don't need more than that to live well.”

“All you need to do is grade exams on your days off, watch some Netflix late at night, and then gorge yourself on coffee and cigarettes the next day to stay awake and working? Really?” he teased, as if to put it in other words that your lifestyle, in fact, was just boring.

“Yeah,” the lenses of your glasses fogged up, as they came in contact with the puffs of steam emanating from the coffee cup held up to your jaw height.

“And you only think it's different now because Monica started dating you. Until last month everything you said was about how the fun of life is being single and not having to give anyone satisfaction about all the shit you do out there.”

“Yes, that's exactly what I'm talking about! I'm a changed man, Y/n!” He smeared a donut-sugar hand on his chest like a fussy child.

“And I'm much happier now, if you ask me. And that's why I want you to get someone too, because I'm your friend and I want to see you happy.”

“I don't need someone in my life to make me happy,” the bitterness in your mouth hadn't come from the coffee, of course, but maybe it was just always there, little by little growing and branching inside you.

“This is a very problematic thought, you know that? I’m happy alone and I intend to stay that way, thank you.”

“Dude,” he sighed. Blue eyes scanned your face in an unpleasant glow of pity.

“Seriously, you need to give it a chance. Just once. I mean, I bet there are a lot of nice, pretty girls out there who would love to meet you, and why are you going to miss it? Because of an asshole who clearly didn't deserve you and who broke your heart what, ten years ago? You deserve better than that, Y/n. And I mean it.”

The grip of your right fingers screwed into the circumvallation of the styrofoam cup increased the pressure a little, your digits pressed into the fragile material, and for half a split second, shooting daggers with a glare, you just needed yell at your friend to go fuck himself. Fuck you, Pietro. Fuck you.

Your brows creased between your forehead, pressing between them a beam of wrinkled skin. You just frowned, as if Pietro had said the greatest nonsense that a human being could speak.

There was a brief grunt inside your stomach armed with a meager breakfast (half an apple with cereal and milk flanked by a wilted granola bar found in the bottom of your bag on the way to school), and getting angry sounded like a good defensive option, like the quills of a porcupine—after all, there came a quick inhalation into your lungs as your lips curled into a sour line, and into your polyester coat, your shoulders heaved for a moment, mouthful like an angry lion ready to roar.

You held back because you just didn't want to be mad at Pietro so early on such a cold morning. After all, he wasn't there. It would not be fair.

He didn't even know you in college, having graduated in California, on the other side of the country – a promise of the football sports leagues, Pietro found himself obliged to say goodbye definitively to any and all chances of joining a pro team after a calamitous hamstring injury sustained from lack of stretching, which made him come home to lick his wounds like you, in a way; his dream was nothing more than a stillbirth, like every good child's dream when in contact with the hardships of the adult world.

He hadn't been there then, and he just didn't know anything but the story told from your own mouth, like tasteless gossip told from lips soaked in hot beer – the story of how your ex-girlfriend made you an idiot in your senior year of college, when you planned to propose to her. How she slept with a smug philosophy student because she didn't want to like sleeping with you that much. And who respects an idiot? Your side teeth chose to press the flesh on the inside of your cheek together. Idiot. He was an idiot for making you feel like an idiot.

“Six years ago,” you mussed, your eyes darting into your coffee cup as if there, soaked in the dark liquid, there was some answer to your baggage of grievances, “Six years, not ten.”

“Six years, ten years, whatever, it's been a long time anyway,” he waved his right hand dismissively, as if shooing away an imaginary mosquito, “You deserve to give happiness a chance again, Y/n.”

“When did you become a therapist, hm?”

“When I realized that my best friend needs to smile more,” and, in agreement with his own speech, Pietro gave you a gracious sideways smile – the one that several teenagers sighed for when he walked through the halls.

“You really need to go tonight, Y/n. Please, it’ll be fun.”

Between you and him there was a momentary breath of silence. But soon a lame sigh was sucked out of your nostrils in a blatant sign of giving up, not having the patience to impose yourself much longer on your own emotional limitations as you were.

