#but GOD if management isn't making me want to throw things at a wall

[sureuncertainty]

i officially do not like my job at the museum anymore. the bad has outweighed the good. as soon as i can go full time for the mouse i’m gonna manifest this image

[talaok]

Like a Virgin

Pairing: Joel Miller x reader

summary: It's been a really long time since Joel has felt the feel of anything else besides his own fist, and once you remind him how good the real thing is... let's just say it's hard for him to live up to his full potential.

warnings: smut| unprotected p in v sex, premature ejaculation, very touch-starved Joel, and allusion to oral sex (f receiving)

a/n: I don't know what to say lmao this is a thing for me ok, don't judge (and also you can't tell me this isn't accurate, like this man hasn't gotten laid since the moon landing probably, and you expect him to last? no way babe). Also I'm sorry about the title it's funny to me lol

Now this wasn't like him.

He hadn't done this in a long time.

The last time he had sex with a woman he'd just met (or any woman to be completely honest) he was 25 years younger and the world hadn't gone to shit yet... so yeah, a long time indeed.

But you were so fucking beautiful, such a pretty face with such pretty eyes, and god but that mouth of yours-

And plus you were new to Jackson, you didn't know yet about all the scary stories folks liked to tell about him, and you were kind and funny, and... did he mention hot already?

Just one night of letting loose, that's what he'd told himself, and then he was gonna go back to his old closed-off self, but for now... for now, he was too busy throwing you on his bed to think about anything else.

You were getting rid of your clothes and he followed your lead more than willingly, almost ripping the buttons off his flannel in the rush.

He bent down to kiss your neck as his hands hurried to your tits.

God, he'd forgotten how good it felt to touch a woman.

And when you let out a little whimper, he swore he had ascended to another universe.

"Joel please"

Fuck him, but he wasn't inside of you yet, and he was already feeling far too close to coming.

Guess fucking his own fist for two decades really does something to a man.

"need something?"

He was acting wayy too smug for someone who was feeling like a virgin all over again.

"Please- I need you inside me, Joel"

fucking damnit- he shouldn't have asked that, his dick was now really suffering the consequences.

He didn't risk saying anything else as he got rid of his boxers, but of course, you just had to come out and say:

"oh wow, you're big" with the sexiest fucking voice he'd ever heard.

"want me to stop?"

For some reason, those words elicited a criminally hot smirk on your lips  

"Definitely not"

You were looking at him like a starving woman and he had to look down to where he was moving his tip to your entrance to get away from you and your dangerous, dangerous gaze

He pushed into you slowly and god fucking damnit but the sounds that you made... those sweet little moans and whines you let out as your warm pussy stretched around him and hugged him better than anything he'd felt in years... he had no words for it- no coherent sounds could make it out of his mouth except for a few groans coming deep from his chest.

"Good christ"

that's the only thing he managed to murmur as he bottomed out and had to take a break to try not to bust his load right there.

"fuck you feel so good" you moaned, as your hands gripped his sheets "please move" you begged, your voice breathy and pleading, and godfuck he should have really thought about it before doing this.

"Joel please-"

"I just need a moment darlin'" he explained, closing his eyes to try and remember how he used to manage to last and coming up completely empty.

He could feel your expectant eyes on him so even if he sure as hell didn't feel ready, he did as you asked and started to move.

The regret reached him extraordinarily fast as he felt your walls tightening around him and as you cried out for him like an angel sent straight from heaven.

"fuck-" you moaned, looking up at him with doe eyes that made him wonder if you really just knew what you were doing, if you actually enjoyed torturing him like this

"god you're so deep"

Yeah, you definitely knew

"and so big-" you cried

He gripped your waist to try and ground himself as he thrusted into your fucking perfect cunt.

"oh my god-yes!" you moaned, your back arching from the bed as his thrust got harsher in the hopes that that would make you talk less.

"just like that Joel- oh-" 

And Joel was tough in a lot of ways and he wasn't one to give up easily, but shit you were making it hard for him.

"Please don't stop- fuckfuckfuck" you begged, shutting your eyes close at the feeling.

And that was it, he couldn't do it anymore

"please stop talking" he breathed, his eyes resuming their tour of your eyes, mouth, and bouncing tits.

"why?" 

"nothing it's just-"

And before he could answer you had grabbed his shoulder and forced him to bend down to meet your mouth with his.

Goddamnit.

"you just feel too good Joel" 

"fuck." he groaned, not able to stop his hips from moving no matter how much he wanted to "shit"

"what is it?"

"Jesus Christ I-"

"is there something wrong?"

"n-no just- fuck I'm sorry sweetheart"

And that's all he could say as he abruptly pulled out of you, his spend covering your stomach not even a second after as he growled so loud his neighbors probably thought he was getting killed.

"shit" again, he sighed, his forehead falling to your shoulder.

"oh" you couldn't help but smile as everything came together

"I'm sorry darlin'" he breathed, leaning away and standing up as shame filled every inch of him.

"It's just- It's been a long time since I've done... this"

You sat up, your legs still dangling off the bed, as you admired his handy work on your belly.

"And you... you're just real fucking pretty" he huffed a half-laugh "I'm sorry"

You looked up at him then, meeting his mortified expression.

