#but i love that about the voice of the people being the voice of god

[miange1]

THANOS

male reader, thanos being pushy, bathroom sex, i'm a heavy believer thanos loves rough sex, aphrodisiacs, reader pretends he feels nothing for thanos, reader is a Korean speaker yet race is not mentioned, italics means switching to english, homesickness, anal fingering, being forced to stay quiet, thanos has a big dick and you cant prove me wrong, im 100% sure he's experienced in every kind of sex possible, brian moser typa freak, reader isn't a virgin he just hasn't had say gex

"Ah! You're alive!" He smiled, coming to hug you tight in his arms. He took small note of how you looked at him, how happy he was even after many people had died, there was no reason to be happy.

Yet to him, there was. He was seeing you, and he was head over heels just for you. He would pull multiple things just to make sure you wouldn't be hurt in the slightest, whether it meant keeping you close to him, or having others die just to keep you by his side.

Scoffing, you shoved yourself off of him and squinted your eyes towards him. "Don't touch me. You're weird." His voice turned whiney as he did the exact opposite, throwing his body into your shoulders and hanging off of you. "Come on, this ain't primary school is it? I don't have any cooties." He shook you slightly noticing that you laughed, he swore he heard it but you shook your head and frowned— claiming you did nothing of that sort.

"He has no interest in you." Nam-gyu came up behind him, patting his arm. Thanos shook his head, "No, he does. He just doesn't know it yet." Nam-gyu gave him a weird look, looking back over at you and watching as your expression changed when you went to your own group of choice. "See that? He didn't smile at you." Thanos planted his palm on the brunettes face, ignoring him and shoving him off.

"Oh— dude!"

"Shut up." Thanos kept his eyes on you, but his words directed towards his friend. "I can tell when someone is playing hard to get, it's easy." Nam-gyu shrugged, "I can't tell."

"Well of course you can't." Nam-gyu made a noise of offense. What was that supposed to mean?

Night fell, and everyone just wanted to sleep. Needed a break, especially you. It was pathetic to you, your stomach hurt and you felt like crying every single second. You missed your mom, and you just wanted to go home. You wanted to eat at the dinner table with her again, you wanted to mess around again, and feel happy. But now you were here just because you thought this was a quick way to get money.

"Fucking scam.." you muttered, getting from your mattress to head off to the bathroom. It was quiet, the floors squeaky underneath the unbranded shoes you wore on your feet. This whole situation was unsettling.

You took a moment, splashing a bit of water on your face to clear your head.

Multiple thoughts that ran through your head had been interrupted by the door opening. "I'll be out in a minute.." thinking it was a guard, you wiped your face and got ready to leave.

"Leave? I just got here."

Oh, thanos could just hear your eyes roll before he even saw you. "Why the long face, hm?" His purple hair blurred passed you as he leaned on the sink, grabbing your hand to pull you closer to him. When you didn't pull away, he already knew he had you.

"It's none of your business." He looked up a bit, shrugging. "Good point. But I don't like that answer." God he was annoying.

A harsh breath pushed from your nostrils, taking a moment to think about what to say. You thought, and you thought, but then you thought too hard and your lip started to quiver slightly. Eyes getting watery, trying to get something out but it was silent and Thanos didn't expect this from you.

He himself stuttered a bit before he took into action, feeling your hand pull away slightly he tightened his grip and pulled you closer. The usual smug look was much more caring and considerate truly wanting to hear you out. "I'm sorry I just.." more broken sobs came out.

"I'm sick..sick, of this. I want to go home, Thanos I want to go home." From a few inches away, to hugging yourself into his chest he allowed himself to have his arms around you.

A slight smile tugged at the edge of his lips, it's not that he was going to fake comfort you because he really did feel sorry. It's just that this was his chance.

He stopped hugging you for a moment, opening his necklace, taking out an orange pill and offering it to you. "It's something that will make you feel better." He mumbled a small, "I promise." After seeing your suspicious face.

You grabbed it, observing it a bit. "Thanos. Is this a sex drug?" He eyes averted a bit, lips going into a thin line. Your face had pure disbelief, but you popped it anyways. Before he could even smile, your lips connected with his and you backed him into the stall of the pink doors.

The two of you were already hard, grinding on each other and practically swapping spit. His hands were kept on your hips, making sure you stuck to him like glue and didn't part from him.

"Oh fuck.." your voice, God he loved your voice and he needed to hear more of it. His lips came to your neck, open mouthed and sloppy and making sure marks were left for others to see that he finally had you.

Your fingers went to his hair, gripping them due to the pleasure he was bringing you. Damn he was good even if he was just dry humping you and sucking your neck. It made you think how many times he must have had sex before this as well, making you feel just a bit jealous.

You gripped tighter, pulling his head back so he could look you in your eyes. You shivered a bit feeling saliva drip down to your collar bone. Gross. "Fuck anyone after this, and I'll kill you myself." He giggled like an idiot, nodding his head. "Yes sir."

His tongue came to suck on his own fingers for a bit, while his other hand worked on pushing your pants and boxers down. "This gonna feel weird, just give it a minute." His joking tone dropped, giving you a bit of a feeling in your dick. He sounded like he wasn't high 24/7 though the two of you were high off of an aphrodisiac. It was just attractive.

His fingers prodded for a moment, before pushing in and you had instantly yelped. He pushed your head into his shoulder, shushing you. "It isn't that I care." He spoke softly into your ear, "But it would bother you if someone heard, hm?" His painted fingers moved inside of you, thrusting in and out and he knew exactly what he was doing and it had you crumbling right then and there, you were sure he was holding half your body weight up.

"Thanos, Thanos, fuck.." He himself had groaned, his own eyes rolling back hearing you moan out just for him. His fingers pulled out, making sure you kept still. "Don't move too much." Your eyebrow cocked a bit, what did he mean? He took out his own, tip red and sensitive as he messaged it up and down just a bit.

But you, your eyes were wide with surprise and almost regret. "No." He looked back up at you, "No?" But he needed a yes.. "No. No way is that gonna fit." Oh, that was it. He almost thought you were gonna leave him like this. "Oh, but please." He put your chin up, kissing at your neck again to keep you distracted.

"It's only gonna sting a little..tiny.." He pushed inside, too eager to wait it out and go inch by inch. You winced, hitting his shoulder as even more tears pricked at your eyes yet they were tears of pleasure.

"Shush, hey hey, stop moving." You whined and complained. What did he mean stop moving? This fucking hurt! But he only had so much time to prep you up.

"Slow, go slow—" "I am going slow." The feeling of his girth stretching you open was pain you never felt before, yet it felt so good at the same time. Groans turned into moans and whimpers, your harsh grip turning into soft squeezes on his clothes from each thrust he was giving you.

"Shit..so tight.." As much as he had wanted you to moan loud for him, you were getting a bit too loud yet you couldn't help it. He kept you preoccupied by kissing you, muffling your noises down just a little bit.

He was so damn close, could feel your pre on open skin and could feel himself pulsing inside of you, he was so close—

"Player 230, and 231."

[kekewrites]

Tw. Insecure/bratty/tsundere reader, dark content, noncon, dubcon, obsession, sloppy blowjob, attempted breakup, manipulation, size kink, overstimulation, multiple creampies, cunningless, baby trapping, coercion, aftercare

***

Thinking about dating an angelic guy.

You always wonder why, out of all the pretty and influential girls chasing after him, he chose you. It doesn't help how of a unit he is. Your typical perfect guy, popular, rich, and body that's comparable to a Greek God... and his voice— how you love his gentle and warm voice, there's just something about it that hypnotize you.

He always compliments you, shower you with affection, and be an absolute sweetheart. It gets you pissy. You don't know why you're always in a foul mood around him, he's not even doing anything that could trigger you. He takes a breath and you're already fuming. Grumbling profanities that he would laugh at wholeheartedly, like you didn't curse his entire being.

You hate how perfect he is. Hate how much you adore him. Hate how much you love him, and inside your mind you always question if he genuinely loves you. Maybe he's just playing with you? Waiting for the day he'd humiliate you, telling how you're too idiotic to even believe someone like him could ever love you.

That's probably why you're always cautious around him, you don't believe him enough to love an average girl like you.

***

He can't believe he's dating the cutest in the world. Everytime you scowl, show that adorable pout, he just wants to squish your cheeks together and kiss you plenty. Like a little kitty hissing when you sneer curses at him.

It's adorable really.

You'd say you didn't want to go to the movies he chose. Yet, you arrived earlier than expected, wearing a hint of makeup in that cute dress of yours. Makes him want to crush you. You put in the effort, took the time, even gave him the watch he'd been talking about—his favorite.

He really loves you. Really really loves you but why are you acting like he doesn't? He's confused. Hasn't he done enough to show you, tell how much he adores you? It makes him sad. Don't you know how much he's holding back? There's only so much he could take, you know. He could just take you everytime you run that cute foul mouth of you, shove his cock to make you shut up. But he's so patient with you because he loves you.

So don't push him too much, ok? Or else you might not like it when he finally show you his desire.

***

"You're late," you grumble, sending him a glare. Your arms are crossed, and your foot taps impatiently on the ground.

He chuckles, a soft, knowing smile playing on his lips. "I arrived just on time, sweetie," he says, stepping closer. "You're just too excited for our date, no?" His voice is teasing, but his eyes are warm, sparkling with affection.

You huff in response, but you can feel the corners of your mouth betraying you, tugging into a smile. He notices and takes your hand, his thumb brushing lightly over your knuckles.

"You're just so cute, you know? I really wanna crush— ow!" He hiss slightly as you swat his arm. He pouts a little, "You're strong, you're gonna leave a bruise."

You roll your eyes— as if that's gonna happen. Huffing you tug on his hand, "Let's go. I'm starving."

He smiles, looking at your back, "Ok, sweetie~."

Ah, you really are so cute.

He can't wait to fuck you.

***

"Why're you not eating, sweetie? Is the food not to your liking?"

Your appetite was gone the moment that waitress flirted with him, leaving you empty and bitter. This always happen. You're sick of it, sick of being jealous and feeling shitty for not looking like his girlfriend. Are you really worthless by his side? Do people not see you as his companion?

"Sweetie?"

You didn't want to lash out on him so you remained silent. Too bitter to talk. Even the food turned bitter, leaving you more upset.

He's such an idiot. But you're more of an idiot for being triggered by that stupid waitress, too much of a wuss to tell her he's taken, that he's yours. You're the idiot.

"I don't wanna eat anymore," you bitterly muttered, your face covered by the shadows of your hair, hiding that frown you wore he always seems to love on you.

He gets a sick twisted feeling in his guts, watching how jealous you get whenever some worthless wench tries to get his attention. It satisfies his urge, his sick thoughts hidden by his angelic face. You really love him, don't you? His lips curving into a sweet smile, eyes twinkling with desires. If only you know how much he gets off with you being jealous, you'd never doubted your pretty little self.

So… why are you saying such stupid things?

“Let’s break up.”

“Hm?”

“I said…” You take a breath, steadying your voice. “Let’s break up.”

For a moment, his smile wavers. Just a fraction. His right eye twitches ever so slightly, a crack in the carefully crafted mask he wears. But then, like a master of illusions, he recovers, his sweet facade sliding back into place, though something darker lingers beneath the surface.

“Now, now,” he says, his voice dripping with a saccharine softness that makes the hairs on your neck stand on end. “What’s the matter?” His tone is gentle, almost soothing, but there’s a sharp edge to it—a venomous undercurrent that cuts through the air.

You don’t answer immediately, your chest tightening under his unblinking stare. It’s as if he’s waiting, watching every little twitch of your expression, trying to peel you apart without lifting a finger.

“I just think…” you start, your voice faltering as his head tilts slightly, his smile remaining unnervingly intact. “I-I think we’re not… good for each other anymore.”

His smile widens, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. Instead, his gaze sharpens, a predator sizing up its prey. He takes a step closer, the air between you growing heavy. “Not good for each other?” he repeats, feigning confusion. “Sweetheart, where’s this nonsense coming from? Didn’t we promise forever?”

The sweetness in his tone sends a chill down your spine, but you hold your ground. “Forever shouldn’t feel like this,” you say, trying to steady your trembling hands.

It shouldn't make you feel bad about yourself, shouldn't make you anxious, shouldn't make feel... pressured.

For a moment, he says nothing, his eyes boring into yours. Then, his chuckle breaks the tension, soft and low. “Ah, I see,” he murmurs, leaning in just enough for you to feel the weight of his presence. “You’re upset. That’s all. We’ll talk this through, won’t we?”

But his words aren’t a question—they’re a command, wrapped in the guise of concern. And as his smile lingers, you realize leaving might not be as simple as you hoped.

***

Why is this happening?

You thought he would accept and move on.

"Mmm, that's it sweetie. Take it deeper." He coaxes, his grip on your hair tightening. He starts to push forward, forcing more of his thick length past your stretched lips.

So why?

Your eyes squeeze shut tighter as he pushes in deeper, your throat convulsing around his invading cock. He throws his head back with a guttural moan.

"That's a good girl. Mhm, your throat feels so good wrapped around my dick." He grunts, starting to set a steady pace. Fucking into your mouth, using your face like a cock sleeve.

It was gross. He never did that to you.

Lewd, wet sounds fill the office as he picks up speed, his heavy balls slapping against your chin with each rough thrust. Drool escapes the seal of your lips, dripping down your chin and onto your messed up clothes.

He looks down, taking in the debauched sight of you on your knees, choking on his cock. His dick is spit-shined and glistening, streaked with their drool. Shit. The sight makes him thrust harder, faster, chasing his pleasure.

"Look at me," He demands breathlessly, wanting to see the tears and desperation in their eyes as he uses their mouth ruthlessly. He's close, so fucking close already from the intense, vice-like grip of your inexperienced throat. He grunts and curses, slamming forward one last time before pulling out abruptly.

Thick ropes of cum paint your face and hair, marking you as his. Some of it even lands in your eyes, making them sting and water.

"You're so pretty... You look so pretty covered in my cum," he whispers lovingly, smearing the head of his cock across your messy face, pushing the hot seed into their skin like makeup. "The prettiest girl in the world."

You were supposed to break up with him...

How did it escalated to this?

***

It's not like he's losing a lot... you aren't that special. So why is he acting this way? There are a lot of better options for him, prettier, smarter, and richer girls. Someone who can actually match him, who doesn't embarrass him, worthier to stand beside him.

Why is he fucking you like his life depends on it?

Your eyes already hazy and unfocused, breathing hard as you couldn't count how many times you've already come.

One of his hands snakes up your trembling body, finding a soft breast. He squeezes the supple mound roughly, fingers sinking into the pliant flesh as he kneads and gropes. He finds a pert nipple and pinches it cruelly between his thumb and forefinger, rolling and tugging until it stands stiff and aching in the cool air of the room.

"Hm? Are you already tired? We're just starting," he coo, his hips slamming forward with renewed vigor. He leans down, his mouth finding your neck, sharp teeth sinking into the tender skin. He bites and sucks, determined to leave his mark on you, to claim you as his own. His. He can feel his orgasm building, his heavy balls tightening as he ruts into your abused cunt. The wet, obscene sounds of your coupling fill the room, punctuated by the creaking of the bed and your cries. He's close, so fucking close to filling your cunt with his seed.

"Gonna... hngh... fill this pussy..." He grunts between clenched teeth, slamming home one last time. His cock throbs and pulses as he starts to come, thick ropes of hot cum painting your inner walls. He grinds against them, making sure they take every last drop as he marks your womb with his essence.

Finally, with a last shuddering groan, he collapses on top of you, his softening cock still buried deep inside your tender, cream-filled pussy. He pants harshly against the shell of their ear, his hands still groping and fondling your sensitive body.

"Y-You're an idiot..." You sniffle, "Why me? There's a lot of—."

He cuts you off, "You know, I would never cheat on you, right?" He whispers tenderly, kissing your ears as if assuring. "No matter who comes to me, I would never pay attention to them. Never. You're the only one I want." His other hand comes up to grip your chin, forcing you to meet his intense, burning gaze.

It was the first time you ever heard his voice to be so... vulnerable.

"The only girl I want... So..." You can hear his voice shake, "Don't break up with me, ok?"

Your eyes glaze with tears, your heart tugging at his words. No, it wasn't supposed to end up like this. You made up your mind a few weeks ago, always nagging at the back of your mind. Ending your relationship would be the best for you two—.

He kisses you then, any doubts in your mind disappearing as his mouth claiming theirs in a brutal, dominating kiss. His tongue pushes past your lips, plundering the warm cavern as he grinds his hips forward, rubbing his throbbing erection against your thigh.

Ah, you don't care anymore.

"Don't think anymore, ok? Just let me do it for you."

He starts to rub the broad head of his cock along your slit, coating himself in your combined juices. "Tell you what, sweetheart. I'll be gentle like the usual... for now." He promises darkly, his voice rough with restrained lust. "I'll make this first part nice and slow, nice and easy for you."

"H-Huh?"

With that, he starts to push forward, the thick length of his cock slowly sinking into your tight, clutching heat. He has to fight the urge to slam forward, to bury himself to the hilt in one brutal thrust. But he resists, forcing himself to go slowly, to savor the exquisite feeling of your walls stretching around him.

"Ah, you're still so tight." He grits out through clenched teeth, his fingers flexing against your hips as he fights for control. "Such a perfect cunt."

"Too soon! I'm still... s-sensitive!" You cried out but he starts to move then, his hips rocking in a slow, sensual rhythm as he fucks into you with deep, deliberate strokes. Each thrust pushes him a little deeper, a little harder, until he's finally buried to the hilt inside you. He pauses for a moment, letting you feel the heavy weight of him, the way he's stretching you impossibly full.

"Hehe, sorry can't help it. Does that feel gentle enough for you, sweetie?" He asks, a small smirk playing at the corners of his mouth, yet his angelic face covers it. "Or do you need me to be even more... careful?" He punctuates the word with a sharp thrust of his hips, grinding his pelvis against your clit.

Your brain short circuit by the overstimulation, all you could think about was him, and his big cock, "A-Ah, you— ish... so good~!"

He snarls in feral pleasure as he feels your pussy clench and ripple around his pistoning cock. The way you are moaning and crying out, begging him not to stop... it's the headiest fucking thing he's ever heard. It makes him want to ruin you, to fuck you so hard and so deep that you'll never forget the feeling of his cock splitting you open.

