#and i don’t have any of the problems i have here

[starry-eyed-psychopomp]

I mean I actually do read more than just danmei. I only started reading danmei within the past year and have been consuming queer fantasy religiously for years now. I was an English Major. I work in a bookstore. This post was very much informed by my experience reading a shitload of queer fantasy. Lowkey a little offended by the implication that this opinion comes from just not reading enough. That’s kind of a rude assumption to make? Anyway, I’ll elaborate on my feelings, because I have a lot of Thoughts on the topic and I like to yap.

I do think a lot of people in the danmei community could stand to read more genres and generally diversify their shelves (heavy on DIVERSIFY), and I’m sure that was the point you were making, but that’s not really what I was talking about? Like my point wasn’t “Western books Bad, that’s why I only read danmei,” it was “I want to see This in MORE books!” Does that make sense?

This is my opinion of course, but when I’ve read Western fantasy books with queer romance, I often either felt like authors have to choose to either prioritize the romance or the fantasy. It’s either all romance with little high-stakes angst and worldbuilding (you don’t see enough characters getting brutally stabbed and their love interests wailing over their body in Western romantasy and THAT’S A SHAME), or all fantasy politics interspersed with enemies-to-lovers ~yearning~ and ~sexual tension~ every hundred or so pages (and it takes a good writer to keep my attention through all that). Romantasy doesn’t have enough angst and gore, fantasy with a romantic subplot doesn’t have enough kissing and cuddling. So far, most of the danmei I’ve read is able to strike that balance.

And not to mention that romantasy usually comes in the form of standalone books. It’s a lot harder to do high-stakes worldbuilding with those limitations. Or it’ll be technically a series, but every book follows a different couple in the same world, so you don’t get much time to spend with a single pairing. In danmei, it’s a lot more common to see five, eight, thirteen book-long series with lots of adaptations and additional content, which is generally just more engaging. And it’s all centered around a romance! A queer romance, at that!!

I’m familiar with both your recommendations, though I personally haven’t picked up Godkiller. Funnily enough though, A Marvellous Light was actually one of the Western queer romantasy books I was thinking about when I wrote this post, because as you said, it’s very popular, and I personally didn’t like it. The worldbuilding was too…generically British for my specific tastes, and overall I found it pretty boring. A lot of hanging out and fucking in mansions on the English countryside, not enough stabbing and bleeding out and dying in front of your love interest to keep me interested. OBVIOUSLY THIS IS JUST MY PERSONAL OPINION! Read what you want. Regency romance is a thing people like and that’s chill. But that’s something that I really like in romance that danmei is just more likely to deliver. So as an example of a Western book that embodies the traits I was talking about in my original post? Not really.

Like I wasn't just talking about books that happen to have gay people and body horror. If that were the case I'd never have picked up another book after reading The Locked Tomb series, because there's no topping perfection. I elaborated a bit more in my tags, which I recognize wouldn't be kept in a reblog, but I meant it more in the sense of an intersection between the two? The intersection between romance and body horror that I was specifically talking about involves like. Melodrama. The agony of the romance is so intense it must be expressed with blood, and that physical, gory pain then goes on to inspire angst between the romantic leads.

So you get characters cradling their lover’s bloody body; holding onto their corpse for years, unable to accept their death; being forced to watch them be stabbed over and over again; mourning for years, devoted to them and only them; etc etc, and any number of new ways authors conceive to torment us. And all the while, the characters are still in proximity to each other. They flirt, they hold hands, they kiss, they cuddle, they get protective of each other, they keep bridal-carrying each other, and on and on.

There’s a level of physical intimacy that goes beyond just sexual tension and an eventual climactic kiss, and danmei authors seem to understand that it won’t detract from the intense violence that also exists in their stories. The gore and violence and body horror goes hand in hand with the romance, it’s not just tangential to it. Intense emotion that both drives the plot and brings a kind of cathartic pain to the audience, who remain secure in the knowledge that it will still work out in the end. Like Aristotelian tragedy for people who get a bit too emotionally attached to fictional characters.

And like, there are Western books that I think danmei fans would enjoy. They don't always hit all the marks I was talking about, but they exist. Danmei fans tend to really like Dark Rise by C.S. Pacat, for instance. A Strange and Stubborn Endurance by Foz Meadows and Winter’s Orbit by Everina Maxwell are fantasy/sci-fi romances with higher stakes and more complex worldbuilding. On the f/f and baihe side of things, She Who Became the Sun by Shelley Parker-Chan and the Jasmine Throne by Tasha Suri are political fantasies with dense worldbuilding, but the romances are prominent enough, and they’re really good. And though it's not for everyone, I'll always preach the good word of Gideon the Ninth, which has tons of agonizing homoerotic angst that scratches a particular itch in my brain. I wouldn’t say any of these fit exactly the bill of what I’m going for (Dark Rise probably comes closest, though Gideon the Ninth would beat it if I thought griddlehark was ever gonna kiss for real) but not all danmei fits my specific standards either, so…¯\_(ツ)_/¯

But yeah. Like obviously there are fantastic books that aren’t danmei, but danmei has certain conventions and tropes that I feel we don’t often get from Western media. For some reason, our media is just…weirdly averse to sincerity and melodrama. Too much romance is considered trite and has no place in, like, a gritty war story. There are exceptions, but it is a trend in our culture that I find disappointing. And it’s a problem Chinese media like danmei doesn’t seem to have as much.

GOD I wish more Western books would take cues from danmei for how to write fantasy romance, danmei is like the only genre I’ve encountered that understands my ideal ratio of fluffy romance to body horror

[lemonlover1110]

𝐎𝐱𝐲𝐭𝐨𝐜𝐢𝐧

Zayne

Pairing: Zayne x f!Reader

Summary: You decided to surprise Zayne with an old outfit you found in your closet, and it seems that Zayne is quite fond of the short nurse costume.

Warnings: MINORS DO NOT INTERACT! Smut, Roleplaying, Vaginal Fingering, Nipple Play, Spanking, Vaginal Sex

Discord +18 - Twitter - Ko-Fi - Bluesky

“Zayne~” Your voice interrupts his concentration, and for the first time that night, Zayne looks up from his computer. You don’t sound too far away, however, you’re nowhere in sight. 

“What is it, love?” He speaks up, eyes wandering around to find you. He knows that particular tone of voice, you’re up to no good. Then the door to his home office opens, and you poke your head through the door.

Zayne takes off his glasses, eyes narrowing to get a better look at you. Particularly at the white hat that’s on your head. It’s definitely an unusual sight. Not your usual wear. He’s about to ask what you’re up to, but before he can open his mouth you enter the office.

“What are you wearing?” His curiosity piques at the sight in front of him. You’re wearing the shortest white dress that his eyes have laid upon– The design identical to the one he sees everyday at Akso hospital, except this one is incredibly inappropriate. 

“I’m here to check your vitals.” You saunter to his side. Your lips quirk, trying your best to hide the smirk that threatens to form on your face. He raises his eyebrows as you take a seat on his lap.

“Hmm… What are you up to?” He questions as your hands go to the top of his heart. 

“I told you, I’m checking your vitals. It’s time I check up on my dear patient.” You respond, trying to remain as serious as possible. You’re trying to get into the role, trying your best to not laugh at yourself. He hums, guiding your hand lower, so you can feel his heartbeat.

“Do you need a stethoscope, nurse? It’ll make your job easier.” He offers, and you shake your head. It seems that you have something else in mind. “So you can feel it then?”

“It’s a little faint.” You answer, one hand moving to unbutton the top of your dress. His eyes nearly pop out of his head at the sight of your bulging cleavage. A chuckle leaves your lips before you comment, “There it is.”

“Nurse, this seems like a case of medical malpractice.” He teases, eyes unable to tear away from your breasts. You laugh before cupping his face.

“And it seems like this patient needs a little help.” You respond, watching his cheeks turn pink. He doesn’t have any sort of remark to respond with. You’re right. Your patient needs a little help. “Hmm… How should I help you? Should I get you some medicine?”

“Medicine isn’t going to help in this case, nurse.” Zayne’s hand goes to your lap, nail picking at the sheer white tights that you decided to wear. They look cute on you… What a shame that he has to rip them off. “It seems that I have an illness that only you can fix.”

“Then let me be of use.” You answer as you hear a rip from your tights. Zayne loses all self control easier than expected. You boop his nose before saying, “Oh, that’s incredibly inappropriate to do to your nurse.”

“You must forgive me then.” His lips land on yours, kissing you hungrily. His tongue enters your mouth, wandering around as his hand goes under your skirt. 

The poor man who swore he’d focus on work tonight. Oh, what a lie that was. Zayne should’ve known better. Living with you ends up with no fruitful results in his work life– An issue that he has no problem with.

“It seems that your patient could use a release of oxytocin.” Zayne pulls away, forehead pressing against yours as his mischievous fingers rub against your panties. You hum in agreement, hands unbuttoning the rest of the top. 

“I can help with that.” You end up saying, while his lips kiss your cleavage. His free hand moves down the bra that stops him from getting what he wants. His tongue glides down your breast before reaching your nipple. Tongue flicks your teat before his mouth wraps around your nipple. You click your tongue before teasing, “You’re a naughty patient, Zayne.”

His mouth is too busy to argue back, instead he proves your point. He pushes your panties to the side, two fingers running through your slick folds. If he wasn’t so busy he’d comment on how you’re the naughty one for being so wet. 

“I do like when my patients are so… Straightforward.” Your words are caught off with a gasp as he pushes two fingers into your pussy. He usually takes things slower, but tonight he can’t hold back. He bites down before unlatching, quickly moving on to give the same attention to your other tit.

You barely even notice. Once the slight twinge of pain subsides, you’re too consumed with how Zayne moves his fingers in and out of your cunt. He knows your body too well, and you certainly can’t complain. He curves his finger just right, hitting that sweet spot that makes your knees weak. 

Zayne finally unlatches, lips going to your own again. When he pulls away he whispers, “I thought I was the one that needed treatment.”

“You decided to take control.” You argue as his fingers pick up speed. You shut your eyes, breathlessly moaning as he treats your body with such care.

“Talking back to her patient too? Perhaps I should report you.” He replies as he takes his fingers out of your pussy. He stares at you with dark eyes, telling you, “You’re the most unprofessional nurse I’ve worked with.”

“I’m just trying my best to help.” You stick out your bottom lip as he lets out a low chuckle.

“You aren’t much help then. I have to report this.” He clicks his tongue, shaking his head disapprovingly. You purse your lips together, before you get up from his lap. 

Your job is far from over though, you won’t leave until your patient is healed and satisfied with your treatment. You toss aside everything on the desk, an action that will surely earn you some complaints later– But that’s a future issue. Right now you bend over on his desk, back arching as your skirt rides up, giving him a great view of everything he needs to see.

“Your treatment, sir.” Your tone sounds too professional, showing off you’re deep into the role. Zayne bites down his lip as he rises from his seat. Though he’ll admit, that feeling in his pants makes it harder to move. 

“Are you sure this is going to work?” He questions as he rips the tights beyond repair. He’ll make sure that the experience is comfortable. 

“There’s no better treatment for oxytocin.” You answer as you hear the sound of his belt.

“You know…” He begins, his sharp hand making contact with the flesh of your ass. It stings, yet it nearly makes you roll your eyes to the back of your head. “Maybe I’ll take back my report. Of course, that is if you let me…”

“Anything, sir.” You cut him off, and he spanks you again. He makes sure your panties are well out of his way, ensuring that they don’t become a hassle while in the midst of pleasure. You feel a trickle of saliva run down your ass before you feel him run the tip of his cock through your folds.

Zayne isn’t so easy though. He slaps the tip on your pussy, teasing you. He wants to hear your voice of despair, begging for him to have sex with you. And it seems that it doesn’t take much to break you. After giving you a taste, you can’t hold back from needing more.

“Please put it in, sir. I want to make sure you get better.” You beg, and it does just the trick. He slowly pushes himself inside of you, shutting his eyes as he feels you around him. 

His breath gets caught up in his chest as he bottoms out. He gives it a second, fingers making their way to the cloth of your dress before he gives slow gentle thrusts. It’s not the time, but he can’t help but make the joke, “Now I definitely have to sue for medical malpractice.”