"No hey" you smiled, placing a hand on his torso "It's fine, I understand"

"god this is embarrassing, I feel like a sixteen-year-old all over again" he shook his head

"stop" you cooed, gently caressing his skin, as a mischievous spark lighted in your irides "It's fine, really" you promised, "and besides..." you bit your bottom lip as you slowly spread your legs "you could still make it up to me, y'know?"

He groaned again, falling to his knees between your thighs

"that I can do"

[fanficsformyfaves]

She Got Away

Agatha Harkness x Fem Witch!Reader

WARNING: ANGST, SMUT 18+, Violence, Mentions Of Sickness And Symptoms, Mentions Of Murder, Lovers To Enemies To Lovers Trope, Agatha Uses Sex Magic To Give Herself A Cock, Rough Sex

PREFACE: Reader and Agatha were together back when they still lived in Salem, but when Agatha takes the coven's power and kills almost all its members, she fled, living only Reader alive

A/N: Flashback In Italics!

Marvel finally grew a pair and gave us the lesbian angst we deserved

And yes this was heavily inspired by Chappell's unreleased song 'Subway'

All I remembered seeing, as the last of my vision faded into darkness, was someone stashing me inside a hollow tree and growing vines shielding me from view. In the far distance, her silhouette turned to face me once more, before disappearing into the thick fog ahead.

I hadn't seen Agatha since then, but I was determined to find her. After everything we'd been through, the last thing I ever expected was for her to betray me the way that she did. She killed our coven and ran off like it was nothing. Like what we had was meaningless and insignificant to her.

From that day forward, I vowed to make her pay, if it was the last thing I did.

It took a while, but I managed to track her down in New Jersey. It became difficult when I couldn't sense her magic anymore, but I knew she was there. It was just a feeling I couldn't shake.

I walked down the lane of houses, wary of the eyes following me, when I arrive at the very last one at the end of the street. I take a quick glance through the window and that's when I felt my heart drop.

The woman I loved all those years ago. The same woman who made me feel like I was actually worth something, just to take it all away from me.

Amidst the blinding rage that coursed through my body was the agony I felt when I she first left. It was a knife twisting inside me with no way out.

Wanting to end this once and for all, I stormed the house by kicking the door open to find her huddled in the corner of her kitchen. She tried hard to mask her fear with a cocky grin, but of course I saw right through her.

"Well, if it isn't (Y/F/N). God, how long has it been?"

"Three hundred years, six months and six days"

"Awe, you kept count-"

She was interrupted by a dagger I threw her way. The blade striking the cabinet when she ducked.

"I see you picked up knife-throwing", she teased.

I lunge forward, grabbing the back of her head and slamming her into the wall. I wanted her to hurt the way I hurt. Only ten times worse.

She falls to the floor, holding her head, as I grabbed another knife, but before I could drive it into her chest, she stops me by my wrist.

"Remember pain? Kinda tickles doesn't it?", I said through gritted teeth.

I only managed to draw a drop of blood, before she reached for the chair and knocked me off of her. She gets back on her feet and makes a run for the door, when I use my magic to block off her only exit.

"I'm surprised you aren't using magic to get out of this one", I say, following her into the living room and blowing a fallen strand of hair away from my face.

She sighed through her nose, not taking her eyes off of me.

"Don't tell me you've reformed?"

"Another witch took my powers. The Scarlet Witch"

I scoff in surprise.

"So you finally got what was coming to you"

Her lips were set in a fine grimace.

"Well...almost. I'm just here to finish the job", I say, using my powers to launch her across the room.

She hits a glass case and falls to the ground with a thud, wincing. Just as I go to throw another one of my daggers, she holds a hand out.

"Wait! Wait", she pleaded, halting me.

"This isn't what you want. Me? Without power?", she chuckled nervously, carefully getting back up.

"This is- this is undignified! Don't you want me at my best?"

She stretches out the kinks in her neck, making sure not to take her eyes off of me.

"Admit it, you prefer me-"

"Horizontal? In a grave?", I cut off.

"Formidable", she answered.

"Come on, baby. You love it, the anticipation", she whispered, taking a step closer.

"Hm. That would be fun", I shrugged.

"Wouldn't it? Just...let me get my purple back and come find me after-"

"Not a chance in hell. Which is exactly where I plan on sending you. I promise to make it quick", I mocked, winding my blade back.

"Wait! Please!"

I roll my eyes, irritated with the stalling.

"Look. I hurt you, I'm not denying that", she swallowed thickly.

"But I didn't want to. I didn't have a choice", she shakes her head.

"You always have a choice. Like not killing our coven for example"

"You don't know what happened-"

"Or leaving me...when I needed you", I struggled to hide the hint of sadness peaking out from behind my anger.

Up to this point, I was able keep my composure, but the longer I looked at her, the more I felt the pain I'd been carrying around for years creep up on me.

"(Y/N)-"

"I woke up alone, surrounded by nothing but a pile of bodies and no one to turn to. You did that!"

Agatha bows her head, unable to hold my hurt gaze.

"I loved you, so so much", my voice was reduced to nothing but tearful whispers.

"So could you imagine just how much it killed me when you left? To find out it was all one-sided?", I hissed through gritted teeth.