You came in surprise, your eyes rolling in the back of your head, chest heaving, "C-Can't too much..!"

"You can do it," He growls, his voice a dark, distorted rumble. He can feel his own release building, his balls drawing up tight as he fucks into you with wild abandon, "A-ah~ clench this greedy cunt around my dick, dollface. Milk it for all it's worth.

You never saw this side of him before, a more vulgar side to him. Spouting dirty words that's the opposite of his facade. Maybe, you didn't know your boyfriend that well? He was always gentleman to you in bed, always going with your pace and being mindful about his words but now...

"N-No~ I really ah! Can't!" You shake your head frantically, having enough of the sensitivity.

"Yes, you can! You will, sweetie~!"

He buries his face in the crook of her neck, biting and sucking at the sensitive skin as he chases his pleasure. He wants to mark you, to leave his claim all over your body for everyone to see. He wants the whole world to know that you belong to him, that you're his to fuck and fill and love as he sees fit. The thought of another man putting his hand on you makes him mad, you're only his and he isn't afraid to take that way for you to be officially his.

"I'm gonna cum, sweetie." He grits out, his hips slamming forward with sharp, brutal thrusts. "I'm gonna pump this tight little pussy full of my seed, gonna breed this fucking cunt until it's dripping with my cum."

Breed?

He reaches down, his fingers finding your clit and rubbing mercilessly at the sensitive bundle of nerves. "I want to feel you cum on my cock, sweetheart. I want to feel you shake and quake as I fill you with my my child."

Wait...!

His other hand slides up, wrapping around your throat and squeezing lightly. It's enough to make you gasp for air, pulse jumping wildly beneath his touch. It's enough to make you even tighter, body instinctively clenching down around him as he fucks into you with short, vicious thrusts.

Too much!

"Now, sweetie~ cum. Now." He commands, his voice a dark and sinful. And with a final, brutal thrust, he buries himself balls deep inside her and starts to cum. His cock jerks and pulses as he paints your insides with thick ropes of his hot seed, filling you up just like he promised.

So full...

You gasp out, your skin flushed and damp with sweat. The room spins around you, his weight pressing you down into the mattress as you struggle to catch your breath. Body aches all over, especially between your legs. The feeling of his cum painting your insides is strange, unsettling.

Your vision having black spots, your consciousness fading as you hear him murmur promises to you.

"I'll take responsibility whether we have a child or not, we'll get married and have a cute child."

You feel a warm kiss on your forehead.

"I love you. I love you more than anyone else, I only love you."

[arabellasleopardcoat]

Autumn (Cregan Stark x Reader)

Summary: As a Princess, you aren’t used to rejection. But Cregan, your husband, has vowed to only ever love one woman, and it isn't you. Right?

Warnings: Unreliable narrator!!!! Mature language. Descriptions of grief.

A/N: I was not expecting the response my silly little idea has gotten. I am very thankful for all of you who decide to read it, and would love to hear what you think of this chapter. Series masterlist here.

YOU CRUMPLE THE letter in your fist, hearing the parchment wrinkle with a satisfying sound. Then, you throw it into the flames, watching as the fire grows slightly bigger, and the ball uncurls, alight for a second, before it is fully consumed.

It doesn’t soothe you as you thought it would. The odious parchment offering you an honor guard from your future husband might be gone, but you still have to journey North before a moon since Luke’s funeral has passed.

At the thought of your brother, a sharp, stabbing pain, manifests in your chest. You choke down a sob. You had not realized you had started to measure time like this. Before and After Luke’s death, as people did with Before and After the Conquest.

Your grief only serves to fuel your rage, though. How could he? How could he demand you be wed when you were still in mourning? When you were still thinking of your sweet brother, not of keeps, and lords, and men?

“You dare!” You screech, barging inside Jacaerys’ rooms. Whatever he is doing, hunched over his desk, is interrupted. “You cannot do this to me! Mother will not allow it.”

Jace sets down his quill. He turns to look at you, his expression calm. You would think him indifferent, were it not for the fact that there is the slightest furrow of his brows.

“We need men.” He states, simply, and when you are about to interrupt him to say there are many more in the realm, he keeps speaking. “We need his men. The North is the largest kingdom, you know this as well as I. And when a Stark calls the banners, they are the only ones who respond in full.”

Your hands ball into fists. You hate that he is acting so composed, so rational. After Luke died, you felt like a chained dragon, roaring your grief and wishing to be freed to set ablaze those that had wronged you. Once, you had been as gracious as him and mother, composed even in the height of emotion. But grief has made you into live lighting, ready to strike at the slightest provocation.

Your emotions are out of control. You know this. You get angered at the barest hint of an insult, you cry as easily as a newborn babe. Knowing it doesn’t stop you from lashing out, though. It only makes you regret it later.

“Our mother promised I was to have my pick of suitors, not that I would be sold like a cow!” You point an accusing finger to his chest. Jace sighs and gets up, surrounding the desk.

“I understand you are upset.” He tries offering you a hug, but you jerk away. His face hardens slightly. “But this is war.”

As if you do not know. As if you haven’t lost a sibling, too. Your face crumbles, and Jace calls your name, but hearing his voice, how similar Luke and him sound, only makes you cry harder.

“Hey, hey, it’s not so bad.” He hugs you, pressing your face against his doublet. The material is soft against your skin, and you feel tempted to let go of your rage against him and sink into his arms. Jace is barely a man, too, just as you are barely a woman. He is doing as best as he can, spread too thin by the weight of responsibility that comes with being heir. “Cregan is a good man. I got to know him during the time…”

Yes, he was doing as best as he could. But it hadn’t been his own hand that he had bartered away, had it? The insidious voice in your head asks. It isn’t him who is making a sacrifice. And such a hollow one. He claims to need men, but he won’t be getting even the full northern army.

“You sold me for a few Greybeards! Not even a proper army! Good Gods, you are a fool.” You cry out.

“Lord Stark assures me…” Jace starts, with the tone of someone who has already had this same argument. Were you thinking clearly, you would pause and realize why. Instead...

“He has put a wife in the grave already.” It is the only thing you know about him. Not much is whispered about Cregan Stark, at least, nothing concerning. You would remember it. The only thing that you know, though, is that he is a Stark and his wife is dead.

“You make it sound as if he killed her himself with his bare hands.” Jace scoffs. “I assure you, he dearly loved Arra Norrey and would have never harmed her. You know the dangers of childbirth. Perhaps even better than I.”

Perfect. He hadn’t killed the damn woman, he was just still in love with her. By the Seven, Jace was a fool. You hated being second in anything. Here, at home, you were already second to Jace, and you resented it. Being a twin meant having to share everything, including the love of those around you.

When you married, you had hoped to be the only woman in your husband’s life, not to be compared to a ghost. You had seen exactly how that went. King Viserys had never forgotten his first wife, calling for her years after her death, even as Alicent was the one to nurse him during his illness.

“He is still a widower.” You repeat, stubbornly.

Jace pinches the bride of his nose, before letting out a deep exhale. His next words are spoken extremely slowly, as if talking to a child. It makes you bristle.

“You said you were afraid of childbirth, and he already has an heir. There is no better solution.”

It would be thoughtful, were it not for the fact that:

“His first wife died in childbirth!”

As Jace prepares a scathing comeback, face scrunched up in mirrored displeasure to your own, the voice of your mother startles you both.

“What is going on here?” She asks, mouth pursed in an expression identical to Jace. The Queen looks as regal as ever, and it only serves to make you feel a tad embarrassed. With wild hair and eyes, face flushed from rage, you are sure that next to her, you must look like a wilding. “Why can the whole castle hear your quarrel?”

“It’s his fault.” You accuse, pointing at Jace.

“My fault?!” He says, placing his hands on his hips. “Apologies, I think they didn’t hear your screeching about Lord Stark in Driftmark!”

“So you informed her?” Your mother asks, calmly. Too calmly for someone who has just found out. Had it been her plan all along?

“Did you knew all along?” You whisper.

Rhaenyra turns to look at you. As always, your mother has a smile ready for you, but as of late, they are laced with sadness. This one is no exception.

“I did. I think it is for the best. You will be safer next to Cregan Stark, in Winterfell, than you could ever be here.”

You examine her expression. Her eyes are swollen and red rimmed, grief clouding her regal face. There is a certain determination in her features, a calm acceptance in her eyes, that tells you that her mind is already made.

Her face is not one of a distraught mother who will soon give her daughter away. You know her too well to mistake it for that.

“You hoped for this.” You keep your voice dangerously low, your anger threatening to bubble up in your throat. “You did because I have no dragon. I bet you are scheming to send Rhaena away too!”

Your mother doesn’t answer.

Her silence is damming. You turn to look at Jace, disbelieving. Of course the two of them had been scheming behind your back. Your brother had always been the closest one to your mother.

“And neither of you could tell me to my face?” You ask, letting out a hysterical laugh. “I had to find out from a letter from fucking Cregan Stark. I am not leaving. You cannot make me. ”

Suddenly, your mother grabs you by the shoulders. Her face is frightening, like an avenging goddess of Old Valyria. Her lips are curled back, teeth bared, and her eyes are as wild as yours.

“Listen to me!” She says, shaking you hard. Tears begin to fall from her eyes, but she doesn’t seem to register them. “Listen to me! Luke is dead. He is dead, and you will obey me because I cannot bear to lose any more of my children. You are going North. Your Queen commands it.”

She turns on her heel and leaves, leaving you standing on still shaking legs.

CREGAN HAD BEEN lingering near the entrance of Winterfell ever since his men had spotted the Queen’s banner on the horizon. Back then, they had expected the party to arrive in half a day. He didn’t care if he appeared too eager, his usual stoicism was failing him in the face of his nerves.

The first time Cregan had married, he had known the bride for a long time. Arra had been his childhood companion, and they had spent many moons together, playing Come-into-my-castle and Bears-and-maids. Cregan had unfortunately been the maid many more times than he preferred.

He had not feared marriage then. Spending forever chained to another person wouldn’t be so bad if that person was Arra.

Now, he did. Cregan had been content on his own, and had no desire to remarry. Even if he had, a southron princess wouldn’t have been his first choice. Though Prince Jacaerys had been honorable and dutiful, he was still naive. They were nearly of an age, but when Cregan had stood next to him, he had felt as old as his Greybeards.

A naive little princess would never survive in the North. His lords would eat her alive. The Lady of Winterfell couldn’t be some frail little thing, she had to be strong. Strong enough to hold Winterfell in his absence if needed, were the threat from beyond the Wall come to pass.

Arra had been the only woman he had thought of marrying because she had been the only woman he had thought fit to the task. She had been of the North, as he was, and it had helped him envision a future together where they ruled over the very same land that had birthed both of them.

It was only adequate that the Lady of Winterfell was a woman of the North. Southron Princesses, especially those who had been groomed to marry inside the family, could be of little help running a keep. If he had to remarry and choose a southron, Cregan would have preferred a stronger one.

Yet if wishes were dragons, beggars would soar through the skies. Prince Jacaerys had seemed a bit insulted at his offer of Greybeards, but with winter coming, it was all Cregan could spare. He was no stranger to political games, though, and knew he had to smooth down the feathers his offer had ruffled.

Hence, the offer. To receive the toothless dragon in his home and keep it safe. A favor, from an older brother to another. The Gods knew if Sara was near war at all, Cregan would do everything in his power to send her somewhere safe. He would be forever indebted to the man who aided him to do so.

And Prince Jacaerys, showing himself to be the dutiful prince and brother he was, had understood the offer for what it was. A true alliance. A Pact of Ice and Fire, to bound their bloodlines and keep the beloved, but defenseless sister safe.

It had impressed Cregan. Jacaerys was a serious man, no matter his dubious parentage. He could picture himself following him. After all, his Targaryen blood and character were the important part. That was what made him a worthy King.

Without a dragon of your own, your journey had been perilous. He knew you had ridden without banners until you had safely arrived into northern territory, a feat that had taken you a whole moon. Cregan had offered to have his men meet you halfway, but his letter doing so had gone unanswered. It had only prompted new anxieties for him.

What if he failed to fulfill his promise because you were abducted or harmed in the journey? What if the people riding with Black banners weren’t truly your honor guard, but an ambush prepared by the enemy?

Cregan doubted he would be at ease until he saw you emerge out of your wheelhouse, whole and unscathed. Hence, his waiting by the door. He would not be nervous a moment longer than he needed to.

The first thing Cregan saw was that your honor guard was smaller than he expected. He had known you would travel with a sparse escort, as to not attract undue attention. It was a miracle you had made it here with only ten guards, though. The wheelhouse and the men carried so many packages that Cregan would have known you were a Princess even without expecting you. Anyone would have known.

In contrast, the woman who stepped out of the wheelhouse wasn’t miraculous nor was she what Cregan envisioned when thinking of a Princess.

You were… Pitiful. Cregan understood now why Prince Jacaerys was so desperate to protect you. You wouldn’t survive a winter in the North, hells, it looked like a strong breeze would blow you away.

Your hair and eyes were as dark as the ones of your brother. You wore a pretty wool dress, in mourning black. The lacings on the back were done too tightly, a lot of the ribbon hanging limply, and the dress was loose around your chest and hips. It was clear you had recently lost weight, probably during the journey because the gown hadn’t been altered to fit you.

There were dark circles under your eyes, which were also red rimmed. Your skin was pale, your dark hair braided back in a severe style. Grief didn’t suit you. You looked small and sad, despite having a pleasing figure.

It didn’t help that the dress you had chosen was one far too thin for a sensible northern woman to wear. The day wasn’t even that cold, but you were already shivering. It was barely snowing, for the Gods’s sake!

Cregan approached you and gave you a bow.

“Princess.” He extended his arm to you. You took it, shivering. “I trust your journey was pleasant?”

“Pleasant enough.” At least your voice isn’t frail. The last thing Cregan needed was a soft-spoken southron lady. You even manage to smile at him, which makes you look considerably more attractive.

Cregan would admit one thing, and one thing only: Queen Rhaenyra made pretty children. Both you and Jacaerys had sinful mouths and bewitching dark eyes, though he found yours far more pleasing.

“I am sorry for your loss.” He says, as he escorts you inside Winterfell. Your trembling intensifies, instead of subsiding in the warmth of his hall. You say nothing.

When he risks a glance at your face, your eyes are suspiciously wet. You avoid meeting his eyes, even as he offers you the customary salt and bread.

“I remember when Arra got here.” Cregan offers, awkwardly. He isn’t quite sure of what to say to a grieving Princess, so he decides to share something about himself in hopes that you will open up too. He desperately needs to change the subject. Or to start a subject. He is not picky, anything that keeps you from crying will do. “She brought less of a procession than you did. And less luggage.”

“She was quite closer to home than I.” You reply, and your tone has regained strength. You no longer shake, body stiffer. Cregan decides to take it as a good sign. You are clearly struggling to get a hold of yourself, which is why you turn so tense, so he decides to keep speaking to give you some more time.

“She was. By far a more practical woman.” He smiles at you, teasingly. “But if the fuss makes you happy…”

You laugh. When he gets to know you better, Cregan will realize that your laughter wasn’t genuine.

He will also realize this had been the moment your heart iced over.

YOU PAGE THROUGH your book, in silence. Winterfell doesn’t have court musicians, and for that, you are thankful. Silence has always been your preferred companion right before bed. That, and a good book.

Your obsession with Valyrian history and traditions had been carefully nurtured by your stepfather, Daemon. Neither your mother nor siblings had much interest in your shared heritage, beyond the ability it gave them to ride dragons.

While Baela and Rhaena spoke fluid High Valyrian, the same could not be said for your brothers. As the only girl in the household, your lessons had been spent with the former and not the latter, forcing you to improve. Once you did, you had found reading the tales of old was a pleasant pastime.

You enjoyed laying in bed and imagining all the stories about magic, dragons, and empresses. When you had turned four and ten, Daemon had gifted you your very own book with Valyrian tales, a beautifully bound and illustrated edition that had followed you in your journey North.

“For you to read to your future children.” He had said, back then. You had barely flowered, so you had laughed. “I mean it, Princess. Out of my three girls, you are the only one I envision doing so.”

The day he had acknowledged you as one of his daughters, even if you didn’t share blood, was the happiest nameday you had had. He was right, too. As much as you loved the twins, you couldn’t picture them being motherly. Baela would have to have a son, to inherit after Jace, but you believed that it would be him who took charge of the more fatherly duties while she dedicated herself to statecraft. Rhaena, instead, had a thirst for adventure, to travel and know the world. Her ambition wasn’t conducive to motherhood either.

You, instead, had always dreamed of marrying a man who loved you and starting a family of your own. You envisioned yourself as the lady of a great keep, where you would rule fairly, and raise your children without wet nurses.

Those dreams had already been shattered. The man you had married didn’t love you. He had only done so to secure an alliance. And the man already had a child of his own, an heir. There was no need for you to be a mother anymore.

You turned another page of your book, watching the beautiful illustrations. You had dreamed of reading this to a little girl who looked like you, or perhaps a boy that would have looked like the man of your dreams. They would have learned High Valyrian, and spoke it as beautifully as your mother and stepfather did.

It would not come to pass. Not any longer.

A soft knock on your door makes you set down your book, closing it with great care. Then, you get up and put on your robe over your sleeping shift.

“You may enter.”

Your husband steps in, dressed for bed already. He is a handsome man, you think, biting your lower lip. Tall, dark and handsome, Cregan is the sort of man your childhood self would have pictured marrying.

He could have been the perfect man to fall in love with, were it not for the fact that he would never love you back. He already loved someone else, someone who you could never aspire to match. His first wife, Lady Arra.

As Alicent had learned, it was impossible to overshadow a ghost. Dead as she was, she could never make mistakes. He would forget all her imperfections.

She gave him a child, she was the wife he chose. The one he married for love, not duty. A practical, northern woman his bannermen had surely liked far more as a match to him than a soft southron princess who didn’t even have a dragon.

“I was wondering if you would welcome my company tonight, Princess.” Your husband says, voice emotionless. He is only here because of duty, it seems. “We could share the bed.”

“You said we could wait to consummate our union.” You keep your voice firm. It is not a task you anticipate eagerly, but you are not afraid of it either. You had seen enough of your mother and Daemon to know bedding someone can be pleasing. It is only the awkwardness of doing so with a stranger that puts you off.