You almost roll your eyes and playfully tell him to shut up. It’s the only thought that comes to his mind while he’s balls deep inside of you, but you bite your tongue. You’ll remain professional in your role, the same way he’s doing.

“Is it working?” You ask before a loud moan leaves your lips. Your hands grip the edge of the desk as Zayne’s thrusts slowly pick up speed. He stays quiet. It’s a question that doesn’t need a verbal answer. He’ll just show it to you because it’s definitely having some effect. 

He throws his head back as one hand goes to the back of your head, pushing it down onto the desk. You hear him lowly moan, unable to suppress the noises of pleasure as he feels your pussy around him. Unluckily for you, his moans are drowned out by the sound of your skin smacking against each other.

“Oh– Right there!” You nearly scream as he hits just the right spot. You feel the pressure of his hand stop, allowing you to lift your head once again. Only for his finger to hook under your cheek as he begins to scold you for something. The words don’t register in your mind, sex clouding your judgement.

“I thought this was for me, no? I thought I was the patient?” He asks, receiving no response. It’s not like you can say much with his finger in your mouth. He slaps your ass again before saying, “Why aren’t you answering? I fear I’ll have to complain about this too.”

The pressure builds up in your lower abdomen, orgasm fastly approaching. He feels as you squeeze around him, pleasure overtaking you. And he can’t help but scold you for that too, “Finishing before your patient? How selfish.”

You’re moaning his name as your orgasm washes over you but it’s not comprehensible. He knows what you’re trying to say though. What you’re always saying in this position: Zayne, Zayne, Zayne! It’s so predictable but he loves it.

His breathing gets heavier, both of his hands going to your hips as his steady thrusts become sloppy. He thought he’d last longer– He wanted to last longer to enjoy this a little more but his body is giving out. Maybe he should take an extra precaution and finish inside to not ruin your outfit. Who is he even kidding? He always finishes inside.

For the first time in the night, Zayne finally moans your name as he releases his cum inside of you. He gives gentle thrusts before coming to a stop and pulling out. 

He’s panting, catching his breath as he helps you sit down on the desk. You’re getting his desk ready with his own cum, but it’s fine. He can clean that up later, he just wants to make sure you’re okay.

He kisses you before saying, “Take care of it, okay? I want to see you wear it again.”

[amexizlov]

TWST characters reaction when you run to them while crying

Riddle Rosehearts

You barely made it past the rose maze before your legs gave out — but Riddle caught you immediately, almost instinctively. Your tears stained his uniform as you clung to him, trembling. His first instinct was panic. Rules? Manners? None of it mattered now. “What’s wrong?” His voice cracked slightly as he tightened his arms around you. “Who hurt you? Tell me.” You couldn’t speak through the sobs, only shake your head against his chest. Riddle was stiff at first — rules had never taught him how to deal with raw emotions — but then, carefully, he rested his hand on your head, fingers combing through your hair in a soothing rhythm. “You don’t have to say anything now,” he whispered, voice low and trembling. “Just… let me stay here with you. I won’t let anything hurt you. I promise.” And for once, the strict little king dropped his crown to hold you, heart to heart.

Leona Kingscholar

You stumbled into the Savanaclaw lounge, completely wrecked, and the moment Leona caught your scent — grief, salt, desperation he immediately sat up from his lounging position. You crashed into him without hesitation, burying your face against his chest. He let out a low grunt, arms instinctively wrapping around you. “Tch… what happened now, herbivore?” His voice was gruff, but the way he cradled your head was unbearably gentle. You mumbled incoherently, hiccupping and shaking. Leona listened in silence, letting you cry, only occasionally ruffling your hair. He hated seeing you like this — hated that someone or something made you this fragile. “Shh. It’s fine. Cry it out” he murmured, resting his chin atop your head. “After you’re done, tell me who did it. I’ll make sure they regret it.” His words were rough, but his warmth was real — a silent shield around your breaking heart.

Azul Ashengrotto

The moment you barged into Mostro Lounge, Azul almost dropped the glass he was polishing. You threw yourself into him without warning — and he froze. Your sobs wracked your body, and Azul felt a spike of helplessness pierce through his heart. “W-What’s wrong? Are you hurt?” he asked, voice quivering, hands hovering awkwardly before finally resting against your back. Azul had always been good at making deals, solving problems… But this — your raw pain — was beyond any contract. He guided you carefully to a booth, seating you beside him and wrapping his cloak around your shoulders. “You don’t have to pay” he said softly, voice shaky. “No conditions. Whatever you need… I’ll listen. I’ll stay.” For once, the cunning octopus abandoned his bargains — because your tears were something he couldn’t stand to profit from.

Kalim Al-Asim

You burst into Kalim’s room like a storm, and his first reaction was pure instinct — he ran straight toward you, arms wide open. You collided into him, and he laughed softly — not because he found it funny, but because he wanted to lift your heart even a little. “Hey, hey… It’s okay! You’re safe now!” He squeezed you tightly, swaying the two of you side to side. Kalim didn’t ask what happened — he just peppered your head with gentle words and pats, like calming a scared animal. “You’re not alone! I’m here, always here!” His tunic was soaked with your tears, but he only hugged you tighter, a ray of sunshine determined to break through your storm. Later, he’d throw a party just for you — not because you needed to smile, but because you deserved to.

Vil Schoenheit

The moment you stumbled into Vil’s dressing room, mascara streaked and sobbing, he turned with alarm — setting down his makeup brush instantly. You fell into his arms without a word, fists clutching his designer clothes. He held you steady, murmuring soft, steadying words. “Deep breaths, darling. In… and out…” His hand stroked your back with measured care, guiding you back to yourself. Once you calmed even slightly, Vil tilted your chin up gently, examining your tear-streaked face. “You’re still beautiful” he said, voice low and full of something raw. “Even now.” He didn’t pry right away. Instead, he sat you down, handed you tissues, and made you drink water — caring for you as if you were the most precious piece of art he’d ever touched. Later, when you were ready, he would help you rebuild — stronger, fiercer, and loved.

Idia Shroud

You barged into Idia’s room, and for a second, he almost screamed ,startled, clumsy — until he realized you were crying. You threw yourself into his arms, and he went completely stiff, hair flashing a frantic pink. He didn’t know how to handle it — touch, emotions, reality — but he couldn’t push you away. “H-Hey… It’s okay, uh, just… just cry, it’s fine…” he stammered, voice high-pitched with panic. Slowly, awkwardly, he patted your back, his hands shaking like crazy. Idia’s mind was racing. He wasn’t used to real people needing him. But then, hearing your sobs, something in him clicked — his arms tightened around you, pulling you closer despite his own fear. “You’re not alone” he whispered, almost too soft to hear. “Even if I’m a mess… I’ll stay here. I promise.” And for once, Idia faced his fear — because your broken heart mattered more than his own panic.

Malleus Draconia

The heavy doors of Diasomnia creaked open under your frantic hands, and Malleus turned immediately, sensing your distress before you even spoke. You ran to him, crashing into his chest, sobbing without restraint. Malleus’ arms enveloped you instantly, wings flaring slightly in instinctive protectiveness. He lowered his head to your shoulder, murmuring ancient words of comfort in a language forgotten by time. “Fear not, child of man. I am here.” He held you as if you were something sacred — precious beyond words. His magic pulsed gently through the air, soothing, warm, cradling you like a lullaby. Malleus didn’t demand explanations. He didn’t need them. You were in pain. That was enough. And so he stayed — silent, steady — a timeless guardian against the darkness.

[jeonscatalyst]

I normally don’t involve myself in the politics of this fandom, but everything that has unfolded over the past few days has left me utterly dumbfounded.

Anyone who refuses to acknowledge that this fandom has always treated Jimin differently is either extremely obtuse or simply unwilling to accept what is right before their eyes.

Before these AMA nominations, Namjoon had been nominated for numerous fan-voted awards, yet this same fandom never bothered to lift a finger for him, forget about awards, they don’t even care to stream Namjoon’s music. Now, they claim they want to rally behind Namjoon because they already “gave” Jimin a Daesang….but let’s be honest here.

Back then, Jimin was never the chosen one. The so-called agreement was that the fandom would rally behind whoever had the highest chance of winning and it just so happened to be Jimin. Even then, the majority of the fandom was against voting for him. During the TMA Popularity Award, when both Jimin and Yoongi were nominated and had the highest chances of winning, this same fandom chose to vote for Yoongi and were angry when Jimin emerged as the winner. So, my question is: when has Jimin ever truly been the fandom’s chosen one?

Let me be clear-I have no issue with people wanting Namjoon to win. He absolutely deserves it. He has deserved so many wins in the past that the fandom failed to show up for.

Where I take issue is with the sudden urgency this fandom has now found and, unfortunately, it is not driven by pure intentions. Eighty percent of the people rallying are not doing so because they believe Namjoon deserves this win; they are doing it because they do not want Jimin to win. I can bet my last dollar that if Namjoon were up against any other member even Jungkook or Taehyung who are part of the maknae line, we would not be seeing this frenzy.

There’s another fan-voted award happening right now where Namjoon is losing. If this push were genuinely about supporting him, they would be rallying there too. But they’re not because Jimin isn’t competing in that category.

Namjoon winning this award would be a beautiful and deserved moment. For years, he carried BTS on his back, shielding the group and members even when he himself was just a kid. His music style may not be the most crowd-pleasing, but he is undeniably talented and gifted. He deserves this win and many more to come.

Jimin deserves a win too. And if only people knew how to recognize that both are deserving without throwing shade at either, we would be in a much better place.

The reality is: winning for Namjoon would be wonderful, but the intentions behind pushing for his win are tainted. If you are only trying to get someone to win because you want the other person to lose, are you really doing it for them….. or for yourself? And the danger of acting out of spite is that you lack true commitment and passion.

I had to chuckle when I saw certain solo fandoms suddenly rallying for Namjoon. It’s honestly laughable because everyone including Namjoon-biased ARMYs and solos…..knows those other solos couldn’t care less about Namjoon.

The only reason they are participating is because they share a common hatred for Jimin. They don’t truly care whether Namjoon wins or loses…they only care that Jimin doesn’t win.

Any other winner would make them just as happy. Don’t even be surprised if some of them pretend to support Namjoon publicly but then cast their votes for any of the other groups or artist in the same category. It’s truly pathetic behavior.

Some might ask: what did Jimin ever do to this fandom to deserve this treatment, as if he were the fifth member of Blackpink?

The short answer is: NOTHING. He never did anything wrong.

Their real issue with him is that he exceeded the expectations they set for him. Had you told most ARMYs years ago that Jimin would perform the way he does today, they would never have believed it.

The problem with this fandom is that it moves like a cult….and not in a good way. They are rigid and resistant to change. Once they accept a narrative, they refuse to let it evolve.

For instance, it’s widely accepted that Hobi is the best dancer in BTS, and even the members acknowledge this. That’s perfectly fine. But it should never be a reason to harass those who think Jungkook or Jimin or others are better dancers.

People have different tastes.

I personally think Hobi is an incredible dancer, but I prefer Jungkook’s dance style the most, with Jimin as a close second. Does that make me any less of an ARMY or a Hobi hater? No. And for the record, Hobi is one of my top three favorite members….he’s my bias wrecker.

This fandom spent years labeling Jimin as only the third most popular member because they cling to their narratives, refusing to allow space for growth. When Jimin surpassed their expectations, they resented him for it, because they had already assigned him a place, and they didn’t want him to step beyond it. To them, he already has more awards than they ever thought he should have….so now they believe it’s their job to ensure he doesn’t win any more.

It’s truly sad.

I see some people saying that Jimin-biased fans are being weird or acting like antis because they’re upset at how things are unfolding.

I’m not speaking for solos here, but I think the real issue for Jimin-biased fans is not that people want to celebrate Namjoon but that they are only pushing for his win because they don’t want Jimin to have it.

That’s what frustrates me and many others.

And let’s not even start on how shady people have been toward Jimin especially those proudly yelling “we gave him a Daesang” when they didn’t even vote for him in the first place.