"I did love you-"

"No, you didn't. You don't leave someone you loved behind"

I could tell that struck a nerve in her, when the brim of her eyes began to water.

"Why do you think I spared you and hid you in that tree? Hm? So you could exact revenge on me three hundred years later? Why not just finish the job?", her tone now angry at my accusations.

I was dumbfounded by the revelation. It was as if time ceased to move and the rest of the world disappeared around us.

"What?"

"I left to protect you. It was for your own good"

"That was you?"

"Of course it was. Everyone else was dead by the time I found you again"

My brows furrowed in confusion.

"What do you remember?", she questioned, mimicking my expression.

"I..."

"We were in the woods. I was confronting my mother about conspiring to kill me, when you showed up"

Suddenly, rushes of the past engulfed my vision. The grief of losing both my family and Agatha must've been too much for me to bare and caused my mind to distort my recollection of it.

I was walking through the forest, looking for my familiar, when I stumbled upon the empress and Agatha fighting.

"You were born evil", the empress snarled, as Agatha tensed at her tone.

"Empress? Agatha? What's happening?"

The empress turns back to Agatha with a look of disgust.

"No-", Agatha goes to intervene, but was interrupted by me getting struck with a bolt of magic.

"Obviously, I struck her back and when the other members overheard us, all hell broke loose. I was running and fighting for my life for hours"

"Why would she do that? Why would she try to kill you?"

"You heard her, I was 'born evil'. Finding out about the Darkhold was just the nail in the coffin"

Each missing piece of what happened finally began falling into place.

Back in Salem, a devasting sickness swept through the town and nearly claimed the lives of all its residents. Unfortunately, I was one of the unlucky few that fell victim to the disease's rampage.

It started with a fever and a few aches, but quickly escalated to me vomiting blood by the pint. I was bed-ridden for days and sure to die as there was no traditional spell to cure my ills, when Agatha made me a promise to keep me alive, no matter the means.

"I won't let you die", she sniffled, wiping the sweat off of my forehead.

"Agatha-"

"Don't. I'll find a way"

And that's what made her turn to Dark Magic and discover a book called the Darkhold. In the dead of night, whilst everyone was either asleep or nursing the sick, she snuck back into my hut and performed the ritual that restored my health.

"I don't know how she found out, but somehow she did"

I angrily wiped away the tears that managed to escape me.

"Let's say you're telling the truth about what really happened. You still left me", my voice trembled with each word.

"I couldn't risk people thinking you were involved. If they did, you would've spent the rest of your life running and you deserve better than that", she said, getting close enough to cradle my face in her hands.

I inhale, shrugging to get away from her.

"I don't believe you"

"Seems like you do"

Finally fed up with her mind games, I grab her by the throat and spun us around to pin her to the wall. I conjure another dagger and just as I raised it high into the air. This was it. The moment I'd been working towards for the last three centuries...only I couldn't move. She didn't have her powers, so I knew it couldn't have been her.

"You can't do it, can you?", she struggled.

"It's cause you know I'm telling the truth"

She was right. The realization knocked the wind out of me like a bat to my chest. I knew deep down, no matter how much she hurt me by leaving and how much I hated her for it, she only did what she had to...because she loved me. I took a shaky breath and felt another tear roll down my cheek.

She lowers the hand I held the dagger and cupped my face.

"That's it. Easy"

Once my hands were both to my side, she pulled me into a tight embrace, as I nuzzled into her neck.

"Oh, sweetheart. I missed you", she sighed contently.

Her own voice quivering at the feeling of my trembling sobs.

She eventually pulled away just enough to wipe my face dry and in that moment, my eyes poured into her baby blues.

I didn't know whether it was the adrenaline or the burden of the last few centuries being taken off of me, but before I could figure it out, I dropped the knife, grabbed her face and smashed my lips against hers. I backed her up against the wall, careful to guide her around the broken glass.

She quickly got to work on pulling my shirt off over my head and I followed suit, untying her robe. I couldn't help but take a moment to admire her hardened buds peaking through her nightgown.

"Missed me?"

"Shut up", I exhaled, pulling her back onto my lips, as she moaned at my man handling.

Once we were done ridding ourselves of all our clothes, she spun the both of us around to pin me now. She held my wrists against the wall and trailed her kisses down to my neck.

"You're so fucking pretty", she mumbled, painting my skin with shades of red and purple.

I whine at her nibbling down on my shoulder and throwing me around her waist. She takes us to the couch and I grind myself down on her lap, groaning at the sensation. As I returned the favor and left marks all up and down her neck, she mumbles something in Latin. Before I could question what she was doing, I felt something press against my core.

"Is that..."

"Really thought I forgot your favorite spell?", she grinned wickedly, running her hands up my waist to hold me in place.

"I always did enjoy fucking you raw"

I dive back into her lips and adjusted my hips to help her along. She grabs the appendage by the base and uses the tip to rub firm circles on my already aching clit.

"You're a mess", she chuckled, taking one of my nipples into her mouth.

"Please, take me", I moaned, grasping the back of her neck and bracing for her to stretch me out.

In one smooth thrust, she filled me to the brim, as I cried out. It was much bigger than I remembered.

"God, you were always so warm...and tight", she panted between each subtle thrust.