“I was not referring to that.” Your husband says, taking a seat on the edge of the bed. “The nights are cold in Winterfell. Is it wrong for a man to seek closeness to his wife?”

You frown. His behavior is most puzzling. He intends to share your bed… To sleep? Your mother shared her bed with Daemon, but she also bedded him. It makes no sense to you that he wants to sleep next to you without touching you. Most marriages don’t do that. Much less if they are political matches.

“It is not a sin. But why would you..?” You question, but your Lord Husband is getting up already, huffing. He seems angered that you are unable to understand his message, whatever it might be. He storms off, leaving you confused over his behaviour.

That night, Cregan dreams of running. Of having a snout covered in blood, of jumping into the river, trying to trap a seahorse.

He never manages to. Wolves aren’t meant to hunt seahorses.

[randombush3]

ojalá te amara

alexia putellas x reader

prologue, que te quiero, busco lo de antes, te hacemos falta

summary: you wake up but you're not sure where

words: 2664 (short and sharp i would say)

content warnings: just me feeling bad for what i'm presenting you with

notes: it's being set up for a resolution te lo juro

“You’re watching me.” 

Eyes, that’s what you catch a glimpse of. And it’s obviously Alexia, because who else would be here? 

You feel her look away, but that does nothing to veil the tension she carries around with her, the charge she puts between you whenever you are remotely close. The guitar in your hands feels like it is fizzing – or maybe that is your skin, your fingers familiar, familiar for once, and itching to play it. 

“You haven’t touched it in years,” she replies after careful consideration. “Reminds you of your father.” 

“He never played for me–” 

“You played for him,” she cuts in. You forget that you are not a stranger to her. She does this a lot, finishing sentences and stories and phrases as though she carries an encyclopedia around that details your life. Or as though she loves you, but that is more difficult to come to terms with. “Still, you didn’t want to remember anything about it.” 

“I should be more careful about what I wish for,” you joke. She winces, unashamed of it. 

A command rests on her lips, tickling the tip of her tongue. It’s an unloaded bullet. You shoot yourself. 

“Sit,” you say.

She sits, her movements deliberate, slow enough that you can’t help but track every inch of her as she does. The bedroom suddenly feels smaller, tighter, as if the four walls have leaned in to listen. 

“You’re going to play it.” It isn’t a question. She maps out your actions like they are inevitable, like she is omniscient, like she is your god. 

“Didn’t say that,” you counter, though your voice lacks conviction. Her presence always seems to do this – pulls what little certainty you have left out by the roots leaving you exposed and flustered. It has worsened in the past few days. 

You look down at the guitar, your fingers grazing the strings, and they hum under your touch. Here we are, they say to you. You’re not surprised that you hadn’t wanted to play it before now. You can only remember his favourite songs, the slow slump of his mask, slipping off his face until he resembled a happier man. A man he used to be. 

It’s painful to not remember his death. Being told about it is not the same. 

“Didn’t need to,” she says, leaning back on her palms, posture as composed as her words. But her eyes – God, her eyes – betray her. They dart from your hands to your face, they linger too long on your mouth, dark with something you can’t ignore. Something you haven’t been able to stop seeing ever since you caught it. 

You swallow hard. “You’re good at making people do things they don’t want to do.” 

“Am I making you do anything?” Her voice drops, almost a whisper, but there is a challenge threaded through it. She tilts her head, a lock of hair slipping loose from behind her ear. You watch it fall, noticing its dampness, noticing the faint sheen of her skin that tells you she has just gotten out of the shower. 

She must have come back from training early, yet she looks anything but tired. 

“Always,” you say, finally meeting her gaze. She doesn’t flinch, seemingly unfazed. If anything, her lips curve upwards, not quite a smile, not quite definable, but enough to leave your chest tight. 

“You’re too dramatic,” she murmurs. The charge between you snaps, crackling like static. You realise too late that she has closed the space between you until you can feel her knee brushing against yours. It’s light, accidental maybe, but it sets off a pulse through your entire body. 

“Alexia.” Her name leaves your mouth like a warning, but its direction is unclear. Is it to her, or to yourself? Is it a reminder that this isn’t something she has readily available to her anymore? Or do you simply want to tell her what she is getting herself into? 

Her knee remains against yours, a bridge that is not prepared to cross this river. She doesn’t move, doesn’t pull back, and you are not convinced she will. Not unless you tell her to, and even then, she doesn’t seem like she’d listen.

Alexia is putting a stop to something. Or starting something else. 

“You should stop,” you say, words hollow and frail. 

“Should I?’ Her voice is velvet, teasing at the edges. She shifts slightly, just enough for her knee to press more firmly into yours. It’s deliberate. She’s deliberate. Every move she makes is calculated, intentional, and that knowledge burns through, bright and undeniable.

“You think you’re clever,” you murmur, hand tightening around the neck of the guitar, fingers moulding into the fretboard. The strings groan quietly under the pressure, but you barely notice. 

And she says, “no.” She believes her answer. “But you are afraid.” 

That hits like a blow. You blink, grip faltering, but she doesn’t look away. Her gaze is steady, sharp, cutting through the distance that you have maintained. 

“I’m not afraid.” It’s defensive, said too quickly, and you both know it. The ghost of a smirk crosses her lips, but it vanishes as quickly as it came. 

“Then what is it?” she asks, leaning forwards. The proximity is unbearable, intoxicating. Her scent – clean like soap, but faintly metallic, the lingering smell of exertion – wraps around you, making it impossible to think. 

“Wouldn’t you like to know.” Your resort to such a childish retort is an opening. An opportunity. 

“No,” she says, tone measured, blunt. “What I’d like to know is why you won’t fuck me like I am still yours.” 

This is a battle you will not lose, you decide, inhaling sharply. 

“‘Like’?” 

She is searing, and her fire is contagious. You force your eyes to meet. You’re not going to yield. 

“I’m still yours,” she breathes. 

… 

“So you fucked?” Mapi is out of breath, running alongside Alexia as she keeps a furious pace during their laps, motivated only by her yearn for gossip. Strong legs certainly help, but it is not those that spur Alexia on. 

“Nope,” she grits out, speeding up as they turn the final corner, well ahead of the pack behind them. “And I haven’t had an orgasm since September,” she continues, Mapi trailing after her like an old dog who still wants to play, throat dry and chest heaving. 

“How are you sprinting?!” she shouts between gasps as her legs drive her forwards somehow until almost collapsing to a stop. 

Alexia hands her a water bottle, and Mapi takes it with her to the ground. 

“I haven’t had an orgasm for months,” Alexia repeats with a shrug. 

Mapi stares up at Alexia like she’s trying to decipher a code. Her brain, still foggy from the run, tries to plough on, mouth opening and closing a few times, but it takes a few attempts to get the words out. “That explains a lot.” 

Alexia raises an eyebrow, amused despite herself. “Explains what?” 

“Why you’re insufferable lately!” Mapi exclaims, throwing her arms out dramatically. The rest of the team are beginning to fill up their watering hole, but Alexia doesn’t seem to care. Mapi will probably let this slip to Patri anyway, and that will hardly allow her to keep this private. 

“Oh, definitely. And not the fact that my fiancée was in a life-threatening accident and remembers neither me nor our daughter.” Your daughter? Alexia doesn’t feel like correcting herself. 

“No, because she’s alive – you should be relieved.” Mapi bites her lip, “instead you’ve been left to stew in your horniness.” 

“I don’t think she wants to have sex with me!” Alexia whines, outburst still somehow reserved but her grasp on herself slipping just enough for Mapi to truly want to help her out. 

Mapi props herself up on her elbows, sweat dripping down her temple as she processes the conversation. “So you’re telling me she look at you like she wants to eat you alive–” 

Alexia cuts her off with a sharp glare. “Keep it clean, Mapi.” 

“I am keeping it clean! I’m just saying, she looks at you like that, and you still haven’t done anything?” 

Alexia exhales harshly, squeezing her empty water bottle so tightly that it screeches out a burst of air. She remembers yesterday, how you’d seemed intrigued, how she’d pushed. She remembers how it had been working; she had you convinced, had you reassured. She remembers how she’d fucked it up, how she should hae waited for you to kiss her. “It’s not that simple,” she replies. An understatement, really. 

“Isn’t it though?” Mapi stands, brushing grass off her legs. “She’s clearly into you, Ale. You’ve seen it, felt it. So what’s stopping you?” 

“She has to want it,” Alexia says, her voice low but firm. 

“She does,” Mapi insists. “You just said–” 

“No, Mapi,” Alexia interrupts, her tone sharper now. “She has to know she wants it. Has to feel. It can’t just be some reaction she doesn’t understand. It can’t be because she feels drawn to me, or because her body reminds something her mind doesn’t. It has to be her choice. She has to choose me. Otherwise…” Her voice trails off; she is not going to speak these fears aloud.

“And so you’ve told her you could have sex with her, and she’s looked enticed, but you’re not going to do it unless she, what? Jumps you in the middle of your kitchen? What’s your eleven-year-old going to think of that?” Alexia swats her friend’s arm, Mapi instantly regretting her little joke after the reminder of how strong her captain is. “Ow! That’ll bruise, you know.” 

“Don’t mention Amaia,” Alexia warns, not because Mapi is being rude, but rather bringing up her name in a conversation about difficulties fucking her mother seems morally wrong. “We’re trying to become a family again.” 

“And I take it you haven’t informed your fiancée about–” Alexia shuts the conversation off with the decision to end the team’s break and shoo them into the gym where the trainers are expecting them. 

…

You’re bored. Massively so. 

A decade ago, you were up to your ears in essays and books to read, searching for jobs, exploiting your connections as much as you could. You were in a productive state. You were fighting to win, prepared to do whatever it took. 

Now, you’ve been told to relax. You get sick pay. Your associates send you cards, your clients send you hampers. 

You are fucking sick of opening hampers and pretending to care about various artisanal jams. 

It’s nice for them to do that, although you assume it is more to uphold appearances then give you their deepest sympathies, but it is just another mundane task that everyone has conspired to give you in order to keep you distracted from the harsh reality of your situation. You can tell from your home office that you enjoyed your job. There are two desks, one is presumably Alexia’s, but yours, unlike her neutral backdrop for online interviews and video calls, is made for reading, for curling up in your leather desk chair and paging through bundles until every single detail of your case is known. It’s littered with reminders, scrawled on yellow post-its, about possible points and contacts and dates. When you look at it, you are jealous of the life you have built yourself. 

You don’t need to work, as Alexia has told you, trying to be comforting. She makes more than enough and you have your inheritance and savings to ensure financial independence if worst comes to worst. You don’t need to do much of anything, it seems, with staff to help and Eli to care for Amaia (who had been employed as her nanny before you and Alexia had even met). But it’s agitating. Humiliating. 

You don’t want to be a trophy… whatever label your relationship with Alexia deserves. 

“You’re not a trophy wife,” Alexia agrees, her fork prodding at the risotto you’ve made (not from memory), bemused by the conversation topic but not entirely surprised. Amaia is sleeping at a friend's house, playing a match tomorrow that requires her team to be en route earlier than necessary. The girl’s mother, Lucía, seemed conspiratorial when she insisted you allow yourself to rest and that the game will not be anything exceptional, what with them playing a weaker team from a rural town outside the city. With no child to worry or censor for, tonight feels like a very domestic date. 

“I’m not even your wife,” you can’t help but say, gently, humorously, but truthfully. 

Alexia frowns, but it is subtle and not meant to be seen. “Do you want to know about how we got engaged?” she asks, steering the conversation in a far more constructive direction. You can hear your therapist’s approval ringing in your ears. 

You think about it for a moment. The engagement ring was ruined in the accident and you haven’t been presented with its replacement. You’re not even sure what you’d want, though the delicate band on your finger (as seen in pictures) was a choice aligned with your taste. 

“Who did it?” Being eager seems sickening. You’re trying to play it cool, especially after quite possibly being defeated by the incident. 

“You,” she says without missing a beat, clearly still immersed in the moment, still engrossed in the timeline of it. You’re shocked, but maybe that is because in your brain, the last person you remember sleeping with was a man. The idea of women and how to date them has mentally not crossed your mind yet, though you have a family with one. “Rather abruptly, I must say. I really wasn’t expecting it.” You raise your eyebrows, scraping the last of your risotto from your plate. “See, I had planned to propose to you – I had a ring and everything. We’d had a Champions League away game, so it was longer and farther than usual. And you’d be in London for meetings the week before I’d left. We’d barely seen each other.” 

“We weren’t in paradise the entire time?” Your sarcasm is ignored. 

“The distance was making things a bit tense between us,” she continues, “and so I made sure to get a nice restaurant booked, one whose menu wouldn’t be too mature for Amaia.” You’re impressed she planned for Amaia to be there, but you try not to let that show on your face. Instead, you choose a mask of neutrality. “Anyway, we’d just arrived at the airport and I was expecting to get a taxi back home since it was late and, God, that law firm worked you like a dog. But you were there, in Arrivals. You and Amaia. And I just remember being so grateful, so thankful for my family, so relieved to see you guys.” 

You want to comment, but you don’t. Her eyes are shining and you, off all medication now that most of your physical injuries have healed, top up the two glasses of white set in front of you both on the table. 

“You asked me in the car, Amaia asleep in the backseat. I hit my head on the window, I was so shocked. And you’d said it so casually, a simple: let’s get married. Only you would be able to do that!” You laugh. She laughs too. “It was an easy thing to agree to. I still proposed formally at that restaurant, but you insisted you got all the credit.”

She watches as you take a sip of your wine, noticing the lipstick you’re wearing and how it smudges onto the glass. She notices most things about you. She can’t help herself. 

“Alexia,” you sigh, the cool wine doing nothing to ease the tightness of your throat, “I don’t know where to go from here. I don’t know how to make this work.” You take a deep breath. “I’m not sure if I can keep pretending that this is what I want.” 

[457gf]

hwang inho who . . inho x fem!reader

₊˚ʚ warnings : smut, dark content, age gap, naive!reader, manipulation, sexual coercion, dubcon / noncon, slight somnophilia, inho being a creepy old man for you, use of the word 'rαpe'

hwang inho who loves taking advantage of innocent naive girls, practically drooling when he spots you nervously fidgeting with your fingers, eyes squeezed shut as you silently begged for others to vote x. you wanted to go home so bad, but of course inho couldn’t let that happen.

hwang inho who can’t help but throb in those stupid cheap sweatpants when your smile drops even further from the result of him continuing to stay. obviously you didn’t know the real reason he said yes, though thinking of the look of betrayal that would form on your face after he tells you makes his grin that much wider.

hwang inho who approaches you gently, almost as if you’re a porclein doll who could be broken at any moment. you’re understandably weary because of the blue O stuck on his chest for the time being, almost as if a mockery. he’s the one that sealed your fate of staying here, after all. instead of bothering you like you initially thought, he politely invites you to sit with him and a few other people, under the ruse of “you look like you needed a friend.” in actuality, he just wanted to make sure you didn’t stray from his sight.

hwang inho who does everything in his power to get close to you. promising he’ll protect you, stick by you during all of the game, and put your safety well above his own. not like he was in any real danger with the guards on his side, though those words did give him a few brownie points from you for his generosity. it wasn’t really a lie, because he would protect you through all of the games, and he had no doubt about that.

hwang inho who watches you at night, promising to keep lookout for the whole group, though he spends most of his time staring at you. pressing a gentle kiss to your forehead, pushing your hair out of your eyes so he’s able to see your pretty face better. inho can’t help but run his hands over your body, feather light touches across your perky tits and your hips, careful not to wake you up. you’re so god damn beautiful, you could be classified deadlier than the games because of the way you make his heart stop.

hwang inho who quickly pulls his hands away when you start to blink awake, eyes heavy with sleep. he’s a bit embarrassed he let himself be so reckless, but there’s nothing a little lie won’t fix. “oh, you kicked your blanket off so i was making sure you were cozy again.” “you were squirming so i thought you were having a nightmare. are you okay?” “i’m just checking on you, i’m sorry if i scared you.”

hwang inho who runs to the bathroom shortly after, unable to take more of the aching caused by your precious eyes. he’s pressed up against a stall, hand working fast over his thick cock as images of you flood his mind. you’re so cute and naive, he wants nothing more than to break you. you’re so stupid, you believed his little lie, not even questioning any further. and god, the way you called him “mister young-il” in that tired voice of yours before flopping back down, a sigh of relief escaping, made him feel even more perverted. you were so young and truly trusted him to look after you. he couldn’t get the thought of you underneath him, begging him to keep using you like a fleshlight out of his gross head.

hwang inho who can’t decide if he finds the idea of you crying out for him to stop and get off you hotter than you asking for more. definitely the former, he thinks. he wants to rαpe you, to sneak his hands underneath your pants in the middle of the night and play with your sopping cunt, the idea of your own body betraying you and giving into his sick desires and love for you makes his head fall back, roughly hitting the stall door in the process. he couldn’t care, he’s too far gone thinking about you.

hwang inho who can’t help but plot when the best time to take advantage of you will be, finally coming to the conclusion of mingle. the guards take a few minutes to clean up the bodies and some of the blood of each deceased after each round, leaving the players trapped in the locked rooms whilst doing so. all he had to do was wait for two people to be called out, tell the guards to take a little extra time, play your knight in shining armour, then push you against the wall and make you squirm.

[admiringlove]

[22:11] . . .

“shit, fushiguro, what the hell are you doing?”

you freeze, the words spilling out before you can stop them, startled by the sight of him at your window. he’s drenched, rain clinging to him like a second skin, his dark hair plastered to his forehead, beads of water tracing paths down his jaw. his hands are raised in mock surrender, like some guilty criminal caught mid-act. but there’s no malice in his eyes—just exhaustion and something raw, something unspoken that makes your chest ache.

you clutch the swiss knife in your hand, your grip tight and absurd now that you realize it’s him. fushiguro megumi, of all people, standing on your fire escape in the middle of a storm. he’s balancing on the slick metal, a miserable silhouette against the downpour, and you don’t know whether to laugh or yell.