It’s perfectly fine to rally behind Namjoon and give him the win he deserves but let it be because you believe in his talent and contributions, not because you want to stop someone else from winning. Otherwise, your motivation is hollow and ironically, it only pushes Jimin-biased voters to work even harder, if only to ensure that Namjoon doesn’t win either.

I know change doesn’t happen overnight, but this fandom needs to stop behaving like a cult and start allowing people to think and act for themselves.

We can be united and support all the members while recognizing that not everyone has to see or do things the same way. Disagreeing with the majority doesn’t make someone an anti of the group or of any particular member.

[katnipp]

your biggest fan— ning yizhuo

genre: FLUFFF

synopsis: y/n, the lead guitarist of moonlight fever, has the loudest, most passionate fan — her girlfriend, ningning.

warnings: ningning is just a loser in love🙂‍↕️

—

being in a band was supposed to be the “cool” part of y/n’s life.

what nobody warned her about was how absolutely distracting it would be to have the world’s loudest, prettiest, and most dangerously obsessed girlfriend in the front row of every show.

ningning wasn’t just any fan — she was her own category.

a walking, screaming, glittery problem.

but gosh, y/n loved her.

⸻

moonlight fever (felix’s brilliant naming idea) had a show tonight at one of their favorite little venues — a cozy place with cracked floors, buzzing neon lights, and a stage barely taller than the crowd itself.

y/n was backstage tuning her guitar when she heard it.

the first piercing cheer cutting through the pre-show hum.

“THAT’S MY GIRLFRIEND UP THERE!!”

y/n smiled without even looking. she knew that voice too well.

ningning had arrived.

“someone’s excited,” ryujin snorted, balancing her bass against her knee.

“she made two signs this time,” winter added casually, flipping through the setlist.

“one says ‘I’M HER GIRLFRIEND’ and the other says ‘TOO BAD, LOSERS.’”

felix burst out laughing.

y/n just groaned, covering her face with her hands.

“i’m never living this down, am i?”

“nope,” ryujin said cheerfully.

but underneath all the teasing, y/n could feel the warm, dizzy happiness settling in her chest.

because at the end of the day, ningning was there.

every show. every song. every mess-up and every triumph.

always.

⸻

as they walked out onstage, y/n’s eyes immediately locked onto her.

front row, center.

pink hoodie two sizes too big — y/n’s hoodie, she realized with a jolt — and glitter dusted over her cheeks.

and the sign.

the first one said: “I’M DATING THE LEAD GUITARIST. CRY HARDER.”

y/n bit back a smile so wide it hurt.

they launched into the first song — an upbeat, messy anthem that had the whole room jumping — and y/n let herself get lost in the rush.

until the solo hit.

and, like clockwork, ningning screamed.

“THAT’S MY GIRLFRIEND!!”

“LOOK AT HER HANDS!!! LOOK AT HER!!”

y/n’s fingers fumbled once, missing a chord.

she barely managed to recover, laughing under her breath.

god, she was so in love it was stupid.

⸻

between songs, when y/n leaned toward the mic to thank the crowd, she caught ningning’s eye.

“special shoutout to the cutest fan here tonight,” she said casually, voice low and teasing.

the crowd laughed, turning to look.

ningning winked dramatically, holding up her second sign: “SHE’S TAKEN. DEAL WITH IT.”

winter fake-gagged into her mic.

y/n just shook her head fondly, cheeks burning, heart pounding so hard she could feel it in her fingertips.

she mouthed “i love you” into the lights.

and ningning, without missing a beat, mouthed it right back.

⸻

after their set ended — sweaty, exhausted, buzzing with adrenaline — y/n barely had time to put down her guitar before ningning barreled through the crowd.

“YOU WERE PERFECT,” ningning yelled, throwing herself into y/n’s arms.

y/n caught her easily, stumbling back a step with a laugh.

“you’re crazy,” she said into ningning’s hair.

“crazy for you,” ningning corrected, like it was the most obvious thing in the world.

she pulled back just enough to cup y/n’s face in both hands, studying her with the softest look imaginable.

“you looked so cool,” she said breathlessly.

“like, movie-scene cool. rockstar cool. i almost fainted.”

“you almost fainted?” y/n teased, grinning.

“shut up!” ningning pouted, swatting her arm. “you don’t get it! i have to deal with being in love with the coolest girl alive and not pass out from heart attacks every two seconds!”

y/n laughed — full, free, happy — and kissed the tip of ningning’s nose just because she could.

“you’re such a dork,” she murmured.

“your dork,” ningning said proudly.

⸻

backstage, ryujin, winter, and felix were pretending to be horrified.

“get a room,” felix said dramatically, throwing a towel over his head like a curtain.

“yeah, my eyes are bleeding,” ryujin agreed, clutching her chest.

winter just made fake gagging noises until felix started beatboxing over it, which somehow turned into a weird beatboxing/gagging competition.

ningning didn’t care at all.

she laced her fingers with y/n’s and pulled her toward the door.

“let’s get outta here,” she whispered. “before your bandmates call animal control on us for public displays of affection.”

y/n laughed and let herself be led.

⸻

they ended up walking through quiet streets, the buzz of the show still humming in their veins, hands swinging lazily between them.

“so,” ningning said after a long stretch of silence. “when are you writing a song about me?”

y/n raised an eyebrow. “who says i haven’t?”

ningning stopped dead in her tracks.

“WHAT.”

y/n grinned, tugging her closer by the hand.

“not telling,” she said smugly.

“you’re evil,” ningning whined, bumping their shoulders together.

“maybe,” y/n agreed, squeezing her fingers. “but you’re still my biggest fan.”

“and your girlfriend,” ningning added, sticking out her tongue.

“best combo ever,” y/n said seriously.

ningning laughed, bright and unfiltered, and y/n knew, deep down, that no crowd would ever compare to this.

no stage could ever feel as good as holding her hand.

no spotlight could ever shine as bright as the way ningning looked at her.

⸻

sometime later — after soft kisses under streetlights, after sitting on the curb just talking about everything and nothing, after y/n secretly promised herself she’d write a hundred songs for her —

they finally stood in front of ningning’s house.

“you’re coming over tomorrow, right?” ningning asked, already tugging her closer again. “i made a playlist for us.”

y/n laughed, pressing a kiss to her forehead.

“i wouldn’t miss it.”

“good,” ningning whispered, eyes fluttering shut.

y/n leaned in one last time —

soft, slow, sweet

and kissed her goodnight.

and as she walked away, guitar case slung over her shoulder, hoodie sleeves too long, heart too full,

she could still hear ningning’s voice echoing after her:

“THAT’S MY GIRLFRIEND!!”

—

a/n: first time writing for aespa😳 kinda scared

[reapersapprentice]

After Hours, At Yours.

Nanami x reader

TW: Heavy degradation, dom/sub dynamics, spanking, manhandling, pet names (slut, whore, good girl), humiliation kink, brief switch in dom role, emotional tension, slight aftercare. 18+ ONLY.

⸻

He knew it the moment you opened the door.

The flicker in your eyes, the tension in your voice, the way you half-blocked the doorway with your body like you were hiding something. Nanami stepped inside and understood.

Your place was a mess. Not dirty just… small. Worn. Cluttered. The bed in the corner, half-made. The cracked nightstand. Clothes you probably didn’t have time to put away.

You saw the disappointment in his eyes. Tried to laugh it off.

“I know it’s not much,” you said, barely meeting his gaze. “I don’t make a lot, rent’s expensive, I’m still in my interning phase I, um. I didn’t think you’d care.”

“You didn’t think, that’s where I have a problem” he repeated coldly, shutting the door behind him.

Your face crumbled.

“I’m sorry” you said, trying to keep your composure as much as you possibly could under the circumstances.

“I’m staying.” He replied, completely catching you off guard.

“Excuse me..?” You said, trying not to sound as shocked as you were.

He stepped closer. His presence alone pressed you back toward the edge of the bed. “You invited me in. So now I’m here.” His voice was ice. “I’m not going to let you sit here and spiral in your shame all night. That’s not how this works.”

You swallowed. “Oh well okay.”

He watched your shoulders tighten. Watched your throat bob as you looked anywhere but his face. And he realized something that made his cock twitch under the neat lines of his suit: You were embarrassed.

Completely and utterly embarrassed, you’d been staying here you assumed he knew how the housing was being it was provided by the school.

More so you felt like you weren’t good enough for him.

And you still wanted him to fuck you.

What the fuck is wrong with me? You thought to yourself.

He didn’t waste time. But you.. you on the other hand were in deep thought pushing out excuses after excuses.

He stepped closer to you, picking you up, quieting you.

One minute you were stammering excuses next, you were on your bed, breathless, back pressed to the mattress as he stood over you, maintaining eye contact the way you knew he’d want you to be.

“Take your clothes off.”

You hesitated.

“There is nothing I haven’t already seen, no need to be shy now.” He said while your cheeks flushed red.

“I said take them off. Now.” He demanded.

You scrambled to obey, hands shaking. The humiliation made it better, or maybe worse you didn’t know. All you knew was the heat in your core when he finally climbed onto the bed, hands rough on your knees as he spread your thighs wide open and looked down at you like you were something disgusting. You could see how hard he was through his pants, it was a confusing rush of emotions and alot to take in.

“This is what you wanted?” he said, dragging his fingers through your folds like he wasn’t impressed. “To let a man like me see you like this? Spread open in your shitty little bed like a good-for-nothing whore?”

You moaned. Finally able to get out a single “Yes”

“Of course you did. Filthy little slut.” He spat out, somehow turning you on even more.

His hand cracked down on your thigh, flipping you over, then another hard smack to your ass, hard enough to sting. You yelped, back arching but he was already on top of you, weight pressing you into the sheets, one hand gripping your wrists above your head, the other guiding his cock to your entrance.

“You’re so fucking wet,” he whispered into your ear. “All from being insulted. Do you even have a shred of dignity left?”

You didn’t answer. You didn’t know really.

“Say it.” He demanded

“I don’t, I don’t have any.” You practically whispered.

“Louder.”

“I don’t have any dignity left, please, just fuck me” you begged, turning him on even more.

“Pathetic.”

He slammed into you.

The bed creaked with every thrust, but somehow you managed to be louder.

He was merciless, deep fast strokes, breath ragged, voice full of venom and authority. He held your wrists in one hand, slapped your tits with the other, called you everything but beautiful and you loved it.

“Look at you,” he grunted, staring down at you like you were nothing. “Taking it like you’ve done this a hundred times before. Are you that used to being used?”

“No, just you I just want you, I just need you” you pleaded.

He grabbed your jaw. “Then earn me.”

You did.

You moaned his name, begged through the tears, took every inch until your body was shaking and the sheets were soaked.

But then you had an idea.

You pushed back.

He wasn’t ready. None of his planning, none of his time, not even any of his authority could’ve processed what you were doing.

You shoved at his chest. Rolled him onto his back. Climbed on top.

“What the hell do you think” you could feel him throbbing beneath you.

“Shut up,” you said, guiding him back inside with one smooth movement.

His hands gripped your hips, tight ..too tight but you leaned down, mouth brushing his.

“How about you cum for me.”

He groaned. Head fell back. And just like that he gave in.

You rode him slow. Deep. Controlled. He hated it. He loved it.

He understood how bad you needed this. Needed to be in charge. Needed to take control.

“Fuck,” he growled, jaw clenched. “You little slut don’t get cocky” he said through gritting teeth.

You clenched around him. Mouth on his “But I’m so good at it, aren’t I?”

He came hard. And you felt every bit of it. You took every bit of it.

Later, his arm was around your waist. Your face was buried in his chest.

“Still pathetic,” he muttered. Still dumbfounded from what just happened

You smiled.

“But you’re mine.”

“I know.” You replied listening to his breathing settle rubbing his chest.

:

It’s so nice to be back let me know how yall all liked this one, don’t forget to like, reblog and comment. until next time my loves, xoxo Reaper 💋.

[xtarmanderx]

I’ve been thinking this over for a few days now trying to decide if I wanted to say anything. And here’s the thing. OP is completely valid in not wanting fandom to disappear inside community spaces that are locked and only certain people have access to them. Community is meant for everyone.

What I will say is this about my own personal experience.