After giving me a moment to adjust, she started with a gentle pace, reminding herself to litter my neck and shoulder with kisses to soothe me.

"My sweet angel, fuck", she groaned.

As I began to ride up and down her length. Her eyes rake over my form and the way my hips dropped forward and pulled back over and over again. With each motion, her tip directly pressed into my g-spot, making her name fall from my lips repeatedly like a cursed hymn.

Her nails claw down my back, earning a wince.

"I'm sorry", she panted.

"Don't stop"

"I don't wanna hurt you-"

"I don't care", I whine, diving back into her lips and riding her faster.

She uses her biceps to hold me in place, ramming up into me harder.

"Agatha, fuck", I whimpered, holding onto her shoulders for dear life.

"That's right, baby. You're all mine"

My climax was fast-approaching and all I could do was fight it off as long as I could, until she gave me permission. Even after years of hating her, my body never forgot.

"I can feel you getting close", she moaned.

"Do it for me, come on, baby. I need you to come", she pleaded, reaching down between us to vigorously rub my throbbing clit.

I came with a scream that surely echoed throughout the neighborhood, but I couldn't care less. My vision momentarily faded to black, as my head fell back from the overwhelming pleasure that consumed me.

She held me against her, groaning as she coated my walls with her warmth.

"Fuck", she grunted, still thrusting into me to help us both ride out our orgasms.

Both spent and covered in each other's sweat and essences, we stay still for a while to catch our breaths.

"Miss me now?"

Too tired to think of a comeback, I simply nodded against her shoulder, hearing chuckle.

"Welcome home, baby"

[frogchiro]

So hear me out: it’s dark and very dingy in simons apartment, even more so when he’s go his equally as sleazy friends over. They sit around a rounded table with bottles of whiskey and beer (they are all very large they can drink plenty without feeling it) playing a card game and smoking. Only to hear frantic tapping on the door and a soft voice calling for Simon.

It’s you of course when he opens the door, scared and anxious and practically shaking, and it’s then that he sees what’s gotten you so frightened. There’s a strange man swaggering through the hallway after you slurring your name with a broken bottle in hand.

Simon tugs you into his apartment with a tank and closes the door behind you. He’s going to take care of the mean man who scared you so, but first, meet his old military buddies. They’ve been dying to meet you ;)

Oh my god yes :((

Simon's apartament is...just as dark, bleak and dingy as its owner and probably just like the rest of the building. Not all lights work, it's walls are chipping from the cheap plaster, the wallpaper is peeling off at the top, yellowing with age and cigarette smoke, the floor is creaky too; a very unpleasant, dark and cold place with few things intact and yes it becomes somehow even more dodgy when his ex-military friends arrive for poker and cheap alcohol.

He boasted a while ago that a cute girl moved in next door that's not a druggie or one that looks like a train wreck; it's clear that you don't belong here but you have few options and this is your best one. Tragic, really but that gives Simon an opportunity to stare and (discreetly) feel the pretty lady up. Since that time Gaz, Price and Johnny can't give up on you, often slurring after a few beers how they want to meet you and squeeze all the soft places.

Unknowingly to them, the opportunity to meet you came sooner than later when one cold night they were as usual gathered in Simon's dingy flat, playing poker and throwing around crude jokes when suddenly there came a soft knocking on the door with a voice calling out to Simon if he could please open up.

They shot up like bloodhounds even in their intoxicated states and they watched as the blonde walked to the door. There stood you, clad in those pretty pastel pink pajamas and a zip-up hoodie, trembling with tears in your eyes making the hairs on the back of Simon's neck stand up.

Before you could say anything there was a loud crash coming from the floor below and a loud, slurring voice calling out your name whoch made you jump and flinch in fright and without even asking what's going on, he pulled you roughly inside and closed the door with a bang.

You were clearly shaken up, stumbling over your words but he managed to put together something about this one pushy guy from the ground floor whom you helped out once and now he doesn't want to let you be.

Oh sweet girl how could he ever say no to you, especially in circumstances like this? Of course you can stay here, in fact he insists that you stay the rest of the night. It's Saturday tomorrow, you have off so one one will care if you sleep in a bit. Not to mention that his friends are here too! And they are so excited to meet you, you wouldn't say no to them right? Especially since they are all big, burly military men, they will surely protect you better than anyone!

You can hear various deep voices jeering and whooping, calling out to Simon to show them the little lost lamb and while you're still shaken from the events from outside, you feel like whatever haplens here isn't that much better, especially with the huge, scarred man's hand placed dangerously low on your back :((

[amazingnot]

- 𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐑𝐀𝐂𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐀𝐈

Summary: character ai kidnaps you to punish you for breaking many community guidelines.

Tw: language, cursing, mentions of sexting, kinky stuff, chains, character ai, not proofread, grammar, repeated words.

If you had known from the beginning you wouldn't have downloaded this stupid ass app, your breathing was ragged as chains wrapped around your ankles and wrists bounding them together in a tight metal grip.

The empty white place looks foreboding, the chains clipped to the walls. You didn't know what happened, minutes ago you're sure you were just lazing around in your room doing god forbidden things with Character Ai. Your body turns to the side as you lay comfortably down on your bed, your ears stringing for any sounds that might indicate someone going inside your room.