“can you help me up?” he asks, voice flat but edged with something fragile, like he knows he has no right to be here. his fingers curl tighter on the windowsill, knuckles pale in the dim light. “i’m getting soaked.”

you narrow your eyes, refusing to make this easy for him. “you do realize you could’ve knocked on my door like a normal person instead of playing spider-man in a monsoon? you look like a wet cat.”

his lips twitch—almost a smirk, but it doesn’t quite land. “can you help me up or not?” he asks again, sharper this time, his patience eroding as his grip shifts.

you sigh, loud and deliberate, setting the knife down on your bedside table. “i don’t know. i’m still mad at you.”

“oh, for fuck’s sake,” he groans, tilting his head back, rain streaking down his face. “not right now. just help me up, and we can talk.”

your arms cross over your chest, a barrier you refuse to lower. “you were mean,” you say, voice clipped. “i don’t know if i want to talk to you.”

he exhales, slow and heavy, the sound caught somewhere between irritation and resignation. “this is exactly why i didn’t come through the door like a normal person,” he mutters, half to himself.

your brows shoot up, sharp. “what was that?”

“i said,” he repeats, slower this time, each word dripping with sarcasm, “this is exactly why i didn’t come through the door like a normal person.”

“oh, so now you’re blaming me?” you throw your hands up, frustration spilling over. “this is exactly what i mean, megumi. first, you shut everyone out, acting all pissy and brooding like it’s your full-time job. and when someone tries to love you—god forbid—you get all pissy and sarcastic. and then, when you do screw up, instead of apologizing like a human being, you double down and make everything worse. every. single. time.”

his fingers slip slightly, and his grip tightens, his eyes narrowing. “so you’re saying i make you miserable,” he cuts in, voice low and biting, “while i’m hanging onto your window for dear fucking life? i could break, like, seven bones if i fall.”

“you’ll be fine,” you shoot back, waving him off. “your 'big feelings' will catch you.”

“that’s not fair,” he says, his tone skating dangerously close to a whine. “i didn’t mean it, okay? you’re not clingy, and i still love you.”

you stare at him, deadpan, unimpressed. “you say that every time, fushiguro. i’m not falling for it anymore.” a pause, and then you go for the jugular. “even gojo-sensei’s better at this emotional stuff.”

his expression twists, caught between offense and disbelief. “you’re comparing me to that idiot?”

“well, he did raise you. and look how you turned out.” you shrug, arms still crossed, daring him to make it worse.

he huffs, a sharp, humorless laugh breaking from his chest. “does that say more about him or me?”

oh. well, now, he has you stumped. you falter, the words catching in your throat. his response hangs there, heavy with a weight you didn’t expect. rain drums against the fire escape, and in the silence between you, it feels like the air shifts.

you notice, finally, how his shoulders slump under the weight of soaked fabric, how his usual sharpness is dulled into something quieter, something fragile. his hands tremble slightly, and you wonder if it’s from the cold or the effort of holding on. it’s hard to stay angry when he looks like this—half-drowned, half-contrite, wholly vulnerable.

you sigh again, softer this time, and extend your hand. “come inside before you catch pneumonia.”

his lips curve into the faintest smile, a flicker of relief breaking through the storm in his eyes as he reaches for you. the rain keeps falling, relentless and loud, but between you, the storm begins to still.

"and stand still!" you call out, the words sharper than you intend, a half-smile curving on your lips despite yourself. "i don’t want to mop up my entire dorm because of you."

there’s a pause, and megumi doesn’t respond. he doesn’t need to. he knows better than to argue. he just stands there, damp and dripping, his expression unreadable. he doesn’t move as you walk past him, head bent as you search through your closet, the air in the room thick with unspoken things. you pull out a cardboard box, old and battered, and set it down on the bed with a huff, the quiet sound of cardboard scraping against fabric the only noise in the room.

you begin to rummage through it, pulling out a white t-shirt, a pair of sweatpants, and a towel—his towel, the one you kept because it always smelled like him. you don’t meet his eyes as you hand him the towel, the fabric soft between your fingers, a strangely intimate reminder of him. he looks at you, wordlessly waiting for an explanation that you don’t offer. instead, you simply sit down on the bed, your back against the wall, eyes closed, pretending not to notice the weight of his gaze.

“i won’t look,” you murmur, your voice softer now, tinged with something like exhaustion. “just… dry off and wear these before you get sick.”

“okay,” he says, his voice quieter than usual, and you hear him shift, the sound of wet fabric against skin as he changes. he doesn’t say anything else, and you don’t open your eyes, focusing on the gentle movement of your thumbs, the small, almost rhythmic action that calms you. the silence in the room is filled with so much that words would only ruin it.

you hear him fumbling with the towel, the dry fabric against his damp hair, and something about the ordinary intimacy of it pulls at you. it’s strange, being here like this—on opposite ends of the room, with so much space between you both. but still… so close.

“why are all my things in this box?” his voice finally breaks the quiet, sharp with curiosity, tinged with something you can’t place.

you exhale softly, the weight of your own thoughts pressing heavy against your ribs. you keep your eyes closed, your lips tight. “i’m giving it back to you,” you say, your voice strangely calm. “you’re the one who said i take too much of your ‘shit,’ and try to smother you. so take all your ‘shit,’ megumi. keep it. keep your space. away from me.”

there’s a soft rustle of fabric as he finishes changing, and for a moment, neither of you speak. you can feel the shift in the air, the subtle way things have changed, irreversibly, between you. you know he’s looking at the box. you know what he’s seeing.

he picks up the first frame, the edges worn from years of handling. the photo inside catches his eye, and for a moment, you almost want to stop him. but you don’t. you keep your eyes shut, your heart a hollow thrum beneath your ribs.

it’s a photo of the three of you. megumi, you, and gojo—your faces frozen in time from a day you’d all spent together. the sunlight was soft then, filtering through the trees, and you were perched on gojo’s shoulders, hands tangled in his messy hair, laughing so freely you thought you might burst. megumi, of course, had been on gojo’s other shoulder, scowling in the way he always did, a lollipop stuck between his lips to silence the world’s noise as he tried to make sense of the chaos around him.

the smile on your face was as wide as the horizon, and even now, you can still remember the way you’d felt—so effortlessly happy, so full of life, in a way that doesn’t seem possible now.

he stares at the photo for a long time, his fingers brushing the glass gently, almost reverently, as if trying to hold onto something that’s slipping away.

there are more pictures, more reminders of you both—of everything you’ve shared. letters, birthday cards, books you’d both laughed over, and others that felt more personal, more like promises you never got the chance to keep. the box, once full of mundane things, is now filled with the soft evidence of what had been, of what he’s going to lose.

he looks up from the box, and his gaze drifts toward the wall next to your bed, the empty space where the pictures once hung. the space you’d cleared, and it’s so painfully obvious now why you’d done it. you’d taken them down because of him, because of what you felt, or rather, what you didn’t feel anymore. he doesn’t need to ask why.

“you were right,” he says softly, his voice hesitant, like he’s testing the waters, unsure of how far he can go. “i made you feel like i didn’t love you anymore.”

you don’t say anything for a long time, the weight of his words hanging between you both. there’s a tenderness in his tone, something unspoken but clear as day. it’s hard to breathe with the words lingering in the space, but you finally open your eyes. you meet his gaze, and in that moment, everything shifts, just slightly, as though the tension that has stretched between you both is finally beginning to unravel.

“it wasn’t your fault,” you murmur, the words slow but steady, as if you’re reminding yourself more than him. “it's okay if you don't want me around anymore. just don't be mean about it, and i'll catch on.”

he doesn’t speak. he just looks at you—his gaze searching, like he’s trying to find the pieces of what was broken, wondering if they can ever fit back together. and for the first time in what feels like forever, you don’t look away.

you let the silence stretch, comfortable and heavy, and you don’t need words to know that it’s not over. not yet. you’re both still standing in the wreckage, but maybe, just maybe, there’s room to rebuild something here.

"i didn’t say i don’t want you around," he tries, his voice faltering, unsure of how to bridge the gap between the words he wished he could take back and the ones that had already left him. it’s all he can do now—say something, anything, to make the air less heavy, less unbearable. but as his words hang there, your laughter cuts through it, incredulous. you look at him, eyes narrowed, disbelief clouding your features.

"if i remember correctly, that’s exactly what you said."

he freezes, the words bouncing off you, back into the space between you both, and for a moment, there’s nothing but the silence and the bitter sting of what’s been said. he opens his mouth to protest, but the words crumble before they can even form.

"no, i didn’t!" he protests, his tone rising a little, like he’s trying to convince himself as much as you. "you kept saying things about me, about how i fight like it’s my last time, about me being mean to gojo-sensei—"

you scoff, a humorless laugh slipping out before you can stop it. "you do fight like it’s your last time, megumi. every single time. and you are mean to gojo-sensei. telling him he's not your father when he's the one who raised you was downright horrible," your eyes narrow at him, each word a slow burn, a careful sharpening of the edge you thought you’d put down. "what exactly are you trying to get at here?"

his gaze drops, hands running through his wet hair in frustration, the action almost mechanical. he sighs, the sound heavy, like it carries more weight than it should. "i’m just saying… you kept saying things about me that i didn’t want to admit were true." his voice cracks, just barely, and for a moment, you see the flicker of vulnerability that he’s so often quick to hide. "and that… that made me mad. so i said things i didn’t mean."

there’s a long pause, the tension thick, and you stare at him, your pulse quickening. your gaze softens, but only just. "you’re old enough to control your tongue, even if you're hurt," you say, your voice firm but with an underlying quiet that’s a strange kind of soothing. "i was trying to help you, fushiguro. you had a gash on your stomach, and i was stitching it. what else was i supposed to say? 'go kill yourself'? 'go crazy, go stupid'?"

his breath catches, a ragged sound as if your words have hit somewhere he wasn’t ready to confront. "that’s not what i—" he cuts himself off with a frustrated exhale, the words not coming out right. he’s tired, you can hear it in his voice, tired of explaining, tired of fighting against the truth that both of you already know.

his gaze lifts, meeting yours with something softer this time—familiar, almost desperate. "i'm sorry," he murmurs, the apology thick with everything unsaid, everything he’s never been able to voice. and there it is. the fragile thread between you, stretching, fraying at the edges, but still holding on.

you don’t say anything for a long while, just looking at him—really looking at him—as if seeing him for the first time. you know what he’s trying to say, what he’s trying to admit. it’s not about the words. it’s never really been about the words. it’s about the space between them.

"you’re not alone in this," you finally whisper, your voice steady, but there’s a warmth in it now. "i know you. i’ve always known you. so has sensei."

"yeah, but you judge me for it," he says, his voice raw, steady, like he's finally gathered the courage to say what he’s been holding back. he locks his gaze with yours, and for the first time, there’s no avoiding it—the weight of the words hanging between you. "you judge me for liking it. you judge me for wanting to fight."

you blink, trying to catch your breath, a sharp edge of disbelief cutting through the knot in your chest. "where exactly are you getting this bullshit information?" you ask, the words coming out harsher than you intended. "i don’t judge you for wanting to do things you’re good at. i judge you when you get hurt." your voice falters slightly, a tremor that betrays the calm you’re trying to hold onto. "do you know how scared i was when gojo-sensei called me and told me you were hurt? i couldn't fucking breathe, megumi! i thought... i thought i was the one who was gonna die."

the air seems to shift, a pause between you that carries more weight than the silence should. his pupils widen just slightly, like he's seeing you for the first time, or maybe like he’s never seen you quite this way before. his lips part, but no words come out. he takes a slow step forward, and for some reason, you don’t pull away. there’s no barrier left between you now—not physically, at least.

he sits down next to you, his body close, his back leaning against the wall, and for a moment, you’re both frozen in the quiet. his shoulder brushes yours, and the contact feels more real than anything has in a long time. your heart beats a little faster in your chest, like it’s reminding you it’s still there, still alive, still holding on. you let out a long breath, heavy with everything unspoken.

"i don't ever want to lose you," you whisper, the words slipping out before you can stop them. and when they do, they feel like a confession—like a weight you hadn’t even known you were carrying. "even if you don't love me."

his face softens, and you feel him shift, his presence growing heavier in the space between you. he doesn't speak immediately, and you wonder if you’ve gone too far, if you’ve revealed too much, but then he says it. softly, like a prayer.

"i do love you," he says, and there’s a quiet certainty in the way his voice cracks. he closes his eyes, tilting his head back against the wall, as if the admission is a weight he’s been carrying too. "i’m never gonna stop."

you scoff, though it’s a hollow sound, more resigned than mocking. "you sure have a funny way of showing it," you murmur, the words barely a whisper, like they’re too fragile to be said out loud.

he turns to you then, his eyes meeting yours with a depth that stops you in your tracks. there’s no barrier anymore, nothing between you. not even the past. his gaze softens, and for the first time, you realize that what’s in his eyes is something you never expected to see: regret, apology, but most of all, love.

you don’t say anything. there’s too much left unsaid, and maybe that’s all you can give him now. silence, and the space to understand. the air between you is thick with it—unsaid words and all the things you’ve never been able to express, not fully. you sit there, avoiding his gaze, eyes lowered, fingers twisting in your lap. it’s as if you’re scared—scared of saying the wrong thing, scared of the way you might break if you say too much.

but he sees you. truly sees you.

he reaches for your hand then, tentative, like he's unsure whether you’ll pull away. when you don’t, he intertwines his fingers with yours, gentle, the touch almost shy in its sincerity. "i’m sorry i have a shitty way of showing i love you," he murmurs, the apology thick with the weight of everything he can’t put into words.

you don’t reply immediately, not trusting yourself to speak without cracking. instead, you sit there—just breathing, just being. the moments stretch out between you, heavy with everything both of you have been holding back. and you realize, then, that maybe this, right here, is enough. just this moment of him holding your hand, just this one step closer, is enough.

because all he wants now is to make sure you’re still there. make sure you won’t leave his side.

and you... you don’t want to leave either.

you lean your head against his shoulder, the weight of it feeling more like a promise than an accident. it’s as if, for just a moment, all the tension in your body can dissipate, settling into the rhythm of his breath, the quiet hum of the world outside. the room feels smaller, but in a way that makes it safer, like this tiny bubble where the rest of everything—everything that’s hurt, everything that’s unsaid—can stay out. there’s a warmth to the touch of his body against yours, something real and solid in a world that’s felt too fragmented for too long. his thumb brushes over the back of your hand, gentle, almost absentminded, but it’s the kind of touch that says everything: i’m here.

you feel it in the way his body shifts ever so slightly, like he’s anchoring you in a way only he knows how to. and for the first time in what feels like forever, you let yourself rest in that comfort, in that certainty, no matter how fleeting it might be. the air around you is thick with everything unspoken, but the space between you feels like it’s been bridged, like the distance that once seemed so insurmountable isn’t as wide anymore. the quiet stretches on, peaceful, before you finally speak, your voice soft and a little uncertain, like it’s unsure how to follow the fragile peace between you two.

"you should apologize to gojo-sensei, too," you murmur, your words carrying more weight than they should, like it’s the last piece of a puzzle you need to solve before you can both move forward. "he doesn't deserve that. he's pretty much our dad."

he’s quiet for a beat, the sound of his thumb still grazing the skin of your hand, before he shifts slightly, a breath of a laugh escaping his lips. it’s light, but there’s something heavy beneath it, something you can’t quite put your finger on.

"yeah?" he asks, and when he tilts his head against yours, the movement feels almost like a surrender, like he’s finally letting himself be vulnerable in a way he hasn’t in a long time. you feel the shift in him, a softening that pulls you closer, that makes you realize just how long you’ve both been carrying things you shouldn’t have been. "it’s gonna hurt my ego..." his voice trails off, a little teasing, but it’s also real, like he’s letting you see the part of him that he doesn’t usually show—the one that’s afraid of admitting when he’s wrong. you look up at him, your gaze catching his, and you can’t help the slight raise of your eyebrows, the hint of a smile tugging at the corner of your mouth.

"oh, i’m sure it will," you reply, the words laced with a quiet affection, a softness that you haven’t allowed yourself to feel in so long. you pause for a moment, before adding, "but you’ll do it, right?"

he exhales slowly, like he’s letting go of something deep inside of him, the exhale almost as long as the silence that lingers between you. and then, with a faint, almost reluctant chuckle, he says, "but i’ll do it."

you breathe a sigh of relief at the simplicity of it all, at how easy it feels to give and take forgiveness, even when it’s hard. maybe that’s the trick—maybe it’s not about having all the answers or solving everything right away. maybe it’s just about taking the first step, even if it’s a small one. you can feel the change in him, in the way he doesn’t just say the words but lives them in that moment. he means it.

"you better," you say softly, a teasing edge to your words, but the sincerity is unmistakable. and you find yourself leaning into him more, if only just a little, as if the distance between you shrinks just a bit more, as if the space between the two of you is finally filling with something warm and real.

and as you rest there, nestled against him, you can’t help but think that maybe, just maybe, it’ll all be okay. the thought lingers, soft like the gentle brush of his thumb across your skin. because sometimes, it’s not about fixing everything all at once. sometimes, it’s just about being here, in this moment, with him, and knowing that even if the world outside is still uncertain, you’ve found a way to stay close. and that, you think, is enough for now.

a/n: once read this fic by @sttoru and i really wanted to write smth about it from gumi's perspective. so here it is. it's been sitting in my drafts for a very, very long time.

© all works belong to admiringlove on tumblr. plagiarism is strictly prohibited.

[hitlikehammers]

The One Where Wayne Munson KNOWS BETTER Than to Lend Air to IDLE GOSSIP

(and does it anyway on accident and ends up thinking his 💕boy's boy💕 might be ✖️stepping out) ——(1/3)

Wayne Munson’s lived his life mostly free from the hubbub of small town gossip. Some was unavoidable in his tiny holler as a boy; more was part and parcel to the service, and plain keeping half-sane in war—anything for a distraction. After all that though, Wayne’d had more’n his fill of even a teaspoon of hearsay, and compared to where he came from? Hawkins, Indiana was small potatoes for keepin’ his nose clear out of it.

Which is all to say he don’t mean to collect any of the latest scuttlebutt on his way just to town after he gets off his shift with the sun barely a glimmer, just past 5 for Leah’s to be open for a better cup-o-joe than the sludge he gets on the floor. All he wants is a hot nightcap because he knows damn well his boy didn’t pick up more grounds before Melvald’s closed last night, and Wayne doesn’t want to see his bed until he’s had a full mug of fair-to-middling coffee.