I did not actively engage in fandom beyond reblogging here on tumblr until I joined discord nearly a decade ago. I was posting about Thiam on my main blog and someone randomly reached out to me in a message and asked if I would be interested in joining a discord about the ship. I had never even fucking heard of discord at the point. So I sat down on my steps in the evening and downloaded the app and made myself an account. Joined a server that was incredibly active with hundreds of people and I was welcomed with open arms. (Shoutout to Kate for pulling me aboard and we have remained friends ever since!)

Discord became the place where I found community. Where I found people who encouraged me to write fics and make art. I had never considered writing fanfics until I was actively talking to other people in a community and received so much encouragement and enthusiasm from my new friends. I would not be the creator I am today without discord. The whole reason I am active on this tumblr again and writing is because of discord friends.

The layout of discord isn’t perfect. And I have talked off and on with a friend about this a few times, but a BIG problem I see in discord communities is people will celebrate fics and art but never tell the creator of said piece how much they love it. Which becomes a bigger fandom problem: How does your favorite creator know that you like their work if you never actually tell them? We are not mind readers. (And for me, I fucking love kudos on works, but sometimes I do wish more people commented even if it’s just a heart.)

For me, discord provides a safe space to engage in fandom with similar people who have the same interests as me. I made a discord for a ship I created because someone asked me to make a tumblr community for them and I felt super overwhelmed by that, so I offered a discord instead. There’s roughly a dozen people on it and about half of us are active the other half lurk. Which is fine! People don’t need to engage 24/7 to be a part of a community.

I think discord can be fast paced for a lot of people, too. My friends and I will talk for literal hours in a channel and that’s sometimes hundreds of messages and that can be overwhelming to people. I think the biggest thing is to remember that conversations are never going to simply stop. It’s okay and welcome to jump in at any moment.

Discord isn’t for everyone. But I don’t think it’s going to make fandom disappear behind closed doors by any means.

please promise me fandom won't disappear entirely into discord servers, i'm too old and employed for that

[ihni]