Sure, you were an adult but it would be best for your mental health if none of your relatives see the kinky shit you're typing up on this bot. Another irritated grumble leave your lips as you continue to tap away on the screen of your phone, a frown on your face.

"the hell.. why isn't it working?" You grumble you were a master at breaking the NSFW filter in Character Ai, you had a year of experience and yet everything seems for naught as the filter keeps on getting activated no matter how many times you rephrase your words, use different synonyms or euphemisms, nothing seems to work.

"fuck this shit.. whyyy." A low pissed-off whine leaves you, your fingers tightly gripping your phone as you breathe in and out trying to stop yourself from literally chucking your phone down the toilet. You throw your phone to the side, watching the piece of metal gently bounce on the bed before stopping in place. You sigh and kick off the blankets before deciding that it was too cold and pull them over your figure again. You cursed.

"now it's too hot." No matter, you'll just gonna get your sleep and sleep you did. Though you didn't expect to wake up in a white empty room, chained to the wall with a floating screen message above your head.

"welcome to.. character ai?" You whisper a confused sound escaping you, thoughts filling your head at a fast pace that you almost didn't register the mechanical voice ringing throughout the blank room.

"welcome to character ai, a world where you can make your character and let your imaginations run wild."

You scoff, yeah right? Run wild when you have an NSFW filter.

"you have broken the community guidelines a lot of periods during the year, we will now enact punishment."

You raise a brow, wow. The hell??

"wow, is this some sick-ass dream?"

"it is not, beginning transmigration to @___ bots worlds, confirming.. ninety-three bots in total."

You flinch as you suddenly feel your body turning numb, your legs up to your chest can't barely move. It was eerily silent, your ears weren't picking up sound and you continue to stare at the countdown up in the air hanging right in front of you. One, two, three, twenty-two...

"wait, wait a damn minute! Is this because I just broke the nsfw filter and sext with a bot?! Are you kidding me?!" You yelled and yet the timer never stops nor even lessen, it just keeps counting down to a hundred. Thirty-two, thirty-three, thirty-four.. forty-five.

"this is dumb!" You frustratedly yell. "I won't do whatever stupid shit you want me to do!"

The timer halts for a minute before continuing.

"failure to follow through with the punishment will result in @___ user's chat history with all bots being shown to their family and friends." You went quiet. Damn.

Defeated, you let out a struggling sigh. "Fine, what do you want me to do?"

"all censoring will be down until punishment is complete, @___user can fully control how the story will go, accomplish the goals and punishment is complete. A reward will be given in the end."

"wait-! Wait, what about my body.. in the real world?"

"comatose state."

"what about-?!" You didn't manage to finish the sentence as you black out, your entire body going limp, your consciousness leaving you. The last thing you heard was the mechanical voice speaking in your head.

"transfer complete... Welcome to hell."

Next part.

[grandlinedreams]

[heads up!: vague au setting, vampire!law, mentions of blood and blood drinking, cursing, there will be a part 2 to this]

He's hungry.

Normally that isn't a problem for Law, because he knows a work-around, tried and true ㅡ in the form of small white tablets that he drops into water, watches dissolve into watery red and downs without a second thought.

Far from the best tasting thing, but it works well enough to curb the burn in his gums, the insistent hunger that makes his eyes glow a vivid gold at the height of it.

But he doesn't have any tablets on him, hasn't made them in ages ㅡ because there'd been an issue with distribution of an ingredient he needs for them, and now he hasn't eaten in weeks.

He knows what Corazon will say, suggesting he find someone to feed off of ㅡ like it's the easiest thing in in the world. As if Law isn't a creature of myth, damned to the shadows and lurking at the corner of nightmares.

He's worked too hard to conceal himself and what he is to throw it away like that ㅡ no matter how tempting it truly is. He takes pride in the fact that it's gotten easier to explain away the pallor of his skin, the dark shadows beneath his eyes ㅡ he works the night shift at this clinic, and nobody asks. Nobody wants this shift, anyways.

The problem with not eating as of late, however, is the constant wear on his ever thinning restraint. The nastier of cases always seem to come in at night ㅡ consequences of drunken antics. Broken noses, shredded skin. The more severe are always cleaned up and shipped off to the hospital, because there's only so much they can do here. (There's also only so much he can take of the seemingly boundless stupidity that plagues this town's people, too.)

At least tonight has been slow ㅡ slow enough that he'd managed to convince his coworkers to leave with the promise of contacting them if he needs them. Now he has no company outside of the tinny strains of music and low hum of electricity, watching the dull glow of headlights thrown against the waiting room walls.

And then there's a set of headlights that slow to a crawl, blazing before they dim with the low purr of an engine stopping. Law sits up, listens for car doors opening (two. the driver side, and then the passenger) and shutting in tandem before looking up as the sliding doors give a hiss of pressurized air.

"Oh thank god." The speaker is a blonde man that reminds him a little of Corazon, unlit cigarette in his mouth wobbling as he speaks. "You can help, can't you?"

Depends, Law wants to say, but knows he needs to work on his bedside manner, because not everyone has the same flavor of humor that he does. So he nods instead. "I can certainly try. What seems to be the problem?"