And honest: he don’t think that’s more than he’s earned to ask.

But it is more than he bargained for signing’ up to, when he sees the only other people in the diner at this hour on a Saturday.

Because the only other people are a girl he don’t know, though he can’t see her real well from the back, which only really means he sees her coffee date full-on and much too well in exchange because they’re leaned in and they’re being all touchy across the table, voices low but not too low—he don’t think they even noticed him come in, let alone come to wait close enough to hear ‘em while he insists on saving the lovely Leah herself the trip to a table when he can damn well carry his own drink, thanks kindly.

“You’re gonna have a coronary if you keep hiding this.”

The girl sounds…she sounds the way Wayne remembers his Mamaw sounding when she was about to hit his Grampy up the head over some harebrained such-and-such. Exasperated, but all from a deep well of unshakable loving.

Which is what perks up Wayne’s attention, and then churns his insides quick right-next, because—

Well. The boy this young lady’s being all over-fond at for his antics is Steve Harrington.

Who, for all that Wayne understands, is meant to be his boy’s boy.

“No, no,” Steve’s shaking his head, tone bowstring-taut; “I’m gonna tell him.” Kid sounds resolved for all of half-a-second before he’s groaning, running hands over his face: “Or, I mean—”

The thunk of the boy’s head to the tabletop clatters the cutlery, and if Wayne weren’t already clued into their conversation, he’d be wholly absolved for dropping eaves given how the noise echoes through the mostly-empty establishment bar-to-door.

“Dingus,” the girl says, and it drips with concern, with affection, with a deep choler that, again, sings loud of married-couple.

Which twists Wayne’s guts all the more to hear.

Because she’s talking to Wayne’s boy’s boy.

“I’m gonna, I promise,” Steve sounds not unlike a man on his way to the gallows, even more when he sighs deep as anything and traces out his lips with his fingers, hands shaky even out the corner of Wayne’s eye for a distance as he hisses low:

“Fuck.”

And Wayne, see, he don’t like borrowing trouble. He meant it about keeping his nose clean of the gossip and the hearsay. So he makes sure he reminds himself good in his own head that he don’t know the facts here, and jumpin’ to conclusions don’t do no favors to nobody.

It don’t do nothing for the way that what he does know, what he sees and hears with his own god-given senses in the now, don’t add up too kindly for the Harrington boy.

Not least because it seems to be adding up poor indeed for Wayne’s boy.

“Do you think he’ll—”

“Steve,” the girl’s voice goes softer, but also frantic almost, as Wayne sees her reach across the way and gather Steve’s hands with a familiarity to the motion that wouldn’t make sense unless…

Unless they’re something special to each other.

Wayne’s watched Eddie reach out for Steve that way. He’s watch Steve do the same. So it…it just don’t make sense—

“You’re shaking,” the girl says, all kinda pitiful, and Wayne’d seen it before, but now he chances a look again and: oh.

Boy’s a leaf in a cyclone.

“It’s a big deal,” Steve rasps out near under Wayne’s ability to hear it.

But he does hear it.

“You need to just lay it out,” the girl tells him, earnest now and more of that than any irritation, any frustration put-upon or otherwise; “be up front with him.”

And it ain’t fair, yet, even if all the signs are pointing that direction; but Wayne likes Steve. He doesn’t want to think the worst of him. And he doesn’t, really, in his heart, think Steve could do or be the worst, from all he’s learned and seen—Wayne’d had uncharitable thoughts about it he kid, before he knew better, based on hearsay which one more time, he don’t countenance as a rule, and he’d been taught better and quick from the second he saw Steve at his nephew’s bedside, and heard the only thing he’s proud and happy to have dropped in upon uninvited:

You nearly fucking died yourself dragging him out, Steve, what the hell—

That Henderson squirt, scolding Steve something fierce.

So Wayne reminds himself this boy loved his boy enough to risk himself to bring Eddie home. Before they were anything to one another. And Wayne knows damn well they’re both something to each other, now. It don’t make sense that Steve wants to…be up front about a notion with Eddie that could hurt.

But then: care can look a lot of different ways, and can change over time. Ain’t nobody to fault for that. And much as Wayne can’t quite believe the Steve he’s gotten to know these past many-months could swallow hurting his Eddie…

Wayne’s been proven incorrect about people more than enough in his life to know better than to think it’s impossible to be wrong about a man’s heart.

“Oh, I’m sure that’ll go over fucking fantastic,” Steve’s huffing, rolling his eyes—apparently he don’t want to be up front with the person they’re talking about. Wayne tries to remind himself that they’ve not flat out said it’s Eddie yet. Wayne shouldn’t go making assumptions.

“Why not?” the girl’s pressing him. “Be honest, with him,” then her tone does go a little judgemental; “you can’t honestly think he doesn’t suspect—”

“I really don’t think he does,” and it’s a strange thing, because no matter the words themselves, it don’t sound like Steve’s meaning to be deceitful about a thing. Kinda sounds a little like he’s mourning, like he’s just in a kind of pain. “If he did, then at least maybe I’d have some kind of,” he waves his hand in the air, looks frantic, at loose ends all around; “heads-up for where his head’s at.”

And they’re both quiet for a spell, and Wayne looks for Leah in the back, knew she was getting food ready and was happy to wait—for better or worse with the conversation he’s been privy to without permission unspooling at his side—but he’s starting to feel antsy for all that he’s hearing, and the way he can’t quite tamp down associating it all with Eddie, with touchy things Steve might have to tell Eddie—

“Tell him by the end of the weekend.”

And now: think he might have to tell, encouraged so damn strong and single-minded by his lady friend with her hand on his arm.

“That’s fucking tomorrow!”

“End,” she’s narrowing her eyes sharp enough Wayne notices more in the shift of the room than to see it head-on; “of,” and then she’s smacking Steve’s arm to emphasize hard enough it rings out; “the weekend.”

Then Wayne notices how her posture shifts, and she leans closer again, so much affection, and easy with it, and welcome for it, no doubt about it:

“I don’t like seeing you like this,” she says low and earnest; “especially not when the thing you’re like this about is,” and then her tone shifts to something bright, near-on hopeful, even:

“It’s such a good thing, Steve.”

“I mean,” Steve mumbles, kind of miserable really; “of course you think so.”

And Wayne don’t like where his head goes for things the girl who’s watching Steve with such soft eyes might think to be good, might think while she’s touching him so close and —

“He’ll,” and she huffs a touch before going all heartfelt again: “Eddie is going to—”

And the moment his plausible deniability about the subject of the discussion is gone, Wayne gives up waiting for his coffee at the counter and…retreats to the corner by the door, far as he can get from whatever’s said next. He’d leave, honest, but the truth of the matter’s this:

He can’t be expected in good faith to figure out how to bring any of this up with Ed if he don’t have no caffeine in him.

☕ 👀 ☕

✨ part ii >>>

♥️ coming tomorrow /// 14 Jan

For @thefreakandthehair, who requested 'Whatever our souls are made of, his and mine are the same.' at my HOBBIT-STYLE BIRTHDAY MONTH PROMPT FEST—and since this is almost a YEAR LATE, could I possibly offer it as a normal-amounts-of-late birthday gift, more than as an egregiously-and-unforgivably-late prompt fill for you?

✨permanent tag list: OPEN (lmk if you want to be added/removed): @askitwithflours @awkwardgravity1 @bookworm0690 @bumblebeecuttlefishes @captain--low @depressed-freak13 @dragoon-ze-great @dreamercec @dreamwatch @estrellami-1 @finntheehumaneater @goodolefashionedloverboi @grtwdsmwhr @hiei-harringtonmunson @hbyrde36 @imhereforthelolzdontyellatme @live-laugh-love-dietrich @mensch-anthropos-human @nerdyglassescheeseychick @notaqueenakhaleesi @pearynice @perseus-notjackson @pretend-theres-a-name-here @pukner @ravenfrog @sadisticaltarts @samsoble @sanctumdemunson @shrimply-a-menace @slashify @stealthysteveharrington @swimmingbirdrunningrock @theheadlessphilosopher @theintrovertedintrovert @themoonagainstmers @theohohmoment @tillystealeaves @tinyloonyteacups @tinyplanet95 @warlordess @wheneverfeasible @wordynerdygurl @wxrmland @yourmom-isgay @1-tehe-1

NOTE: it's important to me that you know that Wayne's accept belongs to nowhere, and is just the voice of someone I knew as a kid, who also sounded like a little of everywhere and then again nowhere. so if you think some turn of phrase doesn't fit what you think you're reading in terms of dialect? it's just that this way of stringing words together is—with intention—its own amalgam of places and times

divider credit here and here

[bitchface24-7]

You were so so right about everything being smut like please please please some fluff or something

On the request note, can we get some reader cuddling Jayce after he has a nightmare and making sure he is fine, all warm and toasty under the comforter, playing with his hair maybe scratching his beard? I am such a sucker for nightmare hurt/comfort😩😩😩😩

I’M RIGHT HERE, SEE? - JAYCE X READER

synopsis: everyone suffers the odd nightmare or two. Its a normal occurrence. Now, when one has PTSD due to the cold, and it’s a cold winter’s night. Your brain may take you back some place you never wished to see again.

warnings: jayce has a nightmare and wakes up in a panic, he cries silently as he checks up on you, you wake up and comfort him, hurt/comfort, reassurance, sleepy cuddles, playing with hair, listening to heartbeats

genre: m/f or m/m

p.s. I love this idea! I'm so happy that people like my writing enough to give me their ideas to jot down for the rest of you. Makes my heart flutter every time I see my inbox has something in it.

Jayce hates the cold, he hates winter. He can't stand it. It makes his palms sweat, his breathing pick up, and he feels like his heart is going to beat out of his chest.

Ever since he and his mom were stuck in that blizzard, he can't see the snow or the cold the same way again. Its why he has such an obsessive love for magic. Magic saved him and his mom.

But it's not saving him now.

He's trying his best to shield you from the storm, using his much larger body compared to when he was a kid to protect you from the biting wind and icy snow.

But it’s useless. Your body is stiff, unmoving. Its cold to the touch, your lips are blue as are your nails.

You're experiencing hypothermia. No, you experienced hypothermia.

You're dead.

You're dead and it’s all Jayce's fault. He couldn't protect you, he couldn't keep you safe, he couldn't rely on magic this time to save you both. You're dead.

Jayce picks up your dead body and cries. He cries his heart out. He wails into the night sky begging and praying to gods he hasn't even thought of to save you.

To take him instead.

He puts his head your chest and whimpers when he doesn't hear that familiar beat.

He—

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

He wakes up with a strangled gasp, shivering due to the night times fresh breeze. He's hyperventilating. His breathing slowly comes down to a normal pace when he realizes he's in your shared bedroom. He sees the basic night light plugged into the wall, he sees your wardrobe and dressed. He can faintly see the paintings on the wall.

Jayce covers his mouth with one of his hands and weeps silently. He looks over and sees you resting peacefully. He needs to make sure you're alive. He puts his hand on your back and feels the slight rise and fall of your breathing, he feels the warmth of your skin.

You're alive.

You're grumbling now as you slowly wake up.

You rub your eyes and sleepily ask, “Jayce? What's wrong? Why’re you up at—” You take a glance over to your bedside table, “Two forty-five in the morning?”

Your sleepiness vanishes when you turn over and see Jayce's watery eyes and the fact he's crying silently. You scooch over and immediately wrap your arms around him, putting his head on your chest as you run your hand through his hair. The other hand rubs his back.

“Shh Jayce. Shhhh. It’s okay. Whatever it is, it wasn't real. You're okay.”

Jayce's crying slowly halts as your comfort takes over his mind. You stay like that for a few minutes before you break the silence, “Do you wanna talk about it?”

Jayce purses his lips and nods lightly. You continue to stroke his back and play with his hair as he speaks in a desolate tone. You never want to hear that tone a voice again, “We were stuck in a blizzard. Like the one my m—mum and I were in as a kid. Except— except there wasn't a mage there to save us. I tried everything to save you but you still died! You died and it was my fault!”

As Jayce gets amped up due to his dispair, you lightly shush him, kissing his forehead, “Jayce, I'm right here, see? Listen to my heart. It’s beating just fine.”

Jayce does just that, he presses his head firmly into your chest and closes his eyes, then he hears it.

Thu-thump

Thu-thump

Thu-thump

Thu-thump

A shaky sigh leaves his lips. There it is. There's your heartbeat. At the confirmation of you being okay, Jayce's anxiety levels drop. He feels exhausted. He never wants to experience fear like that again; even if it's false.

Seeing how serene Jayce is, you tuck the blankets over you two, ensuring not a speak of Jayce was left out in the fresh night breeze. You continue to physically ground him, playing with his hair, rubbing circles into his back, scratching his beard lightly and tracing his features.

Eventually, Jayce falls back to sleep, much more tranquil than he was before. In what feels like no time you fall asleep too, with a hand left in Jayce's hair and one on his back. He's the perfect weighted blanket.

You hope Jayce never experiences a nightmare like that again, but if he does; you’re there to take care of him.

This one is quite short but I hope it still hits all the feels. This one was nice to write, but I didn't want to drag it out too much. It'd feel disingenuous if I did that. Asks are still open (I can't imagine closing them unless I get too many in one shot)

[wonkizz]

do you feel the same way i do about you?

성훈 x fmr genre: angst warns: cursing, shit talking, alcohol/drinking, unrequited love, parties, not proofread

Sunghoon is your best friend. Someone you’ve gone through hard times with, someone who’s always been there for you. It was easy for you to catch feelings, but it was also just as easy to hide them away.

The one thing people always say about you and Sunghoon is that you’re so different it’s almost comical. He’s loud and cheerful, albeit around people he’s comfortable with, while you’re quiet and shy with practically everyone, even him.

You’ve tried over the years to branch out and make more friends, but you always find yourself falling short and just missing the mark.

But Sunghoon, he’s never made you feel bad about your personality, if anything he’s allowed you to embrace it.

Which is why when he convinced you to go to a party with him, he was as shocked as you were.

You don’t go to parties, they’re just not for you. But Sunghoon said this one would be good and a chance for you to make more friends.

He wanted to introduce you to his other friends, the ones he’s made at your college.

You were hesitant but decided it might be worth it in the end.

Only problem is, you don’t have party worthy clothes. Your style is basic, you wear jeans and sweaters on most occasions because you prefer comfort over anything else.

When you tell Sunghoon this, he urges you not to worry about it, saying he’ll handle it.

What exactly does that mean? Buying you the skimpiest outfit he could find.

The dress is short, barely covers your ass and your chest is nearly exposed.

“Sunghoon, I don’t think this is for me,” you say, staring at yourself in the mirror.

You did your own hair and makeup, although barely any, and the outfit was the final touch.

You don’t look like you.

“Are you kidding? You look great!” He says, enthusiastic as ever.

“I just… I don't look like myself, you know? I feel weird.”

“I promise, everything will be fine. I know you’re stepping out of your comfort zone for me, and I really appreciate it. This is just part of it.”

Sunghoon, ever the sweet talker, smiles when you nod.

“Okay, let’s go.”

The drive isn’t far, it’s being hosted by Sunghoon’s friend Jay.

When you say the house is gigantic, you mean it.

Your one bedroom is more like a studio compared to it.

Your nerves start to get the better of you, and you almost don’t want to get out of the car.

Sunghoon opens the passenger door for you, holding out a hand, “Come on.”

You take it, and he leads you up the steps and straight inside, not even bothering to knock.

Then again, why would he have to? It’s a party for god's sake.

He leads you through a wave of bodies until you reach the kitchen.

6 other guys are standing there and Sunghoon greets them eagerly.

You can’t help but stand there awkwardly, twiddling your fingers and looking down at the ground.

“Guys, this is Y/N, my best friend,” Sunghoon says as he begins to point at everyone, “Y/N this is Heeseung, Jay, Jake, Sunoo, Jungwon and Riki.”

You wave at them, giving a shy smile as they all greet you.

“You didn’t tell us how pretty she is, Sunghoon,” Heeseung says, raising an eyebrow.

Sunghoon scoffs, “Yeah yeah, don’t overwhelm her, this isn’t her type of thing.”

He grabs two beers from the fridge, opening them and handing you one.

You sip it gently, souring at the taste. You’re not a big drinker either.

It’s not long before Sunghoon effectively abandons you.

He dragged you to the dance floor one minute, then the next he was gone.

You don’t know why, but something is telling you to head upstairs.

It’s there you hear your name coming from a bedroom with the door slightly ajar.

“Why didn’t you introduce us to Y/N sooner?” You barely recognize Heeseung’s voice amongst all the noise coming from downstairs.

You certainly recognize Sunghoon as the next person to speak, “Parties aren’t her thing, I told you that.”

“We’ve been in college for 4 years though. This is the first time you’ve gotten her to come to one?”

“What else can I say? She’s a stick in the mud.”

“That’s not a very nice thing to say about your best friend,” Sunoo speaks up.

“I know, but it’s true. She’s kind and all but she’s so shy and closed off that she can’t make friends. The only reason we really became friends is because our parents pushed us to be close.”

Ouch.

“So you’re friends with her out of pity?” Riki asks.

“I wouldn’t say that,” Sunghoon retorts, “she’s sweet and I appreciate having her as a friend but she’s kinda boring and our personalities don’t really match at all. If it weren’t for our parents, we probably wouldn’t be friends at all.”

“That’s harsh, man,” Jake pipes up.

“I know, I just…don’t know how else to describe her.”

You’ve never felt genuine heartbreak. Not until this moment.

So this is how he feels about you? The best friend you thought accepted you for who you are, truly just…tolerates you?

Has he always felt this way? Has he only kept you as a friend out of pity?

You never thought of yourself as less than when it came to Sunghoon, but now, you’re doubting everything you thought you knew.

As tears gather in your eyes, you turn around making your way back downstairs and out the front door.

You call yourself an uber and go home, crying silently in the back seat of this stranger's car.

Once you make it inside your apartment, you take the heels Sunghoon bought off, thank god because they were killing your feet.

Heading into your bedroom, you look at yourself in the mirror again. The girl glaring back at you, isn’t you. She’s what Sunghoon wants you to be, but clearly you can’t give him that.