“Two beers and I'm gone,” was your first offer, a generous suggestion to your catatonic state of mind. Pietro's smile spread at the corner of his lips.

“Four beers and you're not leaving until nine o'clock.”

“Two beers until half past nine,” you scored, “And I'll be there at half past seven.”

He looked at you for half a second, indigo blue shimmering in his irises, but before he could work any response out of his lips, there was the continuous high-pitched chirp of the bell that signaled the start of first period in the morning. With a click, then, Pietro scrambled to his feet, and both of your eyebrows shot up at the fact that the chair he was sitting on hadn't hit the floor.

“Shit, I've got practice,” said the platinum-haired man, before practically flying to the door of the room, but not before turning his chin over his left broad-shouldered in your direction just to say an “See you at seven then, Y/n! And if you don't show up I'll pick you up at your house!”, before quickly leaving the room.

An embarrassed sigh escaped your lips.

“What the fuck...”

You rasped, acid in your words, the upper part of your back leaning against the chair and your arms crossed in front of your chest. Your head still didn't hurt, but there were signs of an upcoming migraine pressing into the back muscle of your neck. Maybe not showing up and then blocking Pietro's contact from your phone would be a good idea.

ᗢ

You lifted the glass of beer and brought it to your lips, sipping more of the thick foam than of the golden cold liquid itself (a cordial act and of a performative, mechanical nature, since you were not a true connoisseur of the alcoholic beverage from barley). You licked your lips in displeasure and never touched the glass again, despising it on the round table awash with chatter and remote happiness, but somehow bordering on comfort at its mellow core.

Seated right in front of you were Natasha Romanoff, the red-haired gym teacher, and Bruce Banner, the introverted chemistry teacher, who narrated the facts that made up the account of the day they exchanged the weirdest and frilly kisses at a party in the freshman year of college in which they studied together, for a challenge, with tongues and teeth and tons of saliva, propelling loud laughter from across the table.

There, everyone present had just congratulated each other in a euphoric toast – in all, there were seven glass cups clinking loudly to each other inside the restaurant, extended above their heads.

But there was one person in particular who was nowhere to be found – Pietro's sister hadn't arrived yet, and so you were a little disappointed, although you weren't entirely sure what to do with it. You didn’t understand why you feel that way right away about someone you'd never even seen before, whose name Pietro never even bothered to mention.

You then were casually chatting with Steve Rogers, the kind-eyed history teacher, and you knew that if you continued at this pace you would be quite snuggled between your blankets even before midnight, and nothing about that thought bothered you so much.

“But yeah, now Peter's been suspended,” Rogers informed you, as he sipped (far more willingly to do than you) from his large serving glass of beer.

You, however, frowned at him, “Wait, Peter Parker got suspended?! But he’s such a great student! He never had any problems in my classes.”

“Yes, he’s a great student. He's a great kid, too. But he saw Flash Thompson getting rough with a freshman and things just got out of hand,” Steve breathed a gust of air through his bulging nostrils, shaking his head, “You know how problematic Thompson is.”

“Of course I know,” you claimed, “I've mentioned him to Fury several times, but the boy's parents always manage to get around it. This is so fucked up, man.”

“I know it is,” agreed the blond man, “By the way, do you remember when—"

“Oh, fucking finally!” Pietro's clamor caught the attention of everyone at the table, such pleasure lavished on his astonished words, "Finally, I thought I was going to drag you here by your ankles!”

You've blended your brows into the middle of your forehead, “What's that...? Oh.”

Aiming at the fact that everyone present there seemed to focus their pupils on something behind your head, you, in procession towards the others, tried to turn your neck towards the final purpose of their gazes, and, over your left shoulder it was that you turned around, facing the sudden, fortuitous, incalculable, pleasurable red – unique and so striking, singular and unmistakable, your need taking the form of agony. The air froze inside your lungs.

The scarlet coloring seized your senses, everywhere, a throb in your throat and a gasp in your nostrils, a flare in your lungs. You came back with your face forward before there was eye contact between your irises and that deep, empty pool of ecstatic green.

What else could you do, in front of such a beautiful and magnificent deadly creature, with crimson tones and warm eyes? What else could you do in front of Wanda Maximoff? It was like wanting to throw up and cry after a long night of drinking.