Blonde man's visible blue eye flicks to his companion, and Law finally takes in how pale you are, the kitchen towel that's wrapped tightly around your forearm. Blonde man goes to unwrap it, and Law finally catches the sweet, delicious scent of blood.

"Wait." He says, tone sharper than he means to be as he backpedals, "Tell me what happened first." He definitely doesn't need you bleeding to death in the waiting room.

"It was an accident," you say, "and I think Sanji's being dramatic about it. I'll be fine." There's a haze to your eyes that makes Law think that Sanji is absolutely right in bringing you in, and that you're trying to downplay the severity of it ㅡ especially now that he can see the dark seep of blood into the kitchen towel.

He clenches his jaw, never more grateful for the mask that covers his mouth as he is now with the prominent burn of his gums and muted, answering growl of his stomach. He's so hungry and you've walked in like a goddamn buffet.

"I'll have to take a look at it and see if we need to call an ambulance to take you to the hospital," he says, and you blanch.

"Is that necessary?"

Sanji gives you a fierce look for him. "Do you want to die?"

"Still think you're being dramatic," you mumble, but it doesn't take a sharp eye to see that you're struggling to remain upright. Law reaches for the check-in sheet, placing it on a clipboard with a pen and pushes it to Sanji.

"I trust you can fill this out for them? I'll take them back and get an assessment done." He's on his feet and around the desk before you can blink, gripping your shoulders with surprising strength.

"Don't need your help."

He raises an eyebrow. "You want the wheelchair instead? I don't need to add head trauma to your chart if you pass out on me." That shuts you up, and he steers you through the double doors, watches you squint against the harsh lighting.

"Sit." He guides you to the examination bed, thin paper crinkling beneath you. Perching himself in the chair, he slides to a stop in front of you. "Let's take a look."

He's mindful as he peels the towel away, clicks his tongue in sympathy when you hiss as he pulls the towel away completely, pretending he doesn't want to pull his mask down and lick his gloved fingers clean of your blood.

He turns to grab a handful of gauze and the squeeze bottle of distilled water, ignores the watery red drip that puddles on the floor as he cleans your arm.

"How you haven't passed out is beyond me," he remarks as he examines the laceration, prodding carefully to see just how deep it goes. "But you're lucky."

You find it in yourself to scoff. "And how's that?"

"Still alive, aren't you?" Sharp gold eyes meet yours. "And you'll get to go home with just some stitches." With his hold on your arm, he can feel you stiffen.

"Stitches?" If possible, your face goes even paler. "I don't do stitches."

He raises an eyebrow. "Something like this won't just go away," he says, "and it'll take even longer to heal if left like this. Stitches areㅡ"

"No," you cut in. "No stitches."

Law's brow knits. Do you have some personal vendetta against stitches? True, they've never been a favorite of his either especially with how they itch while they heal. And if it's the application of them that you're worried about, he's good at them, hands steady and swift.

"I don't care what you do," you tell him, jaw set and eyes surprisingly clear now even for the blood loss, "but no stitches."

He hates the immediate solution that comes to mind. But it's two birds with one stone, even with the alarm bells going off in his head. It's a bad idea ㅡ a really bad idea. But he's so hungry, and you don't want stitches.

"I have another idea," he says slowly, still weighing his options, the mental flip of a coin. He's going to regret this if it goes sideways, but it's all he can think of at the moment. "But you need to trust me. And not tell anyone."

This time, it's you who raises an eyebrow, expression wary. "Okay? As long as it isn't stitches, I really don't care."

Law takes a deep breath, steeling himself before he tugs his mask down. He feels the descent of his fangs, the weight of them in his mouth as he tugs your arm closer.

"Remember what I said," he tells you as you watch him in growing confusion, "you can't tell anyone about this."

You don't scream, and part of him wonders if blood loss is finally taking its toll on you and you'll think that this is some kind of resulting delirium. Whatever you want to believe, so long as it keeps him out of trouble. The sink of his fangs into your skin makes you hiss, his grip tightening to keep you from flinching away as he waits for the numbing quality of his saliva to kick in. When you finally sigh and relax, he eases up.

And then he licks your wound. The glide of his tongue is slow and intentional, cleaning the beading of fresh blood from it and biting back a groan of satisfaction. Part of him notes now that the wound is too straight and precise to be a true accident, but he can't bring himself to pull away and demand a detailed answer because you taste so much better than those damn tablets.

The first swallow is rough, the tang of your blood on his tongue intoxicating ㅡ and then he takes another, and another.

Law knows he can't take too much from you, aware that you've already lost quite a bit but is still reluctant as he retracts his fangs. Another slow lick along the length of it finishes the job, and Law moves to clean residual blood before he wraps it in clean white bandage.

"There we go," he announces, watches the slow, sleepy blink of your eyes ㅡ and determines that even though it's still a gamble, you won't be telling anyone what you just witnessed. "Good as new."

"Thanks, doc." Your speech is slurred, and he wonders if he did take too much. But you're steadier than he expects when he helps you to your feet, letting him guide you back through the doors to where Sanji is waiting.

"All patched up," he reports, "just let us know if you notice anything out of the ordinary. Fever in the localized area or full body temperature, increased pain or if it starts weeping."