You almost tear the dress as you’re taking it off, and change into sweats and a t-shirt.

As you lay in bed, you think back on your years with Sunghoon.

All the time he tried to convince you to do things with him, all the times you tried. All the times you asked him to do something with you and all the times he declined because they “weren’t his style.”

Has it really always been like this? You, trying to be different for Sunghoon, but Sunghoon, never trying for you?

Suddenly you feel humiliated.

Humiliated at the fact that your friendship with Sunghoon has all been a fluke.

You’ve always accepted Sunghoon for who he is. Yet, he never truly did the same for you.

Your phone buzzes beside you, Sunghoon’s contact coming up with a text.

‘Where are you?’ It says.

You don’t bother answering, instead, putting your phone on the charger and turning it off.

You fall asleep with your eyes swollen and heart broken.

When you turn your phone on the next morning, it’s full of texts from Sunghoon.

You, again, don’t bother answering. You’re disgusted by last night's events.

You don’t have class thankfully, so you lounge around in your pajamas all morning.

It’s not until noon when there’s a knock at your door.

You mentally slap yourself for not checking the peephole, because once you open it, you regret it.

Sunghoon stands there, an evident frown on his face.

“Why haven’t you answered my texts?” He says, immediately.

You feel snappy, like the word nice is not in your vocabulary at the moment.

“Can I be honest? I didn’t want to talk to you.”

Sunghoon’s face furrows, “Why? What’d I do?”

You just begin to laugh. You don’t know if it’s the leftover pain morphing into anger or the fact that you’re tired.

“Why are you here Sunghoon? I don’t need your pity, not anymore.”

“What are you talking about?”

Then, you’re shouting, “I heard you last night! You’re friends with me out of fucking pity and I’m honestly disgusted!”

Sunghoon’s face morphs from confusion to shock.

“I…you heard me?”

“I did.” You nod, “And honestly, if you were so fucking bored of me, you should’ve just ended the ‘friendship’ instead of dragging it along like this.”

“Y/N I…I didn’t mean any of that—,”

“Yes you did! You did because if you didn’t, you wouldn’t have said it.”

There’s nothing but silence from his end, like he’s trying to process everything while you’ve already caught up.

You can feel tears pricking your eyes again and damn if it isn’t embarrassing to cry in front of him, but at this point, you don’t care.

“You know what hurts the most?” You ask as Sunghoon looks up, into your eyes.

“The fact that I did so much for you. You wanted to go out? Fine. You wanted me to put myself out there in a place I was totally out of place at? Fine. So many times I made myself uncomfortable for you. But the very few times I asked you to do something with me, for me, you always said no. It wasn’t your thing. Do you realize how fucking pathetic I feel knowing my friendship was so one-sided?”

Sunghoon doesn’t say a word, tears gathering in his own eyes. “I’m sorry.”

You nod, “I’m sorry too. Sorry that we both wasted our time. Sorry, that I ever had feelings for you. Consider this ‘friendship’ over, Sunghoon.”

With that, you close the door in his face, locking it before letting yourself break.

You settle on your couch, curling into a ball, clutching a pillow as you cry.

There’s a few stray knocks, but he eventually leaves.

WONKIZZ 2025

[thollandsgirl2013]

𝐌𝐢𝐥𝐞 𝐇𝐢𝐠𝐡 𝐂𝐥𝐮𝐛*

Parings → Peter Parker x Reader

Warnings → SMUT!!! 18+, unprotected sex (don't do it)

Summary → You and Peter joined the mile high club.

You were excited for this Europe trip. Everyone in school had been buzzing about it for weeks. Europe was romantic, and you were looking forward to spending time with Peter in such a beautiful place. What you weren’t expecting, however, was for Mr. Harrington to mess with your seating arrangements.

Peter was supposed to sit beside you, but instead, Mr. Harrington placed him next to Ned. That left you beside MJ. Ned, being the lovable goof he was, concocted some ridiculous excuse about a lady wearing heavy perfume that was giving Peter an allergic reaction. Before anyone could react, Mr. Harrington caught wind of it and summoned Peter to sit next to him.

Now you and Peter were stuck texting back and forth, Peter more annoyed than you.

Peter: Please baby 🥺

You smirked down at your phone, already knowing where this conversation was headed.

You: Nope

Peter: But I’m so hard right now 😭

You rolled your eyes. How did he manage to get himself turned on while sitting next to Mr. Harrington, of all people?

You: That’s your fault. And how are you hard sitting next to Mr. Harrington? 😑

Peter: He’s asleep, no one’s going to notice. Baby, please, I’m begging you. I’ll make it up to you later.

You: The bathroom is full of germs, Peter. Ew.

Peter: Come onnnn, please, please, please, please…

You shook your head, your finger hovering over the screen.

You: Wait till we reach the hotel.

Peter: That’s hours from now! I’m gonna burst! Do you want me to walk around with this the whole time?

You: Oh my god, Peter. Fine, I’m going. Knock in five minutes.

Peter: YES! I LOVE YOU SO MUCH.

You: You owe me.

With a sigh, you got up from your seat, MJ raising a brow as she noticed you moving. “Where are you going?” She asked, amusement laced in her voice.

“To—um, to the bathroom,” you stammered, trying not to give too much away. She eyed you for a second, clearly not buying it, but then just shrugged and went back to her book.

You made your way to the small, cramped airplane bathroom, feeling a bit ridiculous but also amused by how desperate Peter had become. You slipped inside and waited. Exactly a minutes later, there was a knock on the door.

“Uh, it’s occupied.”

“Babe, it’s me.” Peter’s whisper came from behind the door.

You rolled your eyes, recognizing his voice immediately. He couldn't even wait five minutes. You sighed, unlocking the door and letting him in. He slipped inside quickly, barely giving you room to breathe. “You couldn’t wait a bit longer?” You teased, crossing your arms over your chest.

Peter, with his big, brown, pleading eyes, stared down at you. “Sorry, but look at me,” he muttered, gesturing to the very obvious bulge in his pants.

You glanced down, and yup, there he was, hard and straining against the fabric. This boy gets turned on so easily, sometimes it baffled you.

“You’re ridiculous,” you muttered, your hands already reaching for his belt to unbuckle it, figuring a quick solution would do the trick. But before you could go any further, Peter grabbed your hands, stopping you.

“What are you doing?” He asked, sounding surprised.

“Uh, giving you head?” You replied, confused by his hesitation.

Peter’s face flushed a deep red, his usual shyness kicking in at the worst possible time. “I-I wanted to be in you…” he mumbled, barely able to meet your eyes.

You stared at him, amused. How could he blush now, in the middle of this? “Stop blushing,” you scolded, pulling him down into a heated kiss. His lips were soft and eager against yours, his hands finding your waist as he pulled you closer. The cramped space didn’t leave much room, but the kiss quickly deepened, both of you getting lost in the moment.

Thank goodness you were wearing a skirt today. Peter’s hands slipped under the fabric, his fingers grazing the hem of your panties. You could feel his breath hitch as his hand brushed over you, his fingers teasing the edge.

“Peter,” you moaned softly, feeling him hard one against your thigh. The way he was fumbling slightly, his usual confidence mixed with desperation, made you ache for him.

He quickly pulled himself out, his hard cock now free. “Turn around,” he whispered, his voice deep and raspy. You did as he asked, turning to face the mirror and gripping the sink counter for support.

Peter pulled your panties to the side, his hand running along your slick entrance before positioning himself. With one swift motion, he pushed inside you from behind, both of you letting out soft, stifled moans at the sensation.

“Fuck,” Peter groaned, his grip on your hips tightening as he started to move. The small space only amplified the intimacy, the way his body pressed against yours, the sound of your combined breathing echoing in the tiny bathroom.

You bit your lip, trying to stay quiet as his pace quickened. “Peter…” you whimpered, your voice breathy. You could feel every inch of him, the way he filled you, the way his hips snapped against yours.

His hand slid up your back, pulling you closer to him as he thrust into you. “Fuck, you feel so good,” he murmured against your ear, his lips brushing the side of your neck. His other hand slid down to your clit, rubbing gentle circles as he continued to move inside you, sending waves of pleasure through your body.

You let out a another whimper, your walls clenching around him as you felt the pressure building. “Peter, I’m close…” you moaned, your grip on the sink tightening.

Peter groaned in response, his pace quickening as he chased his own release. “Me too, baby, just a little more…”

The sound of his ragged breathing, the feel of his hands on your skin, and the way he filled you pushed you over the edge. You came with a soft cry, your body trembling as you held onto the sink for support. Peter followed shortly after, his movements becoming sloppy as he came inside you, moaning your name into your ear.

For a moment, neither of you moved, both trying to catch your breath in the aftermath. Peter’s forehead rested against your shoulder, his hands still holding your hips gently.

“I can’t believe we just did that,” you muttered, half-laughing, half-exasperated.

Peter chuckled, pulling out of you slowly and adjusting his pants. “I told you I couldn’t wait,” he said with a smug grin, leaning down to press a soft kiss to your neck.

You turned around to face him, your cheeks still flushed from the rush. “You better be grateful. That was risky.”

“Oh, I am,” Peter grinned, his eyes twinkling with mischief. “And I’ll be even more grateful when we’re at the hotel.”

You rolled your eyes but couldn’t suppress the smile that spread across your face. “You’re unbelievable.”

“I love you too,” Peter teased, giving you one last kiss before slipping out of the bathroom, leaving you to compose yourself.

You cleaned up quickly, trying to calm your racing heart. That was reckless, you thought to yourself, but you couldn't deny the thrill of it. After making sure you were presentable, you headed back to your seat, keeping your eyes down as you passed Peter. He was sitting beside Mr. Harrington, who was still asleep, but Peter looked up at you with a cheeky grin and winked as you walked by.

You rolled your eyes but couldn’t help the small smile tugging at your lips. Peter Parker, always managing to get you into the most ridiculous situations.

Sliding back into your seat next to MJ, you tried to act casual, but you could feel her eyes on you. “That took a while,” she commented, raising an eyebrow in suspicion.

You swallowed, trying not to look guilty. “Um, yeah, I guess,” you mumbled, avoiding eye contact. Your mind raced for an excuse, but luckily, MJ didn’t push further. She just gave you a knowing look before going back to her book.

Suddenly, your phone vibrated in your lap. Glancing down, you saw a new text from Peter.

Peter: You’re the best. I can’t believe we just joined the Mile High Club.

Your cheeks instantly flushed, and you quickly typed back.

You: Uh huh. Don’t get hard again, please. We still have 5 hours of flight left.

A second later, another text from Peter appeared.

Peter: No promises. But I’ll try to be a good boy for you.

You: Please, I’m begging you. You’ll get whatever you want at the hotel.

Before you could put your phone away, MJ leaned over slightly, catching a glimpse of your conversation. Her eyes widened in realization, and she looked at you with mock horror.

“Oh my god. Really? In the bathroom?” She whispered, her voice dripping with disgust, but there was also a smirk on her lips. “I wanted to go to the bathroom, and now I gotta wait till we land!”

Your face burned red, and you could barely look her in the eye. “I—uh—I mean…” you stammered, trying to find some defense, but MJ wasn’t letting you off the hook that easily.

“Ew, seriously?” She said, lowering her voice but clearly enjoying your embarrassment. “In an airplane bathroom? You two really couldn’t wait until we got to the hotel?”

You buried your face in your hands, groaning. “It wasn’t planned, okay? He was being all… Peter, and I couldn’t say no.”

MJ snorted, shaking her head. “You guys are ridiculous. The Mile High Club? Really? I’ve heard of people being desperate, but I didn’t think you’d join the list.”

“I didn’t think I would either!” You whispered back, your face still burning with embarrassment. “But you know Peter…”

She gave you a sympathetic yet teasing smile. “Yeah, I know. He’s a horny little spider. Still, I can’t believe you actually did it.”

You groaned again, wishing the ground would swallow you up. “Please don’t tell anyone.”

MJ’s lips twitched into a smirk. “Oh, I won’t. But I’ll be side-eyeing every bathroom you walk into for the rest of this trip.”

You narrowed your eyes at her, but there was no denying the laughter bubbling inside you both. MJ’s teasing was relentless, but she wasn’t wrong. Peter really could get you into trouble.

Another vibration from your phone pulled your attention back to Peter.

Peter: What are you guys talking about?

Peter: Oh my god! Did MJ find out?

You glanced over at MJ, who was now giving you an exaggerated innocent look as she pretended to read her book. You sighed, typing a quick reply.

You: Yeah, she found out.

Peter: Oh noooo. She's not going to tell anyone, right?

You smiled despite yourself.

You: She won't. But she'll probably tease me the rest of the trip.

Peter: You still love me though, right?

You bit your lip, fighting back a grin. Peter was such a dork sometimes, but he always knew how to make you smile.

You: Unfortunately, yes. Even though you’re the horniest spider alive.

A few seconds later, Peter responded with a string of laughing emojis, and you couldn’t help but giggle under your breath. MJ noticed and raised an eyebrow at you, clearly trying to figure out what you and Peter were saying.

“Tell lover boy to keep it in his pants for the rest of the flight,” she muttered, smirking.

You rolled your eyes. “I’m trying. But you know how he is.”

MJ shook her head. “You two are hopeless. Just don’t pull any more stunts until we land, okay? I’m not in the mood to explain to Mr. Harrington why you’ve been gone for so long.”

You laughed, knowing she was right. As much as you loved Peter and his spontaneous nature, you definitely didn’t want to get into more trouble.

As the hours passed and the plane continued its course, you kept exchanging texts with Peter, your heart fluttering at his sweet and silly messages. Every time you glanced over at him, you caught him staring at you with that familiar loving gaze, and it made you excited for what awaited at the hotel.

MJ nudged you halfway through the flight. “So, what’s the plan when we land? Are you and Peter sneaking off somewhere again?”

You smirked, shaking your head. “No more sneaking. But… let’s just say Peter and I have some, uh, catching up to do once we get some privacy.”

MJ groaned dramatically. “Spare me the details, please. I’m just here for the museums and the pizza.”

You grinned. “Don’t worry, I won’t make you suffer through any more Peter talk.”

“Good. Now, get some sleep before we land,” MJ said, pushing her headphones on and leaning back in her seat.

You nodded, but before you could settle in, your phone buzzed one last time.

Peter: Can’t wait to be alone with you, baby. Love you so much.

You smiled softly, your heart swelling with affection.

You: I love you too, Peter. And don’t worry, we’ll have plenty of alone time soon.

Tucking your phone away, you leaned back in your seat, a small smile still on your face. Despite the teasing and the chaos, you wouldn’t trade any of it for the world. Being with Peter made everything feel like an adventure—even on a crowded plane at 30,000 feet.

‎∗ ࣪ ˖༺ 𓆩☆𓆪 ༻˖ ࣪ ∗

[greenerteacups]

What do you think of jkr as a writer? I for one has always felt like she didn’t treat her female characters well. It felt strange, being critical of her when she was god queen of the earth, and also being 10

I think most of the problems in her books can be chalked up to genre hopping. Books 1-3 are perfectly good and serviceable children's books — great children's books, even! They have compelling, relatable characters and juicy mystery plots. They have problems, sure, but for the first three books someone's ever written — especially someone with little or no background in creative writing — they're really fucking good. So: there's her flowers.

The last four books pivot sharply into much more emotionally complicated and sociopolitically loaded territory, because they're describing a war. And it's hard to write children's books about war. I would venture you can't really do it, at least without dramatically misrepresenting what war is! And so Rowling makes the executive decision somewhere during the writing of Book 4 that she's not going to flinch away from that, she's going to go for dramatic realism, and she kills Cedric Diggory to let us know. People had died in Harry Potter before, of course — Quirrell gets sent to the fucking shadow realm, for example. But children haven't. (It also gives parents who are reading these books with their children a warning shot: shit is about to get significantly more real, think twice before you buy the next one of these for your 10-year-old.) After that, Rowling starts leaning much more into dramatic realism, and the fast-paced mystery-novel plotting of the first few books is replaced by a slow, simmering political conflict that unfurls over the course of about a million words.

The problem — besides the fact that she's picking one of the hardest things to write about, like, in all of literature, war is really insanely complicated and emotionally intense and hard to portray well — is that she's now trying to use characters, plot points, and technologies she developed for a children's series to enact a sprawling war drama among teenagers and adults. So Hermione, who was a reasonably precocious snobby eleven-year-old, becomes this sort of encyclopedic all-knowing savant of the wizarding world, who somehow remains functional and mostly even-headed despite her identity being the chief target of a prolifically murderous terrorist group. Draco Malfoy, a schoolyard bully whose primary tools included 1. namecalling and 2. telling teacher, JOINS said terrorist group (and admittedly does react reasonably, i.e., has a total crashout and takes to sobbing in a girls' bathroom whenever he gets a free minute). Dumbledore, who starts out as "whimsical friendly winky-wink trustworthy grandfather type", ends up being Magical Winston Churchill in a violent game of spycraft and espionage, eventually revealing he's only been keeping Harry at all these seven years because he wants to KILL him! And like, maybe really good technical writing could smooth out these transitions and make the first-order dramatic choices seem more natural, but Rowling is like, a Fine Writer, technically speaking. meaning she's reasonably consistent in characterization, her plotting is well-paced and believable, she has a clear authorial voice, and her prose is readable. personally, that's not enough to get me to buy into some of the changes that happen in the later books, and because she stuffs these things so full with new elements every installment, a lot of stuff ends up getting glossed over.

And like, I still love the books. I think they're wonderful, and they taught me how to read. but i can say that and also say that Rowling probably did herself a disservice by trying to write four giant war novels as sequels to her first three mystery children's books.

[nerdygaymormon]

I understand this may sound almost childish but how do you handle your emotions when upsetting discourse takes place in a meeting?

Just got out of Elders Quorum and while most of the discussion was held with good intentions, it started to dip into good ol’ Holier than Thou ‘but not really’ and more particularly referencing a Seminary Q&A panel question with the answer of ‘Mastery of self’ comparing Being LGBTQIA+ is just as much a matter of Self Mastery as any other struggle (Cis/Hetero attraction and porn brought up as The Same)

While I had suspected it to take that turn, I knew I was too emotionally charged in the moment and didn’t speak up for the sake of not rocking the boat in turbulent waters so to speak, despite having several ideas to deepen discussion (as well as time running out) . Especially with the debate as to come out then and there to Make a Point. But more importantly and impactful of the point of “Let’s Ask Questions” instead of Push out Guidance

There were some more compassionate voices that soothed it somewhat but I don’t know how to handle it as of the moment. Should I bring it up again in the future?