“Are you okay, Y/n…?” Steve's tiny voice came from somewhere your brain couldn't capture. It was her. And she was there.

“I–I... I... I’m fine… I’m fine, Steve.”

Though the once earth-dark locks were now dyed with a copper-red dye, Wanda had matured her features as the years had passed, and, like a rose that blooms, she had aged as well as the most expensive of wines – and, like wine, you could drink it to the last drop, intoxicating in scents of cinnamon roses, your youthful college sweetheart, there, fully blooming before your eyes, even after so many years of speculation and of solitude.

The frigid winter air had driven her into a shelter that was the long coat she wore, and the heels of a pair of high-soled boots made her a little taller than you remember in your memory. But it was still her, no room for error – the scrunching of the nose and the rabbit smile were unmistakable, easily recognizable, still so vivid in your memory. The simple tip of her porcelain nose was flushed like a button in the icy weather outside those walls, and at that, your heart throbbed hard inside your chest, pumping adrenaline through your swollen veins.

Polite and refined, Wanda greeted them all with a smile on her ungodly peach-colored lips, sitting in a chair next to Pietro's (and therefore also next to yours, in which you inspired from her warm aroma, so full-bodied). You stared at her for long seconds, as if she were indeed an apparition or the most beautiful of mirages your sanity-deprived brain could rave about. Wanda. Oh, Wanda. How you hated her.

“Hey, hi,” a small smile reverberated through Pietro before the red-haired woman, who then just looked at him, her older twin brother.

“Sorry for the delay, but I ended up stuck in this meeting with my editor later than I expected, and… shit, what a day.”

“That bald old man?”

“Don't be like that,” Wanda smacked her right palm on Pietro's shoulder in playful rebuke, “But yeah, Xavier, yes. He's a great professional, but he's kinda... too harsh, I think."

You blinked, wordless, gazing at her as if she were an unchanging deity, the red-haired woman as beautiful as you remembered her to be during the college day – though at the time, still dark-haired, Wanda was a young adult rising into the bosom of youth, and now she was a true, complete woman.

You'd heard from her brother that she was now a writer, having in the past dropped the psychology degree she never got after dropping out of college in her senior year. Increasingly attractive, the inimitable Wanda Maximoff.

“It's okay, you're the one driving back home anyway,” Pietro teased, touching her shoulder with his own playfully, a complicity of twins closing them in a private bubble.

Of course, Wanda Maximoff was Pietro Maximoff's twin sister. You could have punched yourself for never putting one and one together inside your head; the sister who was taking a psychology major at NYU, who dropped out of college in her senior year after some vague love affair that he said was similar to what you had. The twin brother who was studying in California, who for inconvenience you had never crossed paths with even in three long years of dating her.

Both of Sokovian descent, children of immigrants born in Novi Grad. The way he reminded you so much of her figure in certain situations, in the same tone jokes and in the similar laugh. Coincidences, just coincidences.

A need (never felt by you before, in the deepest core of your soul) to sip your beer became latent in your throat as suddenly dry, craggy as if you had swallowed a cocktail of broken glass – for that was when that the newcomer raised her left hand towards her white apollonian cheekbones, aiming to tuck her shiny, soft hair behind her ear with her nails varnished in black enamel, that your brief glance towards the red-haired woman ended up tie a knot in the mouth of your esophagus. Through a band of Wanda's auburn hair, Pietro was looking at you with a smile.

“Hey, Y/n! That's my sister I told you about, by the way,” Pietro exclaimed, with the good nature he'd always had, pouring a smile between you and her, “I told you she's pretty, didn’t I?”

Oh, fuck.

“Y/n...?” her face turned toward you, copper-colored hair swishing to her left, and a pair of eyes studied you for half a split second until the healthy smile on Wanda's lips vanished like smoke in the middle of the room.

Her brows made a twitching movement that betrayed amazement, as if you had materialized in your seat like a ghost from her past. She seemed to feel stupid for not having noticed you there sooner. Your lungs felt heavy as two bowling balls. That voice was familiar to your ears.