(On AO3 here)

~~~

Billy absolutely refuses to accept gifts.

This is annoying for several reasons, the main one being that giving little gifts to his boyfriend is one of Steve’s greatest joys in life. Or rather it would be, if said boyfriend would only shut up and take them. But oh no.

“What’s this shit, Harrington?”

Strange how Steve is always ‘Harrington’ when Billy is pissed.

Taking a deep breath, Steve prepares himself for the upcoming battle.

“It’s a shirt,” he says, simply, as if it’s obvious. Which it is.

“I can see that,” Billy says with disdain and holds the offending item out in front of him. “Why did I find it on my car seat?”

Here we go, Steve thinks. “Because I bought it for you,” he says, keeping his voice light. Before Billy can speak he adds, to make his intentions perfectly clear; “It’s a gift.”

Billy’s face twists into a grimace and the red fabric crinkles as he grips it in his fist. “I don’t need your charity, Harrington.”

“It’s not –“

“I can buy my own shirts.”

“I know, but –“

Billy pushes the shirt into Steve’s chest. “And anyway, I don’t want it.”

That is a blatant lie, and they both know it. Steve was with Billy at the mall and saw the way he looked at that shirt. Watched as he ran his fingers over the fabric, took the hanger off the rack, and then finally put it back, wincing, once he’d glanced at the price tag. Steve knows with one hundred percent certainty that this particular shirt is right up Billy’s alley and he knows that his boyfriend would love it, and wear it, and would have bought it himself if it had been cheaper.

But of course now, since Steve was the one who bought it, suddenly Billy doesn’t want it anymore. Because god forbid he accepts a goddamn gift from his boyfriend. Who can very well afford it by the way, thank you very much.

But while Steve thinks all of this, he doesn’t say any of it out loud. Because he knows that he’s not going to win this one. “Fine,” he says instead with a sigh, giving in. “I’ll return it.”

(He won’t. He’ll keep it, and then after long enough time has passed he’ll try to sneak it in among Billy’s belongings like it was always there, and hope it goes unnoticed. He’s succeeded before, twice, and that accomplishment may or may not have gone to his head. The back of his closet is now full of things meant for Billy.)

Anyway, this whole refusing-gifts thing. It’s annoying, is what it is, and it’s getting to be a problem. Spoiling the people closest to him has always been Steve’s way of showing that they’re important to him. And Billy is important – perhaps the most important.

Robin says that it’s a pride thing, and that Billy wants to prove that he’s independent – which is crazy, because he doesn’t have anything to prove to Steve. The guy moved out the same day he graduated, for fuck’s sake, into the shittiest little apartment Hawkins had to offer that he had somehow arranged to rent beforehand without telling anyone, and he’s currently working two jobs to be able to provide for himself and to save up for the future. He cleans his apartment when it’s needed, unashamedly goes to the laundromat once a week, and pays his own bills. No one with working eyes or ears can ever say that Billy Hargrove is not independent.

(Meanwhile, Steve is still living at home – but he’ll argue that his parents are so rarely there, so it’s almost like he’s living on his own – and is lucky enough that he doesn’t have to pay his own way. Which is just as well, really, because Family Video doesn’t actually pay that much. But that’s neither here nor there.)

Independence is, objectively, a good trait, but of course Billy doesn’t do anything in moderation. His stance on gifts has forced Steve to get … creative.

Once, when Steve had found the perfect present – a silver dagger earring with a tiny blue stone the exact color of Billy’s eyes – he didn’t even try to give it to him. He simply poked it through the hole in his pocket so that it fell to the asphalt when he walked ahead of Billy across the parking lot outside the dinner, and let Billy “find” it. Pretended to be disgusted as Billy excitedly picked it up from the ground and everything, even though on the inside, he was preening at Billy’s delight over his “find”.

See? Steve can be sneaky, when he wants to or when the situation demands it. And when it comes to showering his boyfriend with gifts, the situation definitely demands it.

Luckily, there is one thing that Billy will grudgingly accept even if he hasn’t bought it himself – one thing in the world that Steve can give him, that Billy won’t reject outright or start a fight about – and that thing is chocolate.

Expensive, luxury chocolate, to be specific. The kind that comes in golden paper boxes, or wrapped in cellophane, or packed in high-end tin containers with etched pictures of cities on the lid.

Billy won’t say no to a cheap chocolate bar bought at the gas station either, but that isn’t quite enough for Steve, who by now has a burning need to spoil Billy somehow. So, luxury chocolate it is.

It was an accident, when Steve first discovered this exception. Billy was spending the night – like he so often does when Steve’s parents aren’t home, because while he has his own place now, Steve’s bed is both more comfortable and big enough for the two of them – and they’d been bickering about what to make for dinner. Billy was cooking, because of course he was, and he’d been rifling through the cupboards looking for the fancy pasta when he’d emerged with a crinkled plastic bag that he’d apparently unearthed from the very back.

“What’s this?” he’d asked, frowning at the little brown lumps inside the bag.

Steve had taken one look at it and made a face. “Oh, chocolate biscotti. Mom bought them from Italy last year. Give me that, I’ll throw it out.”

Billy had looked positively offended at that, and cradled the bag to his chest. “Throw them out? Why?”

“Uh, because she bought them last year?”

That hadn’t seemed to deter Billy though, as he’d snuck one out of the bag and bit into it. Steve grimaced at the dry crunch of it, and took the opportunity to yank the bag out of his boyfriend’s hand while Billy was busy chewing and looking thoughtful.

“Disgusting,” Steve said as he threw the bag of stale old cookies into the trash can. “You’re gonna get sick.”

Billy had just grinned at him and thrown the last piece of biscotti into his mouth, eating that one too. Had even licked his lips, after, and eyed the trash can like he maybe wanted to try raiding it for more of the stale cookies. Steve was a good boyfriend though and hadn’t let him – had, in fact, distracted him quite competently – but he’d already seen the way Billy’s eyes lit up at the taste, and the next time he spoke with his mother, he asked if she would bring another bag home with her.

(She had been in France at the time, but she’d been happy to call the hotel she’d stayed at in Venice the last time she was there and arrange for a couple of bags of biscotti from the ‘cute little bakery down the street’ to be delivered halfway across the world, as well as bring back a veritable smorgasbord of baked treats from Paris.)

It was a game of trial and error for some time, while Steve tested his theory. Baked goods worked, although Billy seemed to favor cookies over buns and flaky things like croissants. Sweet flavors went over better than savory in general, which were hit and miss. But the real winner was the chocolate. All kinds, all flavors.

The first time Steve had brought out a box of chocolates (Swiss chocolate, purchased in France), he’d put it on the table during a Party movie night, for everyone to enjoy. (Billy rarely refused food when it was obviously meant to be shared, although he never ate anything until someone else had done so first.) It worked like a charm – under the cover of the dark and in the low light from the TV, Steve saw Billy reach for no less than five pieces of chocolate.

Unbeknownst to everyone, Steve had gotten two identical boxes of chocolate. Over the next couple of days, he sneakily filled up the first box with pieces from the second box, and made sure to leave it out on the table whenever Billy was over. And as it had been established to be a communal box of chocolates, Billy didn’t have any qualms about eating from it, which meant that Steve was repeatedly treated to the sight of Billy closing his eyes and smiling around a piece of chocolate, visibly enjoying each bite. It was a win-win; Billy got his sweets, and Steve got to provide for his impossible boyfriend.

Since then, Steve has made a point to ask his mother to bring home chocolate from all the places she visits, as well as ordered from several specialty shops outside Indiana. His mother is happy to provide, as she has always enjoyed shopping for the finer things in life. She no doubt thinks that Steve is using it to woo some girl.

Well, she is half right.

Steve thanks her every time she brings something home, and then he puts it away until his parents leave again, at which point he will come up with increasingly convoluted ways of making sure Billy gets to enjoy it.

“Oh, that? Yeah, mom brought it back from New York. I don’t really care for it, to be honest. It’s too sweet for me” and “My aunt gave this to me – her boss gave it to her for her birthday but like, she’s diabetic so she can’t eat it. You want it?” and “I don’t know why mom insists on buying sweets, she should know by now that I’m not big on them … But I don’t want to hurt her feelings, you know? So I just smile and accept them” and “I think I’m allergic. It’d be a shame to throw it out, though. You’d honestly be doing me a favor if you just took it with you.”

Billy, who is ordinarily too smart to fall for schemes like this, miraculously hasn’t caught on yet. (Or maybe he has, but plays along because deep down, he wants what Steve gives him. Steve prefers that theory.)

Of course, Steve has to continue his attempts of gifting his boyfriend with non-chocolate items as well, even though it’s mostly for show, because a) he doesn’t want Billy to catch on his strategy and also b) one of these days, he’ll get Billy to say yes.

He’ll wear him down soon, Steve is sure.

Until then, he’ll just feed Billy fancy treats and fill up the back of his wardrobe – maybe Billy will get a pretty red shirt for Christmas. It’d be rude, even for Billy, to refuse gifts on Christmas.

[wingedhallows]

hi ! you asked me to send you my request here (i hope this is working though, i'm still trying to figure out how the app works...) so that you don't forget about it, so here it is again :

just noticed you wanted us to send you asks so here i am :) unfortunately, i don't have any great inspiration to share with you at the moment… anything with vi or ellie williams (my girlsss) is always nice to see. but other than that, completing basketball!vi x ballerina!reader would be super cool, if it's something you'd be happy to do, of course ! (yup, i'm still obsessed with that one…)

bye 🫶 have a great day !

𝐘𝐎𝐔'𝐑𝐄 𝐏𝐄𝐑𝐅𝐄𝐂𝐓

♒︎ 𝐏𝐀𝐈𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐆 loser!ellie x reader / 1.2 k words ♒︎ 𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆 none ♒︎ 𝐀𝐔𝐓𝐇𝐎𝐑𝐒 𝐍𝐎𝐓𝐄 HI !! I'm totally working on 'labyrinth love' right now, maybe i'll drop the last part tonight! this is a little something that's been sitting in my drafts & i think you'll like it (hopefully) so, here u go!!

♡︎ 𝐍𝐀𝐕𝐈𝐆𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍 ♡︎

You’re all crammed into Dina’s apartment—some shitty couch, a couple floor cushions, an overturned laundry basket being used as a table.

Music low, drinks half-finished, someone’s passed out in the corner with a blanket that definitely smells like weed and regret.

And Ellie? Ellie’s on the floor, back against your knees, launching into the most insane rant you’ve ever heard.

“…I’m just saying,” she says, hand flailing with a cheeto between her fingers, “If birds wanted to be evil, they totally could. Like, they’ve got flight and hollow bones and talons. You ever seen a goose, man? Those things are demonic.”

The room is silent for half a beat.

“Anyway,” she adds, like she’s just delivered a TED Talk, “that’s why I never trust anything with wings and an attitude.”

Jesse blinks slowly. “Dude, what the fuck?”

But you?

You’re grinning. Fingers carding through Ellie’s hair absently, like you love hearing her unhinged theories about avian world domination. You lean down a little and whisper near her ear, “so… if I wore wings, would you be scared of me?”

Ellie’s neck goes red in an instant. “What—no—wait—maybe? I mean, not in a bad way! Like, in a cool, terrifying, kinda hot way—”

“Jesus Christ,” Jesse mutters. “She’s in love.”

“She’s doomed,” Dina adds, sipping from her beer.

But Ellie’s barely listening—because she’s twisted halfway around to look up at you, and you’re still smiling at her, still stroking her hair, still looking at her like she’s the smartest, funniest person alive.

And she’s melting.

“You’re, like…” she breathes, squinting. “Really pretty.”

You blink, caught off guard for half a second.

“…Thanks, babe.”

“No, like. Really. It’s a problem. You’re smiling at me and I forget how words work. And my brain just goes: pretty. smile. girlfriend. And then there’s just static up here.”

She taps her forehead with two fingers, completely serious.

And you just laugh—soft and sweet—and lean down to press a kiss to her temple.

The room erupts.

“OH MY GOD,” Jesse groans, falling back on the couch like he’s been shot. “How the hell did Ellie pull her?”

“I feel like I’m watching a golden retriever date a goddess,” Dina mutters. “It’s disturbing.”

Ellie turns scarlet, burying her face in your thigh. “Don’t listen to them,” she mumbles. “They’re just jealous.”

You smile down at her, hand curling under her chin to tilt her up again.

“I think you’re perfect.”

Ellie malfunctions. Fully. Stares at you with big, round eyes like you just offered to marry her on the spot.

She mouths perfect? like she’s never heard the word before.

And all you do is nod.

Because you mean it.

Ellie’s still staring up at you, stunned, her face half-buried in your thigh. Everyone else has moved on to another round of some dumb card game Jesse’s pitching, but she’s still stock-still.

You called her perfect.

Her. Ellie “accidentally-walked-into-the-wrong-classroom-and-sat-there-for-40-minutes” Williams. Ellie who once used a sock to hold her blunt ‘cause she lost her lighter and burned her thumb last time. Perfect.

“You good, babe?” you murmur, hand gently brushing her cheek.

She blinks. “Yeah. Yeah, no, I’m chill. Totally chill. Just, y’know, experiencing a full emotional reboot. It’s fine.”

You giggle and press another kiss to the top of her head, and she whines softly into your leg like she can’t handle the affection.

Eventually, someone mentions it’s past one, and the room starts to empty out. You tug Ellie up by her hoodie strings, and she stands like she’s been resurrected, slinging her bag over her shoulder and mumbling something about “walking you back.”

Outside, it’s cool and quiet. The kind of early campus stillness where every window glows soft yellow and the street lamps flicker like they’re just as tired as the students.

You lace your fingers through hers, and she tenses for half a second before relaxing—then squeezing back.

She glances sideways at you. “So. Uh. I meant to ask. That thing you said back there—was that, like, real? Or were you just saying it ‘cause I said your smile makes my brain explode?”

You stop walking and tug her back a little, fingers still locked. “You mean the perfect thing?”

Her whole face goes red again. “That’s the one.”

You shrug, playful. “Guess you’ll have to get used to hearing it.”

She stares. “You’re gonna kill me. You’re actually gonna kill me. Death by girlfriend compliment. Local lesbian found deceased on sorority row sidewalk.”

You grin. “You’re ridiculous.”

“I’m in love,” she says immediately, too fast, too much. And then realizes, slapping a hand over her mouth.

“Oh my god, ignore that, that was—that slipped out, I didn’t mean to—well I did, but I didn’t mean to say it, not like that, I was gonna wait ‘til, like, Valentine’s Day or a meteor shower or something cool—”

You stop her with a kiss. Gentle. Quick. Just enough to make her forget what planet she’s on.

When you pull back, she’s blinking, dazed. “…was that a good kiss or a ‘shut up, loser’ kiss?”

You smile. “Both.”

She huffs. “Rude.”

But you’re smiling at her with that look again—the one that says she’s yours, chaos and all—and she leans in close, bumping her forehead to yours.

“I meant it,” she mumbles. “Even if it was an accidental I-love-you. I do.”