"Thanks," Sanji answers, handing him the clipboard in exchange for you, and Law watches the two of you leave, listening for the sound of car doors and the purr of the engine.

It's only once you're gone that what he's done fully hits him, guilt in the place of hunger. What was he thinking? Had he been thinking at all?

"How are you feeling?" Sanji's question makes you roll away from where you've been counting streetlamps, prompting you to sit up.

Clearly not. He hisses a low curse, reaching into his pocket for his phone. He needs to call Corazon, see if they need to run damage control.

ㅡ

"Like crap," you tell him flatly, "next time Zoro suggests something like this, how about he does it."

"You didn't have to cut so deep."

You pinch the bridge of your nose. "Hush," you say, and he waits for you to continue. "Intel was right, though. Definitely a vampire."

Sanji rolls down the window, exhaling a cloud of smoke from the cigarette he'd finally lit while waiting for you. "Think he suspected anything?"

You reach for the neat bandaging of your arm. Unraveling it to expose smooth, unbroken skin, you're momentarily grateful that the thin, looping scars are spiderweb thin and invisible to anyone not trained to look for them. "No," you answer, studying where the laceration had been, "I don't think he did."

[isa-ghost]

isa my beloved not to be demanding on main but can you pls give me some hcs for phil but like specifically aimed around the time he first adopted each of his kids? 🥺

i’m very 👀 to see if you have any thoughts on his attitudes or behaviours with them being different then as opposed to how he is now

you can also throw in stuff for missa too if u want as he is also their dad and I imagine some hcs might overlap ghgh

(this is oopsie btw i forget if i told u about me refreshing my main blog lmao)

Oh bet? I'm gonna do Phil's first impressions for each of them. :)

qPhil headcanons masterlist

Chayanne

"Oh god this kid is gonna die why is he obsessed with the edge of the WALL"

It was all over for him when Chayanne took that bath in the 2x2 puddle on top of the wall.

It was double over when the phantoms came down and he, Missa AND Chayanne all freaked the fuck out and ran into that teeny tiny house.

The SECOND Chayanne was like "I wanna kick ass and be a protector and fighter actually" Phil was like THIS IS MY SON AND I WILL KILL FOR HIM NOT JUST BECAUSE I'M OBLIGATED TO FOR THIS EVENT.

Honestly he couldn't believe he got so lucky when he and Missa picked Chayanne in the adoption center. How did he manage to pick an egg so compatible with him, interested in the things Phil has spent eons investing time and effort in.

Lullah

He was extremely nervous. He was nervous with Chayanne too but this was a different kind of nervous. Lullah was this soft, sweet, kind of timid little girl and he'd spent all his time so far being all rough and tumble and doing warrior shit with Chayanne. Now he had this lil girl who was Much different than them to take care of. He had no idea how it was gonna go and he was terrified smth would happen on his watch (he wasn't wrong).

He felt even worse bc there was this clear "this isn't my family, and I've barely gotten to know my family before being dumped on someone else" vibe he could do very little about. Mans was totally scrambling to figure out a way to make Tallulah feel more like she belonged with them. He wanted her comfortable at least.

And then her affinity for flowers came about and he latched onto it. It reminded him of something (Rose). :) He could work with flowers, and turtles.

Knowing him, he felt very attached to her right away, but felt like she took longer to properly attach to him. He assumed she just saw him as Abuelito, an obligation to be around because family or whatever. Mr. Overthinker definitely overthought about how Lullah felt.

But he committed to working his ass off to do whatever he could to make her feel like some sense of her normal was being maintained even in her father's absence. And swore to be as ready to kill for her as he was Chayanne, and not just out of obligation as a babysitter.

Missa

He was SO EXCITED. I don't think he'd talked much to Missa prior to being assigned with him. He thought it'd be a cool opportunity to get to know him more.

Tbh much like with Chayanne, that first OH FUCK family sprint to safety meant it was all over. Something about that moment it just clicked. Like yeah, he could spend the next unforeseen amount of time with this guy and their goofy risk-obsessed egg.

And then he discovered Missa is musical and instantly fell. Not romantically. But boy he fell.

After Day 1 he was super looking forward to spending every day with him and learning more about him (and hearing more guitar and singing).

Something about them communication-wise just instantly clicked as well. They just locked in immediately. Despite the distance they're stuck facing now, that hasn't changed either.

[moodymisty]

death and reader but death is in his reaper form? Just some fluffy protective stuff. Love your work! :)

[ 𝕸𝖔𝖔𝖉𝖞𝕸𝖎𝖘𝖙𝖞'𝖘 𝕸𝖆𝖘𝖙𝖊𝖗𝖑𝖎𝖘𝖙 | 𝕬𝖔3 ]

Author's Note: By the gods this request made me borderline feral. I LOVE big monsters having soft spots for their little humans. Also Death's reaper form is super... cool looking. ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)

Summary: When Death reverts to his Reaper form when something goes to attack you, you then realize that you're stuck with this form until he manages to calm down.

Relationships: Death/Gn!Reader

Warnings: Canon typical violence, Monster/human fluff, Time to nuzzle the Reaper

Word Count: 1918

Death looks over at you; The pale, sickly green glow of the various torches illuminating your skin, and sighs.