So familiar to your hearing, that same velvety voice that woke you in the morning with poetic whispers in your ear, reciting a unique romanticism that would make Jane Austen sincerely envy in her grave that she wasn't the first to conjure up such simple words, so beautiful when joined in amorous prose.

That voice that intoxicated you, brought you to your knees and made you for a moment just be yourself, made you be real and see real things. The voice that managed to be clear and pure as snow and after that to be dirty and say impressive obscenities, as was the case of Wanda Maximoff. You knew her better than anyone. You knew who she truly was.

"W-Wanda..." you mussed in a low breath in front of that verdant immensity, because there was nothing else to do.

Not when she looked at you that way. Not when she looked at you like she wanted to cry over what she broke in you.

“Hi, Y/n.”

ᗢ

You notified them, at the latest, that you would go out in the company of the gloomy fog of night, like a stray cat, wandering senselessly through your paved alleys, to smoke a mere comfortable cigarette. The air was an icy, nose-bad amalgamation of beer and frying.

“You know, that shit will kill you soon,” Natasha had vetoed you before you left the table, but you, as relaxed as you could be, placid in front of your coworker, only gave her a thin, cold smile and shook your head in consent with her words. There wasn't much else you could do other than that.

Leaning against the brick wall of the alley beside the restaurant, your cigarette burning on its end like a firefly in the middle of the night, puffing puffs of smoke in the air like slovenly dancers, you stared down at your own feet – your poorly laced Doc Martens boots, as white as the white winter snow.

As absorbed in your own smoky daydreams as you were, however, you didn't even notice the crimson specter that, like a bad memory crawling inside your head, walked towards you, heavy boots crunching on the cement pavement as it walked in search of the scent of smoked cigarettes that only you could squander. A lustrous red darkness came to you to engulf your soul and forsake your senses.

“You're gonna freeze to death out here,” had said the voice that was so familiar to you, though it sounded just as remote as a utopian dream, “It's as cold as the damn Arctic in here, for Christ's sake.”

You, however, as stagnant as a marble statue, remained still, mute, blinking with your eyelids in a lethargic act – it was as if you blinked her name, Wan–da. You looked towards Wanda as if you wanted her to rip your soul out of your mouth, parked in a feeling of bitterness that only seemed to grow and swell inside your ribcage.

“I... can I get a cigarette, Y/n?”

“You don't smoke,” Wanda hadn't said a word to you in response; her actions spoke for themselves, as she raised, towards you, her pale right hand as if in a begging manner.

“Well, I do now.”

You stared at her for half a second, before your gaze strayed to a dark spot on the floor. The ambient sound of the bar was muffled by the brick walls. You finally held out the little cylindrical object, but avoided at all costs your fingers touching as you did (acting as if Wanda was a damn leper, a red plague).

With the usual dexterity and clumsiness of addicts, Wanda wedged one of the nicotine sticks between her parted rosebud lip, feeling your studious gaze burn into the rosy high of her pale cheekbones. The gloss had left traces on the yellow part of the cigarette filter, and she turned to face you with a kind of acted innocence, masking temptation, gently blinking her moss-dark eyes.

“The lighter,” both of your gazes were screwed into one line, “Light it for me, please?”

You stared at her for a few seconds, pupils dilated in a vortex of darkness, before reaching for the lighter in your jacket pocket. The thick smoke left Wanda's lips pink not long after you did, “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

For a few minutes, there was the silence between the two of you like a curious third person who wanted to know more than what you had to say. Wanda took a drag on her cigarette, and after that, you mirrored the action.

“I didn't know you'd gone back to smoking,” the red-haired woman had said, dissolving the stillness like the smoke leaving her ivory lips, “You quit in our senior year.”

“And you're a redhead now,” you muttered grudgingly, an unstoppable dryness in your raw facial expressions, “People change. Shit happens. Old habits return.”

The green of her gaze pierced its way into your pupils well-placed behind the stems of your prescription glasses.

“You've stopped wearing your contacts, too” Wanda continued, however, unabated, blowing more wisps of smoke through her parted lips, “I... I've always liked you wearing glasses, Y/n.”