You tilt your head, whisper back, “Me too.”

Ellie practically floats the rest of the way to your dorm. You part with another kiss, and she’s halfway down the hall before she turns around, walking backward and beaming.

“You still think I’m perfect?”

You laugh. “I think you’re mine.”

And that’s all it takes. Ellie bolts out of sight before you see the way she pumps her fist in the air, quietly muttering, “holy shit, holy shit, I have the best girlfriend on earth.”

She’s standing in the middle of her room. Hoodie still half-on, phone gripped like it’s both her lifeline and her greatest threat.

Her cat’s staring up at her from the bed, judgmental as hell.

“Don’t look at me like that,” she mutters, flopping onto the mattress. “You didn’t see her. She said I’m hers. I had no choice but to fall apart.”

The cat blinks.

Ellie’s phone buzzes.

[You]: made it back okay? [You]: you looked like you were floating

She groans, punches her pillow a little, and then types back:

[Ellie]: i was not floating [Ellie]: i am very grounded. like a normal person. a grounded, non-floating person who is extremely chill and not thinking about your lips at all.

Immediate regret.

She throws the phone face down on the bed.

The cat meows. “I panicked, okay?”

Buzz.

[You]: you’re so dumb. i’m smiling so hard it hurts [You]: love you, loser. goodnight.

Ellie clutches her phone to her chest and lets out a long, dreamy “fuck.”

Then she whispers it again, grinning “She loves me.”

[bullet-prooflove]

The Green Card: Jesse Van Horn x Reader

Tagging: @caffeinatedwoman @cosmic-psychickitty @kmc1989 @happyfox43 @julius-ceasar

Companion piece to:

Geordie - Jesse makes one hell of a statement when your ex-boyfriend comes around.

Prequel to:

Sex, Drugs, Rock & Roll - Jesse tries to convince you not to disrupt your trip during the aftermath of Pittfest.

Song 2 (NSFW) - Jesse tries to chase away his demons the only way he knows how.

Atomic - Jesse reflects on his HIV status.

Blood Orange - Jesse comes to the rescue of your neighbour during an autoerotic asphyxation accident.

Jesse asks you to marry him because of a green card.

He’s been living in the UK for almost two years on a Long Term Visitor Visa and his time in the country is coming to an end. His band are returning to the US to record their new album and there’s already a tour in the works set for the summer. He wants you to come with him, to build a life in his homeland but you need sponsor. As a spouse, he can do that but that’s the problem, you don’t want to become his spouse.

“I know you don’t believe in it.” He whispers one night when you’re tangled up in bed together, the date edging closer. “But right now it’s the only way-”

“Jesse, it’s not that I don’t love you.” You tell him, your fingertips chasing over his grizzled cheek. “But you don’t understand that the idea of it suffocates me. It feels like you’re putting a pillow over my face and pressing down slowly, stealing my breath. I’m sorry Jesse, I just cant.”

“Then I don’t know what we do from here.” He tells you, shifting into a sitting position against the headboard, his fingers raking through his dark curls in frustration. “Because in a month’s time we’re going to be in separate continents and I… I don’t know how we survive that.”

You can’t, you both realise.

Two different time zones. Your work at the university, his recording schedule.

This relationship you have, it doesn’t exist if you’re not occupying the same space, no matter how much you may want it to.

“These past two years.” He whispers, his hands running through your hair as he kisses you for the last time at the airport. “They have been the best of my life.”

“So far.” You remind him, with a smile that breaks his heart. “Trust me there are many more ahead for you, you’ll forget all about me when you go on tour. I’ll just be another story to tell in your biography.”

But he doesn’t about forget you.

Not when he’s high as a kite playing a show in LA, not when he’s balls deep during a threesome in San Diego, not when he’s at a recording studio in Pittsburgh, singing his heart out about the woman he’s loved and lost.

It goes on for a six months until he’s sitting at a signing table, doing a fan meet and greet in Chicago and there you are standing in front of him. You’re wearing his white London Calling t-shirt, tucked into a denim skirt and black fishnets he wants to tear off with his teeth.

“Is that really you?” He asks raising to his feet, his heart threatening to beat right out of his chest as he dodges around the table. His hands come to rest on your shoulders, squeezing lightly as if trying to reassure himself of your presence. “Or has Ferris been slipping shit into my beer again?”

“It’s me.” You tell him, his palms slipping up to your neck, cradling your face between his palms. “I managed to get a position as adjunct professor over at Pittsburgh University. They’re sponsoring my visa for the next year, maybe beyond that if they like me for the tenure track.”

“Oh Sugar.” He grins, his mouth capturing yours as he sweeps you off your feet. “That is the best news I’ve heard in my goddamn life.”

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Like My Work? - Why Not Buy Me A Coffee

[a-calico-rabbit]

Hi! Sorry for using þis to ask a question—first i’ll say I had þe notion þat it was way easier to move around in þe rest of þe world, such þat it was normal for people to work in different countries from þe ones in which þey lived. I guess I was wrong. But besides þat, I have a different idea of þe why behind þe ego, and none of þe people I @ed to get þeir responses replied, so i’m putting it here. Sorry for þat. Anyway…

Mini-rant incoming; you have been warned. Any response telling me why or why not you þink þis is wrong is appreciated and appropriate:

Þe real, undeniable reason we’re so fucked (one of þem, at least) is þis:

We only have two parties, we’ve only had two parties since þe beginning, and þese two parties have been making moves to deeducate, disempower, disenfranchise, and socially isolate þe populace for ocer a century. And it’s seen everywhere. And it’s spreading out of þe USA too.

I’m not writing it all out, because I can’t, but everyþing wrong wiþ our country, wiþ little exception, can be boiled down to an us-vs-þem mentality. Everyþing, EVERYÞING in america is framed as a competiton wiþ a winner and a loser. Þat’s why we do it. Þat’s why when we talk about our problems, þey have to be þe worst. Þat’s why our achievements are þe best. Þat’s why liberals are “idiots” and conservatives are “ignorant”. Þat’s why we have to have þe last word and þat’s why we must be right. Because it’s not about þe facts. It’s about who’s won.

Take anyþing about America, anyþing at all. And frame it as a game, wiþ þe only rule being þat you can’t get caught. Þat þe winner is decided by popular vote, or by who’s left to laugh at þe loser’s grave. And It becomes so much easier to understand it all.

We’re taught to be hypercompetitive from þe moment we can talk. Our entire government, legal system, work, education, social life, everyþing. Everyþing is structured as a competition. Þat’s why. It’s not it, but it’s most of it.

It’s stupid and it’s bad. But it’s þe bitter truþ.

Rant over | additional points:

Anyway yeah, þe only countries I can þink of þat we share þis (or a similar to þis) trait wiþ are auþoritarian, so þis feels fairly logical as an explanation. Þere’s also þe fact þat our entire country is founded on þe slaughter of millions in a bid to “manifest our destiny” which I don’t know if we got from anoþer country besides Britain.

Anyway, if any of þese points are wrong or not unique, please bring up specific points about why not, so I can actually learn instead of just knowing þat i’m somehow wrong.

Þank you for reading þis, have a nice day.

im american and i knew that like in kindergarten so i think some of you are just stupid sorry

[callsign-rogueone]

splinter

Liam Mairi x reader (spark!) words: 2.3k 🏷: this one is heavy. mentions of passive suicidal ideation (wanting to die but not doing anything about it), spark goes to RSC and Bodhi is with her, canon-level descriptions of torture and injury, liam being the sweetest as per usual, some of Spark’s Issues™️ are explained, SMALL ONYX STORM SPOILER (GARRICK’S SIGNET) but that's it.

You snarl, pulling forward against the chains. “Touch him again and I’ll fucking kill you.”

The infantry officer just smiles down at you. “I’d like to see you try, cadet.”

You should have known he’d take your warning as an invitation. He turns back to Bodhi, examining him for a moment, as if deciding what would hurt most — and then takes a boot to his already-bruised ribs. 

His screaming covers the snapping sound.

Water starts to rise from thin air, filling the room.

“We’re below ground,” you tell them. “Right next to a river that has claimed the souls of thousands over the years. It won’t hesitate to take yours, either. You two do have souls, don’t you?”

The woman seems to realize you’re serious, her eyes widening, but her counterpart stands firm. “There’s one problem with your plan, cadet,” he condescends, not minding the water that’s up to his knees now. “You’ll drown, too, and so will your friends.”

Quinn is silent beside you, knowing better than to intervene. Bodhi is still trying to catch his breath, his exhales rattling and wet. There’s blood in his lungs, from the sound of it. After you’re done with these two, you’ll draw it out.

You don’t bother to tell the officer how it’ll work. He can see for himself in a minute. “One last chance to let us go.”

“I don’t think I’ll take it.”

You know exactly how long it takes to drown; you’ve walked the knife’s edge yourself many times at Tuile’s orders, in the name of eliminating weakness. “Then I suggest you use the next twelve seconds to settle up with your gods.”

The water rises, a tidal wave of murky black headed straight for their faces. It pushes forward as they step back, unable to escape it. 

“I don’t know why you didn’t do this hours ago,” Tuile huffs. “It would have made things much easier.”

You ignore her as usual, watching the officers for a sign of surrender. You won’t kill them if you don’t have to. But after all they’ve done, anything short of setting you all free won’t be enough. And even then, they wouldn’t be safe.

“It’s okay,” Bodhi says quietly, still panting. “We’re okay.”

You feel that gentle push against your power, but it’s weaker than normal — he’s too tired to stop you properly. You reel it back yourself, not wanting to exhaust him further. 

The water drains, seeping back into the ground, and the two infantry officers gasp for air. 

Professor Grady flings the door open, seeing the four of you perfectly dry as they still kneel, shivering and coughing the water from their lungs. “I told you this one wouldn’t be easy,” he says, no pity in his eyes as he looks at them.

You glare up at him. “Are we done now?”

He doesn’t answer the question. “I’ll admit, nobody has been able to turn the tables on their captors as you did,” he says carefully, “but had you killed them, three more would have taken their place, and made things quite a bit worse for you.“

“Then I’d keep going, until I found one who valued their life enough to set us free.”

Something changes in his eyes as he looks at you. “Release the others,” he orders, “but keep her here.”

“What? How is that fair?” Quinn asks.

“War isn’t fair,” the male infantry officer answers, eyeing you with contempt. He’s still soaked, trying to suppress his shivering. “Unless the both of you would rather stay here all night and watch?”

“Go,” you tell your friends, staring him down. “I can handle myself.”

————————

There are eighteen steps leading up to the second-year dorms. You take them one at a time, grinding your teeth as the movement strains your muscles. At least you don’t have any broken bones. 

Liam is sitting in front of your door, a small knife in one hand and a block of wood in the other, a little bag of shavings beside him. He’s been carving a lot of dragons lately. You’re just thankful that he hasn’t done yours. Tuile doesn’t deserve the honor, nor the hours of his time. 

He sets the materials aside as soon as he sees you, putting everything back in the bag and standing up. Neither of you have to say anything. This isn’t the first time he’s been there to patch you up, and it won’t be the last. He never asks questions, either, just gets to work disinfecting and bandaging. 

But this time, he looks at you differently. Maybe it’s the severity of your injuries. They hadn’t broken your nose, but you’re pretty sure that you have two black eyes and a split lip — you can feel that, even though you can’t see it. And then there’s the rest of you. They’d left no stone unturned, being incredibly thorough with your punishment for nearly killing two ranking officers.

The door unlocks as soon as you set your hand on the knob. You hadn’t expected it to work, after they’d forced whatever was in that little vial down your throat, disconnecting you from Tuile and her magic. That was a relief, honestly. Until they’d beaten the shit out of you, that is.

You don’t have it in you to be embarrassed as you tug off your tunic and kick aside your boots. Liam’s already seen you in a state of partial undress once, and the sooner you can get this over with, the sooner you can curl up and sleep for the rest of the weekend. It is the weekend, right? If it isn’t, you’re skipping class today. Maybe you can earn yourself another dose of that stuff, or maybe they’ll push too far and actually kill you. 

It feels like it’s been a full day since they released Bodhi and Quinn, but the days and hours have blurred together. It’s hard to guess how long you were down there, but it’s early morning now. Did Liam stay outside your room all night, waiting for you? 

You sit down in your desk chair and close your eyes, waiting. He knows where you keep all your supplies at this point; this is the fourth, or maybe fifth time you’ve done this since his arrival at Basgiath. He’s never once suggested that you see the healers — he knows better than that, knows you’ll never set foot in the infirmary here or anywhere ever again. You get by well enough with the things you’d learned from your parents, anyway.

There’s a few minutes of comfortable silence before he finally speaks. “Bodhi told me what happened,” he says softly, and you burn with shame, avoiding his gaze.

“Then why are you still here?” you ask. “Why aren’t you afraid of me, like everyone else?”

He tilts your chin back up to disinfect a cut below your eye. “Because I care about you, and because I want to understand why. I know that isn’t you — that isn’t my Spark.”

You’ve never felt such profound shame before, seeing the softness in his eyes as he gazes down at you, feeling the gentle touch of his hand on your cheek. 

He expects better of you. 

You aren’t the girl you used to be. 

You’ve disappointed him. 

That hurts so much worse than any of your physical injuries.

“I get it if you don’t want to tell me. I’m just worried about you. I don’t know what changed in the last year, or why, but I know something’s wrong, that you’re hurting, and I want to help you.”

You don’t say anything, and he drops the subject, continuing his work silently. 

But you need to tell him the truth, before it’s too late. “Everything I feel, every emotion has multiplied by five, and I can’t make it stop,” you blurt. 

He stills, looking back at you.

“I can’t sleep, I can’t think about anything but how angry I am, but most of the time it’s not even my anger, it’s hers,” you whisper, scared she’ll hear you. It’s unclear when this stuff will wear off. She could come back at any moment, hear any whispered confession and make you pay the price for your weakness later. 

You continue, your voice wavering. “Every morning for the last year I’ve woken up wondering if today will be the day that I’ll cross the line, that I’ll take things too far and Bodhi and the others won’t be able to stop me.”  You can’t stop the words from entering the air, the thing you’ve never told anyone, never admitted, not even to yourself. “Sometimes I wish she’d killed me during Threshing, that she’d hit a vein and let me bleed out in the forest.”

His eyes widen as he realizes the three thick scars crossing your collarbone were from Tuile. She’d scratched you, as many dragons do with their bonded to mark their riders — like the scar through Xaden’s eyebrow — but he’s never seen one this severe.

She must have wanted it to hurt.

He kneels down in front of the chair, at eye level with you now, and pulls you forward into a gentle hug, wrapping you in warmth. “I’m so grateful she didn’t, Spark. I couldn’t bear to lose you.”