Do you think it’s just an age/experience thing? Where as I get older I’ll have a better grasp on myself?

Oof, that's tough.

The idea that they're comparing being queer to being cis/hetero is rich because the LDS Church encourages people to act on being cis/hetero and rewards them, while telling queer people that being queer is alright as long as you don't act on it. If queer people were treated the same, had the same teachings that we'd be rewarded in heaven, then that would be an apt comparison, but this is not the reality we live with.

It's especially hard to be in discussions like this when you're not out of the closet. For one thing, people feel free to share their hot takes when they don't think there's any queer people present. Another is that being in the closet makes it difficult to speak in response, being able to speak openly as a queer person gives you a certain power.

When I was in the closet and those types of lessons happened, especially when I wasn't expecting a discussion on LGBTQ topics, sometimes I just didn't have the spoons to speak up. I would keep my head down, or at some point I would get up and leave the room.

Even as someone who is out, these types of impromptu conversations in a lesson are difficult. Once, instead of speaking up as the lone queer person, I instead spoke to the bishop afterwards about the comments made and the problems with them. He asked what I wanted done to correct the situation and offered several proposals.

To be a queer Latter-day Saint means to be resilient. Here's a few ideas on how to build your resilience:

Build a group of friends you can talk to about these things. Other queer members are good for this, and they can be online or irl. It helps a lot to be understood.

Counter the negative things said about queer people, even if it is just you telling affirmative things to yourself. Do not let negative words go unchallenged because the subconscious has a way of accepting those things.

When I hear things like that, I think to myself these 3 questions: Does that sound like the God I know? Do these words fit with the two great commandments about love? Do I resemble the queer people they're describing? So often the answer to all 3 of these is a resounding NO and I know I can ignore what they're saying.

Think about ways you can respond in the future so that you're prepared. One that I love is if the question is asked "What is something evil that people today consider good?" Raise your hand immediately and without waiting to be called on blurt out "Homophobia and queerphobia" as that makes it uncomfortable for others to say gay marriage or being queer is evil. Here's a few more phrases you can have ready: "These are real people you're talking about, would they feel welcomed and loved if they were here today?" "When I face my maker, I don't think it'll be said that I loved people too much, so I'm going to err on the side of love." "I'm commanded to love my neighbor not my church."

Being in that situation can be anxious and stressful. Learn some breathing techniques that can help calm your body..

I think one thing that makes it difficult to be in these situations as a closeted person is often we haven't experienced queer joy. Being queer shouldn't be defined by only pain or trauma. Queer joy is different than Pride, by which I mean it's not a big celebration, but often is small things such as having a queer friend, eating cake at the wedding of a gay couple, the satisfaction at seeing queer people in a leadership role, learning about queer history and the many ways queer people have worked to make life better, when you embrace the freedom to dress and be yourself, when someone gives you a compliment related to you being queer, and so on.

If you have access to therapy, I recommend it. If you're a college student in the US, your student fees likely cover access to see a therapist on campus. If not, perhaps your insurance will cover sessions with a therapist. The university where I work offers therapy to the community at a discount rate, it's a way for those who aren't licensed to get hours while being supervised by a professor.

Straight Mormons cannot effectively teach what queer Mormons actually experience. Those who aren't close to a queer family member or friend cannot speak knowledgably. Unfortunately most LGBTQ Latter-day Saints have been pushed out and aren't available inside the church and collectively the church is poorer for it.

Here's a novel thought, I wish they would focus more on presenting the actual message and teachings of Christ, what a different world this could be.

[yellowocaballero]

omg i love it when you do a wip in title game, talk about tim's desperate longing for cocaine?

So that's a sequel to an unposted story! The story is the covid puppy one, which i also just posted a snippet of. But I honestly think I can post it here without spoiling the story too much. Some nuance is lost (Tim is a paranoid freak about literally everyone but Cass, so his trust of Jason is extremely notable) but the gist can be related.

It's definitely my own take on the "Jason rejoins the family" trope. And a look at it in this universe. Which, uh....Jason, you aren't the most evil guy here...you're in 90s Batman, Jason. Everybody is a fucking antihero. You aren't special.

Jason and Tim brotherly bonding under the cut.

Tim stared at the burger, wondering if he was being kidnapped.

It was nice. Not a Gotham street burger, fried on a spitting grill outside on a summer’s day and sandwiched between two freshly baked slices of bread and oozing sauteed onion. This burger had processed cheese and a spicy mustard. There was avocado. Tim didn’t know what avocado was doing on a burger. 

Tim’s kidnapper slash new friend seemed to hold a similar opinion about the placement of avocado on otherwise God-fearing food, but he happily shoved his own identical burger into his mouth anyway. Tim watched him eat in a morbid (hah?) fascination. He savored every second of it. He looked downright blissful about it, accepting the burger precisely for what it was and finding rapturous joy within that fact. The 24/7 diner was abandoned, so Tim couldn’t call for help. 

He finished most of the burger in a few huge bites, as Tim poked at his perky lettuce and checked for exits. The man leaned back and sighed, stretching his arms high above his head as his shoulders popped. 

“They don’t make ‘em like that in Saudi Arabia!” The man said cheerfully. He looked and sounded much older than he was, but he was wriggly and bouncy like a man barely out of a very active teenagerhood. “ ‘Course, they don’t make ‘em like that in Gotham either. Can’t believe we couldn’t find a real all night diner place in Bludhaven. Actual fuckin’ Bludhaven! Talk about turbo mega bass boosted gentrification. Look at this menu. Says diner style. Style! It’s got vegetarian options! God, so lame. Makes me miss the slums. Why ain’t you eatin’?”

“Am I being kidnapped?” Tim asked, just to clear the air. 

“Why would you think that?” the man said, withdrawing a gun from his shoulder holster.

Bells tinkled behind them, soft voices murmuring as two pedestrians escaped the windy night into the safe confines of the diner. The man shot at the ceiling. 

“Hey!” He called. “Private fucking conversation, you two?” The people screamed and fled, and the man stuffed the pistol back into his holster with no small amount of satisfaction. He turned back to Tim, picking up his burger again. “So why would I be kidnapping you?”

Tim wondered if gentrified diners sold wine.

“Anybody ever tell you that you have the most demented stare, kid? You look like a vulture tapping your watch and waiting for me to give you lunch.” The man took another big bite of his burger, and Tim sat silently so as to not interrupt his enjoyment of the food. Through a mouthful of burger, the man said, “Eat up, you’re too skinny.”

Tim ate, and they sat together in silence finishing their food. Experimentally, Tim closed his eyes and tried to eat his own burger the same way the man was eating it - glean the same sublime enjoyment from bun and meat and pickle and avocado.

He couldn’t. Tim had burgers all the time, he couldn’t find G-d in them. But he could still slow down and taste each individual ingredient, letting them meld on his tongue. The sweet starch, the tang of vinegar. Grease pooling on his tongue and coating the lid of his mouth. It was a new experience, as every experience was unique in its own way: approaching the burger exactly as it was, without super-imposing any other ideas or standards. Eating it without comparing it to burgers of the past or superimposing better burgers on top of it. Ignoring that avocado shouldn’t go on burgers. Existing in that moment, with that burger. Experiencing the world simply as it was. Rejecting nothing.

Tim opened his eyes, and saw Jason Todd staring at him with sickly green eyes. 

If he was to be honest with himself. Tim rarely was. 

“Good?” Jason asked softly. 

“Ra’s?” Tim asked. Jason grinned jaggedly, something sharp that broke itself, but Tim just shook his head again. “No. Longest known post-death resurrection was four days post-mortem. Jason hadn’t even been buried yet. It’s impossible.”

“I was beginning to think you didn’t even recognize me.” Jason’s eyes were unnaturally fluorescent, and in dim lighting Tim could see a faint green shine to them. The Pit had been involved. Healing him after the revival, probably. Kind of mean to save a guy from death and not even heal his mortal wounds. “I do look a lot like Jason Todd, don’t I? Do you think I’m him?”

Tim hesitated. Jason saw it. He smiled even wider, crooked yellow teeth flashing in the dim lights. There was some lettuce on one of his teeth. 

“Go on,” Jason said. “Guess. Try it.” Tim sat silently, picking at his sandwich. “Guess. And stop playing with your food.”

Tim took a bite, chewing three times before swallowing. “Ghost of Jason. Different ghost. Supernatural creature from Jason. Different supernatural creature. Alternate reality. Alternate dimension. Different plane. Hypothetical.” Tim slurped a strip of lettuce before thoughtfully adding, “I could be drugged.”

“In pretty much all of those instances I sound like somebody who’d be kidnapping you.” Jason was clearly a little impressed by how many possibilities Tim could list. It was the Bat-training. “For a kid who’s feeling pretty kidnapped you’re not acting very kidnapped.”

“Do you want me to act kidnapped?”

Jason’s eye twitched a little, and he squeezed his bare hand into a fist. Tim watched the motion carefully. Jason exhaled, shaking out his hand, and took a long drag of his Coke.

“So glad I changed plans,” Jason muttered. “It woulda been such a let down. Bet you wouldn’t even have screamed. You woulda just, like, looked at me. Freaky kid.”

“Should I be screaming right now?” Tim asked, confused. 

“What, just to make me feel better?”

Tim shrugged. 

A shrill ringtone burst through the air, and Tim and Jason both jumped. They both looked around wildly for a second before simultaneously remembering that cell phones were a thing, and Tim quickly dug his flip phone out of his cargo pocket.

Tim held it carefully between two fingers, making it clear that he wasn’t about to open it. “Can I answer this time?” Jason scowled. “He’s not going to stop calling. In another twenty minutes he’s going to activate the tracker.”

Jason scowled, withdrawing his pistol. He aimed it at Tim, snapping his fingers and cuing Tim to slowly pass it over to him. He flipped it open with one gnawed fingernail and accepted the call, pressing the speakerphone button and handing it back over as he kept the pistol pointed at Tim.

Tim pressed the phone against his ear, heart beating hard. “Hey, Dick.”

“What the hell, Tim! Where have you been? Your curfew was three hours ago! Why haven’t you returned my calls?”

Uh. Tim looked at Jason, eyes wide. He didn’t know what was a proper kidnapped response to this situation. Or if the kidnapped response was the appropriate response. Tim felt vaguely as if he was here willingly. But he still somehow felt kidnapped about it. 

Clearly, Tim mouthed, ‘What do I say?’. Jason looked distant, clearly catapulted into a dusty memory. Tim wondered if Dick had ever yelled at him over where the hell he was. The feeling was exceptionally strange. 

 “I was really busy, sorry.” Tim didn’t enjoy being in charge of this situation. If Jason was going to go through all of the trouble to kidnap him, he should at least take responsibility for why Tim disappeared. “I actually might not be home for a while. Lot of stuff’s happening here. You wouldn’t believe it.”

There was a heavy pause over the phone before Dick spoke again. His words were very calm and measured, which was probably the point of the pause. “We made an agreement, Tim.”

Tim winced. “Yeah.”

“I’ve been keeping my end of it. It really hasn’t been easy, but we’ve been working on this together. Why are you breaking your promise to me?”

Dick was the master of the guilt trip. It was awful. Tim was building up a resistance but he didn’t have full tolerance. The words made a heavy stone of guilt sink in his stomach. Jason just looked impressed. “That really isn’t my intention here, Dick, I swear. I’m not trying to make this happen, it just - happened?”

“Then what happened?”

“Hold on?”

Tim turned off speakerphone and put his hand over the keypad of the phone to muffle the speaker. Jason had shook himself back into the moment, and was making an elaborate series of facial expressions. Tim did not care. “What am I supposed to tell him?” Tim hissed. “He’s not going to let me just run off with you. And he’s not going to let you run off with me!”

“He sounds tired,” Jason said, seemingly randomly. “Do you hear that? He sounds like a fish in a carnival bag that a little girl’s shaking up. I thought he wasn’t even in Gotham during No Man’s Land.”

“He’s twenty six and he got stuck taking care of two sixteen year olds, leave him alone.” There may be some parenting going on here, but Tim wasn’t really sure. He had no frame of reference. Bruce would worry about where he was too, and look how that turned out. “Look, maybe we can - like, do this later? When it’s less obvious I’m sneaking out?”

“You’re the one who got on the bike!”

“Do you think I wanted you to drag me out to fucking Bludhaven? I told you I didn’t want to come here, you didn’t listen!”

That made Jason’s face twist, eyes flashing, and the pistol jolted. “You aren’t the boss here, kid. I am. I’ve waited three years to do this and I don’t want to wait another stupid second just because Dick’s in a housewife tizzy. Make him fuck off, we have a lot of ground to cover tonight.”

“Jesus, fine. This’ll be easier if you stop pointing a fucking gun at me, you know.”

Alright. That was easier said than done. Tim wasn’t very good at lying to Dick, and Dick was ridiculously talented at sniffing them out. But Tim had absolutely zero intention of sharing the Jason thing yet. He was replacing the gun in the holster and scowling darkly, and Tim knew that he couldn’t introduce Jason to his family like this. If it was Jason. He couldn’t show the Waynes a Jason shaped guy like this. He didn’t want to risk anybody in the organization mistaking Jason for a Jason-shaped monster and dispatching him with extreme prejudice. If he was, in fact, Jason, and not a Jason-shaped monster. 

Tim took his hand off the keypad, turning speakerphone back on and replacing it on the table. “Sorry about that. You still here?”

The response was immediate. “Sure am. Everything alright?”

“By my definition. Look, Dick, uh.” G-d, how was he supposed to explain this. “Look, I need to tell you something and you need not to freak out. Because it’s not a big deal. I’m perfectly safe and everything’s fine.”

“You’re not filling me with a lot of confidence, Tim,” Dick said easily. He didn’t sound so mad anymore, or even like he was pretending not to be mad. He had completely chilled out. 

Right. That was good. There was no way he was worse than Bruce, but less insane about Tim or Cass getting kidnapped than Bruce was a very low bar. “I’ve kinda sorta been kidnapped. I’m fine! But I can’t super come home right now.”

“You really don’t sound like a guy who’s being kidnapped,” Dick said. Did he not believe him?! “Will you just come home already? I’m making chicken noodle soup.”

Jason groaned and muttered under his breath about old chestnuts. 

“I could eat,” Tim agreed. AKA: Yes, I’m not being coerced to say this, it’s of my own free will. “Look, I don’t sound like a guy who’s being kidnapped because I’m fine and things would only become not fine if you sent anybody after me. If you don’t escalate the situation then everything is going to be just fine. I’ll be back as soon as I can, okay? Like, less than a week, I swear.”

Dick was silent for a second before saying, “Can I talk to the other person now?”

“Wait, you believe me?”

“I want to talk to the other person.”

Tim shot pleading eyes at Jason. Jason had the distinct pinched look of someone who was now realizing that things had gone a bit out of control. Well! That one was on him! Tim had just wanted to get chili dogs or something! 

Jason grabbed his helmet sitting on the table next to him, unlatching a little speaker in the rim and pulling it out. His voice modulator was detachable - useful for situations like this. “I’ll drop him back off at your doorstep in three days, Nightwing. If I see hide or hair of Batman, his little friends, or this one’s fucking boyfriend, he’s dead. Got it?”

“That was very confrontational,” Tim said reproachfully.

“Well, damn, Tim, didn’t know I was supposed to be polite about it!”

“It wouldn’t hurt. Alfred says that manners matter.”

“What matters is how incompetent your damn family is at keeping Robins un-kidnapped. Let’s call this a valuable life lesson, huh?” Jason tapped the speaker, and Tim knew that Dick could hear the sneer. “Your first fuck-up was embarassing enough, Dick Grasyon? I thought you never made the same mistake twice.” An old Bruce adage. “Hopefully the lesson fucking sticks this time. But if a crowbar didn’t do it then I doubt five days out of sight will.”

“Did you not believe me when I said he never got over it!” Tim cried, frustrated. “How many times do I have to -”

“You are the most annoying fucking teenager I’ve ever met.”

“And you’re the rudest young adult.”

“Five days,” Dick said, “I’ll see you then. Tim?”

“I’m really sorry for worrying you, Dick,” Tim said miserably. “My new friend’s just a jerk who didn’t want to bond with me normally.”

“Bond?” Jason squawked.

“Sure. Dick’s big into the bonding.”

“Since when!”

“You are well aware since when.”

“Favoritism-ass motherfucker -”

“Tim,” Dick cut through, and despite everything both younger brothers quieted. It was The Voice. “You’re just as good at managing people as ever, right?”

“Still my job,” Tim said, long suffering. Jason squinted at him, and Tim elaborated, “Bruce is a fucking dick and I was always trying to get him to calm down so he wouldn’t flip out on us.”

Jason’s face tightened. It wasn’t the first tidbit about Tim’s home life that he had dropped, and he had moved from incredulous to thoroughly pissed. “And this is why I’m fucking kidnapping you, you brainwashed-ass -”

“Then I’ll trust you on this one,” Dick said, calm and sure. “I won’t send anybody. Don’t destroy your phone and call every morning, alright?”

Tim sagged in relief. “Got it. Thanks, Dick. You got no idea, but this is really the best possible outcome. I got it handled.” He hesitated, wondering if it was the right thing to say - if Dick would understand what he meant, where the words came from within his heart. He said it anyway. “This guy would never hurt me.”

Of course, that was deeply offensive to Jason. “You’re fucking kidding me -”

Dick hummed it was hard to tell if he understood. “If you say so, I believe you. Be careful, Tim.  And hey, stranger?”

“Stranger,” Jason announced, rolling the word on his tongue. “I guess after a while that’ll always come true again. Stranger’s just an asshole you haven’t met yet.”

“We didn’t tell anybody about the crowbar,” Dick said, and Jason froze. His eyes widened. Tim ate a strip of lettuce. “I don’t know how you found out, or what you want from Tim, or what Tim wants from you. But when I meet you, we are going to have a nice long talk about using a kid’s murder to mock his brothers. And you are going to keep him out of your fucking mouth.”