“Fuck, why are you doing this?”

There was silence after your speech, a silence that was cutting like the edge of a sharp blade that was embedded in the middle of your chest. Wanda pressed her lips together, trapping a cloud of cinereous smoke between them. She was speechless for a few seconds, cluttering with the crimped bone of her jaw.

Illuminated by the night-light in artificial and unnatural colors that bloomed from the long lamps of the poles nearby, her long copper hair was like a waterfall of fire that poured down to the middle of her back – it was as if they were one, the blinking ember of the cigarette and a lock of her auburn hair. Wanda discarded her cigarette butt next to a garbage can crammed near the door that led back to the back of the restaurant, shimmering faint streaks of sharp silver, sending a measured sigh out of her nostrils.

“I'm sorry, I just,” her voice trailed off, as her emerald eyes dropped to the frigid cement beneath her feet, “I just wanted to talk to you, Y/n. Really talk to you.”

Wanda pressed both of her eyelids together, lingered in the action, and then opened them, blinking once at the brick wall after doing so. At her speech, however, a tightness was attributed to your esophagus – it was as if the smoke from your smoked cigarette was concentrated hot just behind the flesh of your cheekbones.

“There's nothing left to say, Wanda,” you spat, in pure, articulate fury, a cover for the hurt exploding inside your chest, “There's nothing you can tell me that I haven't already heard or that I want to hear it now.”

The air was made damp by something not well related to the winter weather, oxygen hard to suck up into your nostrils, your lower jaw jutting out, bruised and vengeful, gritting your teeth so hard you were just sure Wanda could hear the enamel of bones rubbing against each other—for that was when strained eyes flickered toward you, amid the dim lighting whose alleyway was engulfed, as if there were an ancient lantern hanging just above you head.

“What you gonna say this time, huh?” your right knee shot up in a hard, yielding stride toward her, like a predator hunting in a dark forest.

“That you didn't want to do that? That it was a drunk mistake? That you weren't sure what you wanted but knew you still cared about me? That you didn't even know his fucking name? That one was certainly comforting to hear, you can be sure of that.”

Your tone was immersed in an acidic deluge of biting, erosive cynicism that welled up in the pit of your stomach. You were then close enough to the auburn-haired woman that the tips of your noses almost brushed against each other in midair.

“And I've heard it all before, Wanda. Again and again and again. That night in your dorm room when you told me you did that shit, in the fucking text messages you sent me three years in a row, and even in that letter you sent me on my birthday two years ago,” you gasped for air was warm against her pretty face, both the collars of your coats covered in an opulent scent of smoked cigarettes.

She could feel the muffled beer on your breath.

“So, what's new this time, huh? That he wasn't even that good? That he didn't even make you feel like I did? Because that doesn't surprise me at all. No one will ever know you like I did. No one will ever touch you like I touched you, Wanda. And you know that.”

But you were close, dangerously close like a moth to a lamp (close to imminent death), and for half a second you found yourself pondering the idea of Wanda's pretty face being frozen by the cold, because her jadish gaze oozed from inside your pupils to pour between the contour of your nose and then, as if in a prize for the race won, waited in a lingering fall down the height of the outline of your upper lip.

“Let me,” Wanda then moved her elbows close to her ribs inside her coat to smooth both of her scrawny open palms across the lapel of your polyester coat, catching a single lock of your hair between two fingers and sliding it down to the tip, “Let me have you tonight, Y/n. Just tonight.”

Her thick dark lashes were on top of that dark moss green that had crept like an infectious disease in her irises, and you leaned in for a while, wiping the pulp of your own lips with the tip of your tongue, so you could feel the ghostly taste that wasn't there yet, that took you back to the distant past.

“I hate you,” you muttered under your breath, “I hate you, Wanda. I hate you. You broke my heart. You betrayed my trust. I fucking hate you.”

“I'm sorry,” she whispered back, in a small voice, “But I really need to have you one more time, Y/n. I'm sorry. I'm so, so sorry. But I need to remember what it's like to have you.”