You finally crack, a soft sob parting your lips at the pressure it puts on the cuts and bruises covering your skin. You clutch at the soft black fabric of his shirt with aching hands, needing him close even though it hurts, and the idea of him taking care of you after everything you’ve done makes you sick.

He strokes your back, speaking softly. “I mean it. You’re the world to me. And we’ll get you help, I promise. I’m sure my older sister would know what to do. She knows everything there is to know about dragons. I can’t send letters as a first year, but Xaden could. And you know he’d do it in a heartbeat.”

You shake your head no against his shoulder. “There’s nothing you or anyone else can do. I’m going to lose my mind.”

“Don’t say that,” he chides softly. “Please don’t give up, Spark. I know it’s difficult, but you’re so strong, and we’re all here to help you. Me, Bodhi, Xay, the girls…”

“You don’t get it,” you sniff. “Tuile was bonded to my grandfather for thirty years. A direct relative.”

He’s quiet, not sure what this means. They haven’t covered this in Kaori’s class — they never will.

You explain in a wavering voice. “The books say that anyone bonded to a dragon who was formerly bonded to their direct relative will either get a second signet or go completely mad, and I’ve tried everything, but all I can do is the water.”

Garrick had gotten a second one, as did Imogen and a few of the others who had riders in the family. But you ended up with your piece-of-shit grandfather’s piece-of-shit dragon, who probably decided that you didn't deserve a second signet, that you were too weak, too soft.

“That’s why I can’t control myself half the time,” you say in a cracked whisper, your breathing unsteady. “I’m already starting to lose my grip.”

He rests his chin on top of your head, keeping you tucked into his arms. “I’m so sorry, sweet girl.”

Nobody else has ever apologized to you about this, just given you pitiful looks and kept their distance — except Bodhi. But he’s only stuck with you out of responsibility, because he can keep you leashed with his own signet. 

“I’ll stay with you until the end. Even if you forget my name or try to kill me, I’ll be by your side.”

You manage a bitter laugh — a dry huff of air that makes your bruised ribs throb. “That might actually happen.”

“I know,” he says softly, still rubbing your back. “But if it does, I’ll know that it isn’t you, and it isn’t your fault. None of this was your fault. But I’m so proud of you for telling me, and for making it this far. And I promise you I will do everything I can to help slow this down, and to make life easier for you.” 

Your tears have dried, leaving you with a hollow feeling in your sinuses, but Liam still holds you, your breathing now synchronized with his. 

You take the opportunity to try some of the advice a friend had given you, that had seemed like complete and utter bullshit at the time, but might be worth it now.

Three things you can feel: the softness of Liam’s tunic and the warmth of his skin against yours, the ache of the bruises covering your body.

Two things you can see: Liam’s arm around you, and the definition of the muscle there. The mess of used medical supplies on your desk. 

One thing you can taste: the coppery blood that still coats the edges of your teeth. 

You’ll drag yourself to the bathing chambers to brush before you go to sleep. Should probably shower, too. It’ll be exhausting, but if you’re truly disconnected from Tuile and her magic, you won’t have to worry about drowning.

You hate to admit it, but you feel a little better now, a little safer with the familiarity of your room, and Liam in it with you. 

The bells ring — each of the six chimes making you wince. “Y’ should get to formation,” you murmur. 

His hand smooths over your hair once more, not minding the blood, dirt, and grease in it. “Are you gonna be okay on your own?” he asks softly. He doesn’t say it outright, but you know what he’s really asking.

“Mm. Jus’ gonna shower and sleep.”

He’s satisfied with your answer, but still lingers a moment longer. “I’m proud of you.”

“For what?”

“For surviving this long. For not giving up, and for telling me what’s going on.”

You don’t tell him that he’s the only reason you’re still going. 

Your words blur together with exhaustion. “Thank you. Fr’ cleaning me up.”

He lays a featherlight kiss to your forehead before he pulls away, careful not to brush the bruises there. “Always.”

[padmesweetheart]

My Little Menace

Pairing: Hayden Christensen x Younger!Wife!Reader

Genre: Fluff, Light Angst, Humor, Protective Husband Mode

I enjoy feedback so here

It was supposed to be a quiet morning.

The sun was shining. Birds were chirping. Hayden was in full “wholesome husband” mode. he’d just finished feeding the animals, whistling happily on his way back inside the house, ready to start breakfast for you.

And then he found you.

Standing barefoot in the driveway.

Wearing one of his old T-shirts that nearly swallowed you whole, messy bed hair still everywhere, casually puffing a cigarette between two fingers while clutching a 12 oz Red Bull like your life depended on it.

You didn’t even see him at first. You were too busy, letting out a deep sigh like a stressed Wall Street broker in a 90’s movie, taking another drag, then another desperate sip of your beloved energy drink.

Hayden froze in the doorway, blinking. Once. Twice. Just staring.

The cigarette.

The Red Bull.

The utter dead-eyed exhaustion on your face.

He had to physically put a hand on the doorframe to steady himself.

“Baby,” he finally said, voice a little hoarse. “What… what am I looking at right now?”

You turned like a raccoon caught in the trash. “I’m fine!”

He slowly approached, like you were a wild animal that might bolt at any sudden movement. “Are you smoking?” he asked, even though he could see it right there, between your fingers.

You gave a sheepish little shrug. “It’s just a stress smoke.”

He stared harder. “And a Red Bull?”

Another shrug. “Just a little pick-me-up.”

Hayden looked at the can. The giant 12oz can. Then back at the cigarette.

Then back at your sleepy, guilty face.

“Baby…” He dragged a hand down his face in pure disbelief. “You’re out here committing war crimes against your own body.”

You blew a little smoke toward the sky and grinned. “It’s fine! It’s just a—”

“No,” he cut you off, reaching forward and plucking the cigarette out of your fingers with two fingers like he was disarming a grenade. “Absolutely not.”

“Hey!” you protested weakly, but he was already putting it out in a nearby flower pot.

He turned back around, pointing at the Red Bull. “And that,” he said firmly, “is not breakfast.”

You clutched the can protectively to your chest. “It’s… it’s hydration?”

He gave you a look so disappointed and pained it would’ve made a lesser woman weep. “Baby, no. That’s… that’s poison.”

You laughed, leaning your head against his chest when he stepped closer, still holding the Red Bull hostage.

“Don’t look at me like that,” you murmured. “It was a long night. I needed something.”

He softened immediately, his arms wrapping around you, pulling you tightly into his chest. His hand cradled the back of your head.

“You could’ve just woke me up, sweetheart,” he murmured against your hair. “You don’t have to run on fumes and battery acid.”

You closed your eyes, breathing him in. He smelled like fresh hay and clean soap, like every good thing in the world.

“I didn’t wanna bother you,” you mumbled.

“You are my bother,” he said immediately, pressing a kiss to your forehead. “You’re my problem. You’re my whole world. You could wake me up at two a.m. to tell me you wanted a cookie and I’d drive two hours to get it.”

You giggled into his shirt.

He pulled back just slightly to look down at you, brushing hair off your forehead tenderly. “No more smoking, alright? It scares me. And no more replacing your blood with Red Bull.”

You smiled shyly. “Okay.”

“Promise?”

You nodded, and he gave you a soft, relieved grin, kissing your forehead again.

“C’mon,” he said, finally stepping back and reaching for your hand. “Let’s get some real breakfast in you.”

As he led you back inside, he muttered under his breath, “Gonna replace your Red Bull with green juice if it kills me…”

You smirked behind him.

Little did he know, there was a secret stash of Red Bull hidden behind the flour in the pantry.

You weren’t going down that easy.

——-

It had been a few days since Hayden’s emotional “no more Red Bull” speech on the driveway.

You’d nodded, kissed his chest sweetly, given him the softest eyes imaginable — and then, like any self-respecting menace, you’d gone straight inside and hid your remaining stash behind the giant bag of flour in the pantry.

You thought you were clever.

You thought you were safe.

You thought wrong.

It all went downhill the following Saturday when Hayden, in his endless pursuit of husbandly excellence, decided to make homemade pancakes.

You were still half asleep, cocooned in blankets on the couch when you heard him rummaging around in the kitchen, humming quietly to himself. A domestic king. A man on a mission.

And then

A sudden, chilling silence.

A silence that felt dangerous.

You cracked open an eye just in time to see him emerge from the pantry holding a Red Bull can aloft like a biblical artifact, face shocked, betrayed, and heartbroken.

“Explain.”

The can crinkled slightly in his death grip.

You sat up straighter, panicking. “That’s… uh… that’s old! Vintage!”

He walked forward slowly, deadly calm. “There are fourteen more cans behind the flour.”

You winced. “They’re collector’s items?”

“Collector’s items,” he repeated, deadpan. “Behind the flour.”

You nodded solemnly. “It’s a… hobby.”

He cracked open the pantry wider and pulled out the entire stash — an alarming collection of various Red Bull sizes, from tiny shots to full 12oz beasts. It looked like you were running an underground black market.

Hayden turned back to you, betrayal etched deep into his beautiful face.

“You lied to me,” he said dramatically, pressing a hand to his heart like a wounded Victorian wife.

“I didn’t lie lie!” you protested. “I just… omitted.”

“Omitted?” His voice cracked. “You’re hoarding illegal substances! In my house!”

You giggled into your hands. “It’s not drugs, it’s caffeine.”

He pointed at the cans again, looking like he was going to cry. “You said you quit! You promised!”

You gave him your best puppy-dog eyes. “It’s not like I’m drinking them all at once…”

Hayden dropped to his knees on the kitchen floor, cradling two cans to his chest like fallen soldiers.

“My sweet baby angel wife,” he groaned to the ceiling. “Addicted to rocket fuel and lies.”

You couldn’t help it. You slid off the couch and crawled over to him dramatically, wrapping your arms around his shoulders from behind.

“I’m sorryyyyy,” you whined into his neck.

He sighed heavily but leaned into you. “You’re gonna give yourself a heart attack before you’re thirty.”

“I’ll slow down, I swear.”

“You said that last time. And the time before that.” He turned slightly to eye you with a raised brow. “You’re like a junkie. A Red Bull junkie.”

You pouted against his shoulder. “Don’t you still love me?”

He snorted, finally smiling despite himself, and turned to press a kiss to your temple.

“Of course I love you, menace,” he said quietly. “But if you don’t cut back, I’m gonna replace all of these with green smoothies. And broccoli snacks.”

You shuddered dramatically. “You’re evil.”

He grinned, setting the Red Bull cans down carefully, like defusing a bomb. Then he stood and offered you his hand to pull you up from the floor.

“We’ll negotiate,” he said magnanimously, like he was giving you a presidential pardon. “One Red Bull a day.”

Your mouth dropped open. “ONE?!”

He smirked. “Final offer. Take it or leave it.”

You grumbled under your breath, but took his hand anyway, letting him pull you up into his chest.

“One,” you mumbled.

“Good girl,” he teased, nuzzling your nose affectionately. “My heart can’t take watching you chain-smoke Red Bull like a divorced Vegas magician.”

You laughed against him, squeezing him tight.

And as he held you there messy hair, sleepy-eyed, and still half clinging to your caffeine addiction he kissed your forehead and whispered,

“My little menace. You’re stuck with me now. Red Bull and all.”

[edenfenixblogs]

Date: 4/21/25

Note:

Hoo boy. I’m gonna stay out of this history section here, because A) people are covering that in more detail than I have the patience for today and B) sometimes you gotta pick your battles on posts like these that are steeped in a broth of misinformation.

So I’m choosing to focus on the whole “Jews killed Jesus” thing here. The video above is great, but there are a few things I’d like to add or provide more insight into as well.

1. First of all, no they didn’t. “The Jews” did not kill Jesus. The Romans did.

2. Judas was A Jewish man. He betrayed Jesus by turning him in to the Romans. In order for Jesus to become the Christian martyr you all worship, someone must have betrayed him. That person was Jewish because Jesus was Jewish and his social circle was comprised primarily of Jews. Everyone he was close with was Jewish. You don’t get betrayed by strangers. Betrayal denotes intimacy.

3. It’s weird that you all focus on the idea that Judas betrayed him rather than that the Roman’s killed him and created the conditions for that betrayal in the first place.

4. It’s weird that you focus on Judaism as in any way relevant to the betrayal of Judas. There are many things that motivate betrayal, but I have never heard of anyone claiming that Judas betrayed Jesus as a direct result of his identity as a Jew. Judas, it seems, was just a dickhead who happened to be Jewish.

5. There were many Jewish people in Jesus’ life who were Jewish and who loved him. Like…his MOTHER. His “earthly” father. The vast majority of his friends. Literally all of his 12 apostles. Some of whom wrote the New Testament you all claim to base your theological identity around. It is absolutely bizarre that instead of taking the Jewishness of these people into account, you focus exclusively on the Judaism of the one you hate the most.

6. Jesus died for your sins, right? Jesus died for all of our sins, right? The moment he died, wasn’t the world supposedly cleansed of sin and all were forgiven? I’m not super clear on how sin works after the crucifixion for you all, but I also don’t care a great deal about that. What I care about is that the whole concept of Christ dying for our sins is central to all of Christianity and has been for two thousand years at this point. This is very much the thing that all Christians want us to know, right? Jesus died for our sins and that is a big, beautiful, and meaningful thing. It was a sacrifice G-d himself made. G-d allowed the sins of the world to die on the cross with his son, and because of that we should all worship Jesus and do our best to avoid sin. And in return for following the path Jesus died to provide for humanity, every single from before Jesus took his last breath on that cross is cleansed. Every murder. Every betrayal. Every rape. Every abuse and theft and cruelty and all manor of crime and horror. All of them. That’s the whole point, right? So tell me why YOU think you know better than JESUS CHRIST OF NAZARETH about this. You’re telling me that you have secret knowledge that every sin in the history of humanity was forgiven except for Judas’s? And tell me why you think that Judas’s Judaism is somehow relevant to that? Why? Is it because you think Jews are inherently evil? That seems like a you problem. Jesus forgave Judas, and he’s the one who got nailed to the cross so he’s in a better position to assign blame than you—random antisemite a couple thousand years later. If Jesus died for your sins, then he did for Judas’ too. You don’t get to ignore that because you hate the Big Bad Jew.

7. If you’re Catholic, the Pope declared in 1965 that the Jews are not collectively responsible for Jesus’ death. Isn’t the Pope supposed to be a direct mouthpiece for G-d on earth? So you’re ignoring Jesus, his dad, and the voice of G-d on earth just because you want to keep hating Jews so much? That doesn’t seem very Christian of you. It’s almost like you care more about hating Jews than about worshiping Jesus.

8. If you are a person who considers themselves Christian and insists on blaming Jews for the death of Jesus, then you have failed at step one of Christianity, and I—a Jew, the creature you most revile—know more about Jesus and Christendom than you. And I know for a fact that I know more about Christianity than you know about Judaism, Jewish people, our history, or our culture.