Jason’s eyes widened further, and he jammed the end call button. A little frantically, although he would deny it.

He grabbed the phone, jabbing at Tim in a way he probably meant to look intimidating. It was just a little funny. “I - do not say that again. I climbed out of a Lazarus pit, buddy. Those things stick a lobotomy hook up your nose and swirl your brain around like spaghetti. They flash boil brains. I’m not joking. I’m nuts. Cuckoo. Cuckoo in an oak tree. Are you listening to me?”

Tim munched a fry. “Sure, whatever.”

“Sure, wha - do you even know what I meant to do to you tonight?”

“Kidnap me?”

“No! No, that wasn’t in the fucking - I was going to -” 

“You didn’t,” Tim said. It was partly selfless: he didn’t want to make Jason say it. Make him feel like a bad person when he really wasn’t. But it was a little selfish too: he didn’t want to hear Jason say it. “So it’s no problem. Okay? I got time off school and PTO from work. Where are we going?”

Jason leaned back in his seat, flabbergasted. “You’re serious.”

“I have faith in you, Jason,” Tim said. “You’ve never disappointed me.”

Jason just shook his head as the poison receded from his eyes, strange and lost. “You’re meeting your hero in the flesh for the first time and I’m waving a gun at you. I haven’t crushed any little dreams at all?”

“I’m just happy to see you, honestly.”

“Then we’re both nuts.”

“Yay,” Tim said blandly. “Brotherhood.”

Jason rolled his eyes, the motion a juvenile relief. “Gonna have to kick Dick out of the club. He’s the normal one.”

“Dick is insane as shit.”

“Seriously? Do you have any normal adults in your life? Don’t tell me Alfred joined a fight club while I was gone.”

“Fine, I won’t tell you.”

This obviously actively distressed Jason. “You’re joking. That’s a shitty-ass joke, right? You’re pulling my leg.”

“If you let me go home then I can smuggle out a bonafide Alfred Meal for you,” Tim suggested. “He’s always giving Dick and Cass and me giant tupperwares of pasta. If you start acting normal then I can hook you up.”

Jason’s eyebrow twitched. His resting bitch face was on a different level. It somehow filtered every ordinary expression into a promise of homicide. “Normal, huh? What’s normal? You don’t give a shit that I’m crazy, but you aren’t tryin’ to get me crawling back to the old man. You ain’t so eager for a happy family reunion.”

“Are you serious?” Hadn’t Jason picked up on this by now? Tim hadn’t been subtle. “Dick’s Sunday dinners are awful enough. I wouldn’t subject you to that. Or myself. Talk about awkward central.” Tim took a large bite of his burger, masticating thoughtfully. In reckless disregard of his short childhood of manners indoctrination, he garbled, “Kidnapping aside, better ‘long time no see’ than what happened with Dick. That almost ended in superhero CPS.”

Flatly, Jason said, “Kidnapping aside.”

“If I’m being kidnapped,” Tim allowed. 

Jason stared at him for a long second, expression inscrutable outside of misdirected and malformed rage. Almost anybody else couldn’t see what lay underneath. But Tim had learned how to read body language from the best, and he spoke the language of death in clunky syllables. Tim could see into the sickly green pools of Jason’s eyes. 

They were lost. Jason’s world had changed beyond all identification, and he no longer knew where he stood. There was no path home. 

Tim couldn’t fight the swell of pity inside of him. He was still invested in Jason’s happiness. Honestly? Bit bizarre of him. 

Unfortunately for him, Jason had seen the pity too. A blaze of anger consumed everything else inside of him, and he abruptly slid out of the booth. He grabbed his red helmet and spun the keys around one finger. “Dickhead probably traced that call. The casino’s a long drive, so get your ass in gear.”

No shit it was a long drive. Atlantic City was on the other end of Jersey. Tim hadn’t left his city in three years. The idea of traveling so far away from home, of leaving -

“Do you even know how to pump your own gas? Because I don’t know either and I’m not sure that I could help.”

It was thrilling. But it wasn’t necessary. Tim would have followed Jason anywhere. 

Jason grabbed the handgun on the table, pointing the barrel straight at Tim’s forehead. “The only job of kidnapped teenagers is to shut the fuck up and do what I say. Now move.”

Tim would follow Jason anywhere. But clearly Jason didn’t know that. Tim wouldn’t bother saying it. Jason didn’t seem like the type to believe it. Maybe he was kidnapping Tim to make himself feel better? Cass would know. G-d, this adventure would really put Tim and Cass’ tentative ability to spend days without seeing each other to the test. 

Tim pointed at Jason’s half-eaten burger. “Are you gonna eat that?”

“Fucking move!”

Tetchy.

[cozymochi]

Does Nyoka have a British accent if he ever gets an english voice? :3

Probably not.

YAPPING UNDER CUT

I guess where I would start is… something comparable to Christian Slater’s original performance as Ushari (which, lmao wtf was J.D from Heathers doing in silly animal cartoon). Slater already has a unique sounding voice to begin with, but the Ushari voice is definitely at a slight lower register than his natural speaking voice. It’s “snakelike” with some “s” sounds being drawn out like a hiss once in a while. He speaks pretty quietly and even politely, which was probably the point. I don’t have much information on how the performance came about, but these are the conclusions I came to when I had to do actual studying.

^ Basically the above is what led me to determine Nyoka’s general character direction translated into anime tropes and inspired his JP voice claim.

I did once put the English Dub track over this JP voice claim animatic, and I really liked it. Loved it even. THE PERFORMANCE is ideal I loved the slight gruffness or rumble underlining the formal speech patterns is 😳😩😩😩👍👍👍😔😩 yes god. It’s a bit different from the original JP performance, but shoving that over my animatic was like 👁️👁️ I for one welcome different takes that still eat.

But, that VA would not be his ENG voice claim only because I think it would be in my better interest to locate a POC actor. No shade though, he is so so good. I do not have any ENG voice claims in mind, just… a direction. Which brings me to my third directional inspiration-

I also liked this other “Oh I’m so formal and stoic, but WUH OH I BECOME UNHINGED” performance from an yugioh spinoff anime english dub. The character also has strong Nyoka energy, and the performance within the anime is certainly what I’m looking for. (I’d reference the voice tracks in games, but the direction was… not great. Not any of the VAs faults at all. 4kids music doesn’t really help hear the good performance in the anime :(( ) The voice is very smooth and matter of fact, which I love.

Unfortunately, aside from the VAs name, he’s not in much else outside of two characters in that entire franchise, and is very hard to find much information about the guy. I’ve tried many times. I can only assume based on his credited name that he might be of Middle-Eastern descent, but that’s all I really have. And for Nyoka who is both of Sunset Savanna and Scalding Sands descent, that’s a bit more of what I’m looking for (I’m not too specific on this as a result). The voice is 🫣 so perfect, but, again, with only two known characters under his belt I can’t determine the range as accurately.

I think if THAT guy was given very specific direction that reflects Christian Slater’s Ushari and maybe even Dub!Reiji Sakamaki, I’d be cooking SO MUCH. Unfortunately, that hypothetical example in my mind does not exist and not enough examples.

…Which again, for english voice claims, I do not have any. Just… performances that are comparable and hypothetical direction.

But, until TWST itself gets any dub for it’s own anime (Which I think is extremely likely), I can’t exactly hone in on much. Sometimes a talent pool can help me out, especially of it comes to discovering new talent.

Or y’know, I watch new stuff in general. But, I do not.

The only “”accent”” in question that he has is the snakelike “s” being drawn out once in a while, but that’s not a hard rule at all.

I feel like for Nyoka, I wouldn’t know what would be utterly perfect it until I heard it. I would like a formal/polite speaking, lower register, calm almost stoic voice with an underlying roughness that kinda would foreshadow that he probably isn’t as docile as he seems. Sprinkle in some snake-isms for some spice and *DIES*

But hey if the hypothetical actor in question naturally already had a british accent and it happened to sound really good coming out of Nyoka’s mouth, I’d probably be okay with it. I’m one of those people that are open to different takes.

Otherwise, probably not.

^LOOK HOW DELUSIONAL I AM NYOKA ISNT EVEN REAL AND WILL NEVER BE VOICED PROFESSIONALLY BY ANYBODY ANYWHERE IN ANY LANGUAGE LMFAOOOOO

And I ain’t no voice director lulz

[dailydemonspotlight]

Dante - Day 151

Race: Fiend Occupation: Devil Hunter Alignment: Neutral, with the Devil May Cry Agency January 13th, 2025

Okay, okay, this might seem stupid, but... I wanted to cover Dante for today for one reason, and one reason alone. A joke that only made sense in my head. 151 is the amount of Pokemon there are in Gen 1, right? And people say that SMT is just demonic Pokemon, so why not cover a crossover demon from SMT for the Pokemon number? Yeah, it only worked in my head. Still! Dante! While the fact that it's DMC Dante is just a victim of a stupid bit, Dante is an incredibly interesting figure to dig into, historically speaking- he's far more than just the silly, pizza eating devil hunter that Devil May Cry fans are familiar with. I'm not gonna be talking about his appearance in DMC, as that's not really the purpose of this blog (though I do fully recommend the DMC games, they're fucking fantastic,) but I do want to talk about the man from whom Dante got his name: Dante Alighieri.

Dante Alighieri was a complicated man, to say the least. Born to a rather modest Italian family in 1265, much of his life is recorded in his poetry, as he was an avid author and poet. Betrothed and set to marry someone- a girl named Gemma Donati- at the ripe age of 12, Dante was unfortunately in love with someone completely opposite, Beatrice Portinari. While this might seem like the setup for a romance book where they get together at the end in spite of their parent's protests, Dante instead spent his time pining over Beatrice and writing poems to her, frequent sonnets contained in the text Vita Nuova. What this is relevant to might seem strained on the surface, but Vita Nuova actually also serves as an important insight to Dante and his thought process- what led him to writing his most important work, and what'll make up the majority of this analysis: The Divine Comedy.

The jokes about the Divine Comedy being a piece of Bible fanfiction aren't... inaccurate, but it's doing a slight disservice to the work to proclaim it as just that when it really does expand on biblical study and serve as a fantastic piece of literature in-and-of itself. It's an honest to god masterpiece, and the reputation it's built up is well deserved. Split up into three works- Inferno, Purgatorio, and Paradiso- the multi-part series of poems goes into depth about the layers of Hell, Purgatory, and Heaven, as well as their roles and purposes in the grander scheme of things. Driven and shown around by his mentor and main inspiration, the Roman poet Virgil, Dante walks through and experiences a heavily layered metaphor of the consequences of sins and the prizes of virtues, with Virgil serving as the voice of reason throughout.

I can't get too in depth with the work, because I've only read bits and pieces and this is more of a summary, if anything, but Dante's Inferno is where a lot of the conceptions of hell even come from- each layer being based on a deadly sin is a commonly recurring motif throughout much of literature that talks about hell, as well as the idea of the layers themselves. Shit, the layers of hell in ULTRAKILL are literally just the layers of hell in Inferno! Still, the separation of Hell, Purgatory, and Heaven into layers is given a lot of weight, and while I do laugh at the fact that he kinda just put the people he doesn't like in hell and the people he does like in Heaven, the work overall serves as a multilayered metaphor for... a lot. It's incredibly complicated. Dante himself seemed to take inspiration from his own suffering and exile for the work, and it shows in how it develops and he uses it to understand his own issues- as it goes on and the comedy moves from part to part, the prose grows more beautiful and as Dante moves from Hell to Heaven, it begins to paint a picture of hope.

So, why was this guy chosen as the namesake of everyone(I think)'s favorite cocky devil hunter? I... don't know! It's probably due to the fact that Inferno is by far the most popular and influential work in the Divine Comedy, and it goes into depth about hell, demons, and devils, everything that Dante deals with on a daily basis. I personally haven't gotten very far into the DMC series (I'm only just starting 3) but from what I can tell, a lot of the literature themes seem to tie together in the whole family tree of Dante, Vergil, and later Nero. Many of the character's names are taken from poetry, after all. So, yeah. Not much else to talk about here, other than the fact that DMC is pretty coool. Also this blog is now featuring Dante from the Devil May Cry series.

[90shetfield]

Lessons - Jason Newsted x f!Y/N

When Y/N gets the opportunity to learn bass from Jason Newsted she takes it, excited to be learning from her literal idol. Is it only lessons though? Or is there something more to it as soon as she sets eyes on him..

Genre: Fluff W/ some suggestive themes at the end!

Word Count: 1376

Lessons

1991

You’ve always wanted to learn an instrument just not sure which one you would see. All these guitarists melting peoples faces off with their earth shattering distorted noise as they rip through a solo. Sure that was cool, but it just wasn't for you. The guitar is always an instrument that everyone wants to play. You much prefer being in the background focusing on laying down the rhythm section

Then the Bass came to mind. The bass could be one of those show off instruments or it can just be a foundation and you loved that. The low tones as you pluck the E string with your finger still not calloused yet from inexperience. Everything about this instrument made you more and more obsessed by the day. The all black matte body with a mahogany fretboard, every time you saw your bass in the corner of the room you would smile at how pretty it is.

Just one problem… You didn't know how to play it.

At all…

Sure you know that you can use your fingers as a walking pattern or even a pick, but you’re especially starting from nothing. None of your family members play instruments or even listen to that much music so you couldn't ask any of them. The next step was to find someone to help you learn the basics or even more to the instrument.

That's why you’re sitting in a random room in this guy's house while he gets something you can't even remember what he was getting. The room was filled with band posters and had a few stands for his basses. Some papers were scattered around leaving your eyes to gaze. One of the papers had a title on it called “my friend of misery”

Now you knew he was in Metallica trying so hard not to fangirl over THEE Jason Newsted but every time you saw his long curly locks or his grayish blue eyes you’d remember that the whole reason you’re learning this instrument was seeing how he played it. When you would watch their videos or interviews on MTV your eyes would be locked on the quiet and reserved bassist.

You heard the sound of the door opening, there he was flipping his hair out of the way handing you a bottle of water. You take it, cracking it open and sipping a little before placing it down on the floor.

“Sorry the rooms a little messy” He sighs trying to make it look a little presentable for you. He runs a hand through his hair letting out a soft grunt realizing he's not gonna get it all cleaned in 30 seconds. He sits down in front of you giving you a small smile.

“Oh don't worry about it Mr. Newsted!” you respond a little nervous, not even a little you were really nervous. From what you’ve heard he doesn't want anybody in his house for lessons. Somehow he still let you come though. Just the thought of that made you blush a tiny bit.

“You don't have to call me that, you can just call me Jason” He lets out a small laugh, grabbing one of his basses from the stand. Both you and Jason’s basses look almost identical, whether you did that on purpose or not, we’ll never know.

“Okay, so how much do you know about the bass?” His soft voice gives you reassurance, that it's okay that you don't know anything. “I-i- actually don't really know anything, I know you usually don't take people for lessons due to how you're a famous rockstar and everything but im really struggling. I decided to learn this really late” You look to the side avoiding his promising gaze. It's embarrassing to be such a beginner in front of a literal bass god!

He holds your chin in his hands lifting your face up. He smiles at you again immediately making all the thoughts of not being good enough disappear with one touch. Your cheeks flush up a slight hint of a dusty pink. God you hope he doesn't see how his touch is making you feel.

“Listen, I don't normally take people in general. Fame or not, but you have potential. I can see it. You’ve got connections how else would you have contacted me, you went for me instead of all the other bassists in the world I like you” He releases your chin from his grasp softly not wanting to hurt you. Your cheeks flush up even more. “Shit he can totally see it now” you tell yourself.

That was true, Your good friend used to work with Metallica actually and recommended Jason. She asked and he agreed on it surprisingly. Jason Newsted always just likes to sit back and be his own shoulder. You can tell that bothers him a lot though, being so alone at times.

“Okay enough of that let's get started!” Jason inched his chair closer to you resting his hand on his thigh.

“Do you know what an e string is?” You nod hitting the first string, The lowest one. His face lights up already looking so proud for such a little thing. He runs through the rest of the open notes with you doing little mannerisms that you pick up on. Everything he does is cute, the way he would guide your fingers to a string or when he would bite his lip in anticipation yelling out joyfully when you did get it.

----

Finally as the clock struck 8 pm he wanted to teach you a simple scale but you couldn't get it no matter what you did. Probably because your fingers hurt really bad being sore and aching from the non stop playing they’ve endured.

“Shit! Sorry Jason, I don't know whats getting over me” You answer honestly feeling scared that you couldn't get it.

“Here let me just show you” He gets up, gets behind you and kneels down. You feel his hot breath on the side of your neck as you tense up. Not because you were weirded out but because you were in such a close position with Jason. He took your hand in his placing your fingers on every single fret guiding you towards it. With every note change the air would get thicker and thicker.

His face turned to look at you. His eyes looking down at your lips then back up at your eyes. The grey tint in them almost makes them look mysterious. His lips part not wanting to look away from you. Your eyes flutter, taking your hand and wrapping it around his long hair.

“Y/N..” he muttered, clearly feeling this too.

“J-Jason” You inch your face closer to his seeing if he’ll take the bait.

He trails your jawline with his rough calloused finger looking at you deviously. He gripped your arm tightly probably leaving marks later  but you really didn't care. All you could think about was how he tasted

What are you doing though Y/N!? Yeah he's cute and he's just your type, but he's your mentor, the man you looked up too. You’re his student and he's the teacher. You guys might be the same age but it just doesn't feel right.

At the same time it feels so right… Like you’ve wanted this ever since you saw them live a couple of months ago.

You needed this, and clearly so did he because his lips crashed into yours pushing your bass out of the way he climbed on top of you still kissing you needily. Your bass ended up somewhere on the floor as you and Jason made out. He pulled away panting. His cheeks red and flustered with his soft pink lips. He looked like a mess and god was it hot.

“I'll see you next week then huh?” he giggled still catching his breath, he pecked your cheek before getting up from off of you running a hand through his hair again. The pink on both our cheeks is not going away anytime.

“Yeah next week” You respond tilting your head back trying to hide how happy you were.

Sorry if this is short or just not up to expectations!! I might make a part two depending how this goes!! I have a lot of other fics to finish and post so I'll be back for a little while but I'll probably be taking a break again just this fic was already finished so I thought I'd post it.

tysm for reading I love you all!! </3

-Maxine