The tone was needy, limpid and clear, translucent like crystal crossed by a beam of red light. It went beyond the hate, the tendrils of lust that threaded itself between the two of you like a tight noose. The world around you was nothing but a winter's ember, when did Wanda reach for your torso under the protection of her arms, pressing her warm body against you by virtue of her desire.

“I wish you knew how much I miss you.”

And she smelled like cigarettes, but also like flower perfume and fig moisturizer. She smelled like Wanda. Like the Wanda who slept and woke up next to you in your younger days, where life was troublesomely easy and she still hadn't allowed herself to be touched by anyone other than you.

“And I wish you hadn't cheated on me. I wish I had married you.”

“I'm sorry,” her voice was muffled by the fabric on the left shoulder of your coat, “I missed you so, so much...”

“I hate you,” you whispered against the crown of her orange-haired head, in a tone as if you confessed your feelings to her on a summer afternoon, “I really fucking hate you.”

Wanda cupped your face by the sides with both cold hands and merged your lips in a timed kiss in harmonic cadence, which quickly had you whimpering in dizzying helplessness prickling through your veins. Your heart pulsed explosively in the left side of your chest. The taste was still hers, warm crimson pouring into your lungs, your stomach. You could get drunk on the taste of her saliva.

“Please,” she breathed in a short pause to get some oxygen, “Please make me yours again, Y/n.”

“Shut up.”

The kiss deepened when you projected your lips to take hers in a click of tongues, your tongues entwined until you were both softly panting, your foreheads ruffled touching each other. You snorted against the commission from Wanda's swollen lips. Your coat felt too thick against your shoulders.

“Just… just tonight,” you squinted at your eyes, a strand of reddish hair breaking through your gloomy, empty vision, “Lie to me one more time just for tonight, Wanda. I’ll believe anything you say.”

ᗢ

“F-fuck-fuck- ah! ”

The lascivious voice growled, reverberating like an echoing breath through the four pale walls of her room. The red-haired woman trapped her lower lip with her own incisors, confining a moan to the very core of her being. With the void present there, a thin wind howling in hissing outside, only the wood of the floor could hear the whimpers uttered by a Wanda so unsteady, with a tight mouth and a pink face like a peach in her cheeks, feeling empty in the flesh, but so satisfied in essence.

Pale fingers were fondling between the bundles of your hair, her red head bent back, her mouth half open, her mascara smeared, making her into some sort of sound, but nothing was what left her throat.

You, crouching below her level, turned your face away from the gap between Wanda's opalescent thighs, still throbbing on your tongue, between your teeth, the vigorous taste of honey coming from the red-haired woman's fruit—the skin of your chin gleaming in a glow from the overwhelming orgasm of your ex-girlfriend contorted just above your head, chest heavy, breathing unreasonable.

You, equally deprived of any clothing to cover up your natural nudity, stretched your knees on the bed, hoisting yourself out from between Wanda's inner thighs without much to say after completing your mission.

Before you could even entertain the idea of picking up your clothes scattered on the floor like in a war scenario, however, a hand pressed the back of your neck and, in an inordinate way, ripped it off for a harsh kiss, Wanda sipped from her own cum accumulating through the gaping breach in your mouth buffed by the height of her own orgasm. You took the inside of her mouth with your tongue and, fierce, Wanda curled into the muscle of your mouth cavity, drinking in your ecstasy there.

And just as quickly as it started, you ended the act with a deferential bite to her lower lip, pushing her away across her face as if she were nothing, as if you hadn't been between her legs a few seconds ago, the leading into the ether of jouissance in a way that no one had ever done before, and in no way could do afterward. Wanda was your glory, but she was equally your downfall. You wanted her as much as you hated her.

She remained mute when you got out of bed to put the crumpled clothes lying on the floor back on your body, as if to go back in time, hours before, when you were still dressed and none of that happened between your and her. The only sound in the room was that of fabric being stretched, rubbed and smoothed.

“I wish things were different,” Wanda's voice told the night air, into the wee hours of the morning, “That I could go back and do things differently. That I could have been… been different with you, Y/n.”

“You've always hated having things out of your control, I know.”