9. If you are a person who considers themselves a Christian and you insist upon blaming Jews for the death of Christ, then you are engaging in a pattern of hatred that has gotten Jews killed since the moment your savior died for your sins. And I want to be clear that as long as you continue to blame Jews for the death of Jesus, then according to your own religion: Jesus forgives Judas, but he doesn’t forgive you.

10. Not that it matters, since you clearly don’t care about Jews or our beliefs, but we don’t forgive you either. In order to be forgiven, you must apologize to us and make amends and change your ways. G-d will not forgive sins you do to your fellow man. You are responsible for the pain you inflict on this earth, and you are responsible for healing it.

So, to recap, if you blame Jews for the death of Jesus: Jesus doesn’t forgive you. Jesus forgives Judas, but not you. Jesus forgives the Romans who actually crucified him, but he doesn’t forgive you. You are contradicting your G-d’s law by continuing to accuse Jews of the sin of murdering Jesus.

You are contradicting the voice of G-d on earth by continuing to accuse Jews of murdering Jesus and being responsible for his death.

You are denying the core belief of Christianity by insinuating in any way that Jews must carry the sin of Jesus death.

As long as you continue to believe that Jews are to blame for the sin of Jesus’ death, your G-d doesn’t forgive you, and neither does mine, and neither do my people.

You are using your religion based around forgiveness as a cover for your own bigotry, and you are and will remain a sinner until you stop.

Have the day you deserve.

If you're actually trying to say that Jesus is Palestinian, or that he's from Palestine, you're getting a hardcover bible straight to the knees

He's known as Jesus of Nazareth

Nazareth. Which is in Israel

He's not Jesus of Gaza (i can't even use a more time accurate name because Palestine didn't even exist then)

Keep his name outta your mouth if you're gonna play stupid so well

[pickleking8]

14 - Adoption Isn't All It's Cracked Up to Be - Chapter Fourteen

Word Count: 1363

Ao3 Link

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Now, anyone who knows anything about running crime organizations (organizations of any legal status, really), is that information is gold. It pays, literally, to know who’s making the drug deal in the alley at three am, who’s smuggling weapons by the docks, hell, how many bananas Johnny’s grandmama bought at the market yesterday. 

Everyone knows this. But, more importantly, Jason knows this. Which is why two weeks after his return to Gotham, he has eyes everywhere. Camera systems already in place? Hacked, they’re his now. Informant that you treated badly? Hey, a couple of well placed hundred dollar bills, and boom, he’s got a network going. Not even to mention the League of Assassins grade cameras monitoring nearly every street. 

Point is, Jason is ready. Batman? Going down. Revenge? About to be dished out in glorious fashion. 

Except for this one small, really teensy-weensy hiccup in his plans. Laughable, really, how easily he can dismiss this and continue on. No problems here. None, nada, zilch and zip. 

…

Fuck. 

Alright, reassessment. There appears to be a child. 

A child that looks like him. Just like him. Same injuries, even.

…

The child is in the manor. The child does not want to be in the manor. Bruce is keeping the child from leaving the manor. 

Double fuck.

Bruce called the child Jason.

Ohh, so many fucks. Infinite fuck. With a side of goddammit.

The couch protests, creaking with age and indignation, as he flops (in a very dignified way) onto it. It might interest you to know, dear reader, that this particular safe house had a very fascinating ceiling. It was white, and extraordinarily bumpy, bowing down and browned in some places from water, cracked into and covered with spider webs in others, and all together was in rough shape: does this interest you?

No?

Well, it sure seemed to interest Jason, as he laid staring at it for the better part of an hour. 

…He has to save the child.

Three short buzzes from his phone, vibrating in his jeans pocket distracts him from his musings. Huffing out a sigh, the moth-bitten couch complains once more as he sits up. One of his new informants, calling him. David, if he remembers correctly. Nice guy, always showing pictures of his cat (David wasn’t lying, it really did have the prettiest eyes of any cat Jason had ever seen). 

“What?” comes out as an uncouth greeting.

“Hey, boss. You know how you said to report if anything particularly unusual happened?” Jason straightened.

“Yeah? What happened?” 

“Well, I saw this kid, running like a bat out of hell down 39th and 2nd. Pretty run of the mill, except the kid just kept… flickering, going invisible and back again. White, black hair, male, looked maybe fifteen and panicked as all shit. Injured. Turned into an alley and just… disappeared. Thought you might wanna know, with that ‘keep kids safe’ rule you got.” 

“ Fuck. Okay, David, listen to me very carefully. Did anyone else see the kid? Which alley did he go into?”

“The one near Ms. Baker’s apartment. And no, I don’t think so, at least. It was pretty late, street was deserted, but I can’t be sure.”

“Okay, okay. Listen, anyone comes asking after the kid, you don’t tell them shit, got it? You find out anyone else saw, you tell them the same thing. I’ll take care of the kid. Understood?” 

“Got it, boss. If anyone asks, I wasn’t even outside tonight.” 

“Good.” 

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His breath sounds loud through the modulation of his helmet, rasping and rattling; a last breath after a last breath after a last breath, Jason’s heart continuing to beat and lungs continuing to expand long after they should’ve stopped. Ever since he clawed his way to air, emerged with dirt and blood under his fingernails, he’s been aware of his breath, noticing each inhale, exhale, and gasp. Afraid that if his attention drifts, he’ll find himself back in that silk-lined prison of a coffin. 

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Danny’s breath echoes in the space between the walls. It’s not the only sound present, he can hear the building settling around him, bits of cement dust trickling down, and somewhere, something with claws skittering across the brick. He tried not to pay attention to the way his breath was so loud it sounded as if the building breathed with him, creaking and groaning. 

Ever since he stumbled out of that portal, body crackling with electricity and a circle spelling ‘ON’ branded permanently on his palm, he didn’t like hearing his breathing, reminding him that every inhale was stolen and every exhale a signal he was on borrowed time. Reminding him what a freak of nature he truly was, that when the universe stitched itself together with a loving hand, it never intended this, it never intended him. 

He felt better when he was a ghost, when he didn’t have to breathe. When the aching in his chest subsided and he no longer felt like hands were crawling their way up his throat. When he was human, the feeling returned again, that wrongness, that stark reminder with every beat of his heart that he wasn’t meant to be. 

Some creepy little boy with creepy little powers, indeed. 

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The trail was damning: scattered trash, shoved aside in a panic here, a small smear of blood there, all pointing to… the wall. 

The solid brick wall. 

The suspiciously clean patch of solid brick wall.

Fuck, a meta. Jason had seen this before, metas who weren’t particularly good at phasing, or just not paying as much attention as they should have. They’d take the dirt and grime and such with them as they went, only phasing through the atoms they thought were in their way. Phasing was tricky like that, nearly as dependent on one’s mind as it was on one’s physical ability. It worked on a different set of rules: you phased through what you set your mind to phase through. You forgot about grime? Well, it comes with you. Hence: free wall cleaning. 

Now, the real question was, did the kid phase all the way through, or did he stay in the wall? Jason had seen the kid earlier, and from what David had said, he was running on fumes. The state of the alley said he was too panicked to cover his tracks properly. Jason would bet that as soon as the kid thought he was out of sight, he’d dropped. 

Well, shit. Now, there’s a kid that’s probably in the wall and scared out of his mind, and Jason’s got to get him out. 

Double shit.

…Jason knocks. On the wall. Three raps, in quick succession, with his brass-covered knuckles.

A slight rustling, the quietest hitch of breath.

“Kid? I know you’re in there. I’m not gonna hurt you.” 

More rustling, louder this time. Panicked. 

“Please. I want to help.”

A head sticks out, mist spilling out of its mouth, floating gently upward, so all he can see of the kid’s face is piercing, glowing eyes of an all too-familiar shade. 

He stares at the kid. The kid stares back, tense and ready to run. 

“And who the fuck are you? Actually, it’s better if I don’t know. You’re dead, and that means you need to get the fuck out of this city and watch for hazmat suits. That’s the best I can do for you right now.” 

The kid’s words are breathless, tinged with a melancholy bitterness that spoke to what could have, should have been, his eyes darting around, scanning the alleyway and the rooftops and Jason himself, assessing. 

Jason breathes. In, out, ever so slowly; preparing himself to make a decision that cannot be undone. He needs something, something to get him to stay, something to get him to talk long enough for Jason to help him. So, he makes a decision that screams against every ounce of training he’s ever received. 

He tells the kid his name, the name that has haunted this child for weeks, binding him to an identity, a person that isn’t him, isn’t him, isn’t him :

“I’m Jason. And you, I take it, are not.” 

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Previous - Masterpost

Taglist (let me know if you want to be added): @tkiesai, @simplestoryteller

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Hey, everyone!! Apparently my writing juice only flows when I have a million exams next week, and I wrote this instead of studying for those :p

Ah well, it'll be okay. I'll just cram for the rest of today, wish me luck. Anyway, here's the latest chapter! Jason finally finds Danny! I struggled a little bit writing their interaction in the end, and I'm not entirely happy with how it turned out, but so it goes. As a side note, one of my personal head canons is that Danny's death scar isn't just the lichtenberg scarring, but the 'on' button branded into his palm as well. He got really into fingerless gloves after the accident.

Thank you for reading, and let me know what you guys think of the chapter!

[lightlycareless]

warnings: fluff. naoya and you have a lovable, baby girl named naomi.

I like to imagine how small, everyday domestic things happen between Naomi, Naoya, and you.

The one I kept thinking about as of recently is Naomi and how she would most likely (just like any other kid her age) be afraid of the dark.

This evidently happens right after she begins to see curses, be aware of them and the world she’s now a part of. It’s uneventful most of the time thanks to the protective talismans around the estate and her parent’s guidance, slowly but surely, she seems to grow accustomed to them.

But after a particularly scary encounter this soon changes, leading her to tightly grip ger blanket and plushie as you tuck her to bed, fretful of the moment you leave the room.

“…Mama…” Naomi would whine. Her soft voice, alongside her puppy eyes, made it impossible to ignore her.

“What’s wrong, dumpling?” you worry, leaning back down again to her level to gently place your palm on her forehead. “Do you not feel well?”

“N—no, it’s not that…” she shakes her head.

��Then what is it, pumpkin?” As if it weren’t extremely preoccupying enough to see your little ray of sunshine acting so distraught… the last thing anyone needed was for her to be ailed by something even worse. “You know you can trust me with anything, honey. Mama is always here to help you.”

After a brief moment of silence… she confesses.

“I’m scared of the dark, mama. I can’t go to sleep!”

“Oh, why is that? What happened?” you ask. At least it wasn’t anything grave. For you, that is.

“N—nothing, but…” She whimpers, clutching to her blanket even tighter. “But—but what if a curse appears from the dark?! I don’t want that to happen, mama…”

“And it won’t. The estate is filled with talismans to protect you in case one managed to slip through our noses” You try to reassure her, help her rationalize that such thing was virtually impossible to occur—and even if it did, they’d be quickly surrounded by more than capable sorcerers.

But to her small, innocent mind, such explanations were redundant. Had to real purpose when battling her fear, for they’d somehow always manage to outsmart you or her papa.

However, that didn’t mean you were running out of solutions. Thus, after a quick call with Naoya and sleeping together to keep her mind at ease, you come back with what soon became her beacon of hope—a little something that helped her regained a good night sleep.

“What are you doing, mama?” Naomi curiously asks, trying to peak over your shoulder and see what you were diligently working on by the electrical outlet.

“The answer to all of our problems, princess!” you cheer, turning around to see her. “Ah, ah—no peeking! Or you’ll ruin the surprise.”

Naomi giggles, placing her hands over her eyes to anxiously wait for the reveal.

“You can open them now!” you cheer, and without time to waste, your baby peels her hands away to gasp at the sight of her favorite character lightening up the corner of her room; dimly to not perturb her rest, yet strong enough to scare away any dangers lingering in the dark.

“Mama!” Naomi gasps, running to your side to get a closer look of the newest addition to her collection. “What is that?”

“It’s called a nightlight, little mochi. Something to help you sleep at night while warding off all curses!” After the right adjustments, of course. They don’t offer these types of services in retail stores.

“Really?!” Naomi adds. “…Will it really protect me?”

“Yes, I promise! However, I do have one other thing to ensure it works just as intended.” You smile, looking over to the door as it slides open, making your daughter quickly swirl into its direction and squeal upon seeing who stood just past it.

“Papa!! You’re home!” she cries, swift footsteps making their way to Naoya, followed by a tight, warm hug that immediately makes him crumble. It doesn’t take much for him to understand how much she had missed him, but if there was any doubt, her quiet sniffles erased all uncertainties.

“You don’t need to cry, pumpkin. I’m here now.” He says, gently wiping away her tears. Your heart tightens at the sight. “Someone told me you were having problems with the dark, and I, being the strong papa you can always rely on, couldn’t allow that to happen any longer!”

“Papa…” she murmurs, leaning into his touch. “What are you going to do??”

“Well, aside from your nightlight, how about we do that thing… what’s it called again, my love?” Naoya asks, feigning ignorance.

“A slumber party.” You reveal, and Naomi grins.

To do one of her favorite things… With her papa? And her mama?? Sign her up!

“But, before we do that, I want you to know something.” Naoya says, gently cupping her face alongside his suddenly serious tone, effectively pulling all of her attention. “There is nothing I wouldn’t do for you and your mother. I would go to great lengths, to the end of the world if necessary, just to keep you safe and happy.

In other words, long as I am around, even afterwards, harm shall never befall you. I will make sure of that.”

“Even from the monsters in the dark…?”

“Especially from the monsters in the dark.” He chuckles, kissing the top of her head. “Think they’re too strong for papa to handle?”

Naomi firmly shakes her head, giving him another smile alongside a sweet giggle that makes everyone’s heart soar.

“No, papa. Don’t be silly!”

Because if there’s one thing she’s absolutely sure, beyond Hello Kitty being the best, cutest cat in the whole wide world…

Is that her papa was the strongest.

And that he never lies.