She then hummed against the pale pillowcase of the pillow, which exuded a wilted scent of post-orgastic sweat. You had your back to her, standing next to the foot of the bed, sticking your outstretched elbow into the hole in the right arm of your coat.

“Y/n,” she then called out, casting her gaze in your direction, “Are you… are you going to come back, someday?”

You just sighed, letting out a bitter murmur in your speech, “Maybe for your bed, but for you... I really don't think I should, Wanda.”

“Never again?” she tried.

Something in you hesitated for a moment. In slow strides, you then walked over to her side, sitting on the edge of the bed as you tucked your knees into your pants. Your right hand, warm, rested on the sharp of Wanda's cheekbone, giving there a charitable squeeze, so at odds with your words.

“Never it’s a very strong word,” you whispered, “And honestly, I'm not a strong person. If I were, I wouldn't even be here. I would’ve told you to fuck off several hours ago.”

The touch known to both of you, which was accompanied by the intoxicating aroma of cigarettes that was so familiar to her – for you were there, sitting right next to her, with your compassionate eyes conveying, through your gaze, a nostalgic sense of affection swallowed by life’s bumps.

“Don't walk away,” she uttered then against the palm of your hand, in a choked tone that denounced an approaching burst of tears, “Don't walk away, Y/n. I'm sorry. I’m so, so sorry. Please, forgive me."

“It's a small town,” you whistled in response, “We're going to meet each other again at some point, Wanda.”

 You declared, in a breath of voice – and then, again, you placed a languid kiss on the pale shoulder bone of the naked woman lying on the bed, mouth agape.

“It will be as if nothing ever happened,” you kissed her in a crack of skin down her clenched jaw, “As if you hadn't cheated on me and if I hadn't just let you use me again ‘cause I'm a fucking weakling.”

 In an instant you were in front of Wanda's face, whose lips you pressed together in a soft kiss, “We're going to get to know each other again. As if nothing had happened.”

And then, you bent over so you could place a chaste little kiss on the red-haired woman's forehead. And her tears came when you stood up.

“Maybe this time it will be different. Maybe this time you won’t break my heart.”

“Y/n...” she whimpered, her eyes sunk in emerald pools that were dimly lit by a lamp lit on the nightstand beside her bed.

“Good night Wanda,” you mumbled, pausing at the bedroom door just to look at her, “I really wish next time will be different.”

[theweeklydiscourse]

Zukka literally has nothing. It has zero canon basis. No confirmation by creators/writers. No acknowledgement from the actors. And the only reason why it even got so popular was because of the Voltron fandom migrating over to ATLA during the 2020 renaissance (and other fans jumping on board because ‘new slash ship’) They’re insistence on instigating fandom drama feels like compensation. If they really wanted to ship for fun they could just be off in their lanes and enjoying themselves. Which to be fair, a lot of them do. But there’s still a loud portion is awfully hypocritical and toxic.

While I can’t say much about the impact of Voltron, I think that and the pattern of pointlessly instigating fandom drama is the common thread in this situation. My last post was in reference to a Zukka post that was a thinly veiled attempt at mocking Zutara (if you know, you know) and it all feels like their compensating for some kind of…lack.

They can’t just have “fun” with their fun little ship, they feel compelled to compare themselves to Zutara shippers and constantly reiterate how their ship is “silly fun” unlike the supposedly delusional Zutara shippers who are just taking things too seriously. The thing about Zukka and Zutara is that while the two of them are fanon ships, Zutara obviously carries more weight in canon in terms of thematic resonance and the canon status of their relationship. Zuko and Katara’s character arcs are literally intertwined with one another, and that’s true even if you don’t ship them romantically.

Obviously not all Zukka shippers are the same, many of them are good sports and don’t stir the pot. But that loud portion definitely exists, and inflame the discourse on purpose with their toxic hypocrisy. The irony is that many of them ARE very passionate and invested in Zukka, but insist upon owning the Zutarians so much that they end up painting their ship as frivolous and silly.

Sidenote: I really want to know more about Voltron’s influence. I was never part of the fandom but from time to time, it’s like I can feel it’s presence in shipping discourse lol