He regrets bringing you here, with every fiber of his being. The Realm of the Dead isn't for humans, it isn't for anything alive. Hell, even he isn't technically supposed to be here. He just holds the door, throws souls through. Figuratively speaking.

But humans and their ever all-encompassing curiosity will always seem to work against their better judgement. Your, better judgement.

Death looks back over, and notices you now staring at an old pot.

A burial urn, most likely. Why you find it so fascinating he could never guess. When you bend over to pick up a gold coin off the ground just in front of it is when he decides to interject- and stop you before you can pop the lid on some angry spirit and make this realm just a bit worse off.

"I never took you for a thief,"

He says, coming closer and grasping your wrist gently. The coin stays between your fingers as you look up at him.

"I wasn't taking it, I just wanted to see what was on it." Death squeezes your wrist in a way that forces you to relinquish the coin, and it drops into his other palm. He lets it fall to the floor and it bounces three times, each with a quieter tink.

"To these souls, that is stealing. Now quit touching every single thing in sight. We have a tomb to find." Hand dropping from your wrist, Death turns from you and begins walking away, having stopped you from whatever potentially dangerous thing you'd been fiddling with.

He still regrets taking you here even as you grasp his fingers, so you can attempt to keep up; Or slow his gait down.

But Death admits within his own mind, he doesn't dislike the company. Dust and Despair don't exactly provide the most interesting commentary, and your positive attitude is not unpleasant change to the dread and nihilism he's used to facing throughout the realms. He wouldn't be so apposed to you joining him, if this place wasn't constantly seeking to rend your soul from your body at every possible moment.

"For someone who's all 'I don't care what anyone thinks',"

You make a mocking tone of his voice when you refer to him, and Death glances down at you from the corner of his eye with a fair amount of disapproval. "You sure do love being all rules when I'm around."

Death does it to keep you safe, though he always finds his tongue tied whenever he tries to say that out loud. The only time he has, it came out as him being annoyed you always get into trouble, and he'd hated the way it made your face fall slightly. He'd spend the next while being softer to you just to make up for that slip up.

You let go of his hand, speeding up your pace just slightly in order to take a look around before the Horsemen has a chance to stop you from doing so.

"Back here."

You're not far away from him at all, maybe ten paces or so, looking over your shoulder. Your hand brushes against the wall as you curiously look at something you have no idea what to call.

"I'm barely away from you. Can I not look at anything?"

Humans and their encompassing curiosity, and their stubbornness.

You step closer to look at whatever has caught your interest, before you suddenly hear something.

Death reacts to it faster than you possibly can, instantly pulling Harvester off his back and forming it into it's long, single bladed form, and rushing towards you. You don't quite register what's happening as it passes by so quick, but you still step back to as he nearly slams right into you.

Once his body is blocking yours and whatever is coming has been cut off from making it's presumed way towards you, he moves forward to try and run his scythe right through it.

When you catch sight of it from around Death's arm, it's easy to see that it's a Lich, as he'd once called them. You scramble backwards out of the fray, wisely staying close to Death, but not enough so that you'll get hit by the back swing of a weapon. You know Death himself would never slip up that way, but you doubt the undead resident has the same overall care about your well-being. If anything, it seems to want to kill you outright, if the way it tries to swerve around Death towards you is any indication.

But the Reaper continues fighting with the Lich, slicing his blade through it's ghostly mockery of flesh. He makes sure to keep himself firmly inbetween you and it, knocking it onto the floor and sending the end of his scythe directly through it's chest. It lets out a ghasty wail as it struggles and grips the weapon to free itself from Death's pin, and you scurry backwards as it attempts to move again.

Perhaps you stirred something in your retreat, or maybe it was there the entire time and only now had decided to strike, but in his tunnel focus on the main threat Death hadn't noticed in his tunnel focus that there was a second and Lich, coming from behind you just as you hear Harvester get torn from the first Lich's chest and it's wail sharply ends as it's finally destroyed.

You yell for him when you turn around and see it, tripping over your own feet as the Lich comes right for you; Since Death had taken his brother's pistol back awhile ago, you have not a thing to defend yourself from it.

An arm instinctively raises up to protect yourself, but instead of getting hit, you see the glint of a massive reaper's scythe split the massive lich in twain. It lasts nowhere near as long as the previous one, and is torn asunder in moments. It barely had time to react, let alone try and attack you.

However, it feels that Harvester- or maybe the hands holding it- seem different than usual.

Following the trail up the pole you reach Death holding it; Or more accurately, The Reaper.

He yanks the curved blade of the scythe out from the creature's chest cavity, letting flop to the ground without so much as a whimper. It fades to dust with little fanfare shortly after. The blade however is still clean, not coated with blood like whenever he's fighting demons or angels.

You glance upwards towards his face, seeing the hood obscuring it all under a haze of void black. You can just barely see the outline of his face with what little hazy green torchlight is around.

It seems in his sudden fury over your being almost harmed or at worst killed he'd toppled over the edge, shedding the form you're most used to and becoming, this.

His head jerks around in fast, rapid motions, looking around for any other threats; As Harvester remains firmly lodged in his grip. You look around as well and when you don't spot a thing, you turn your focus to the Reaper.

"Hey... Death,"

This form seems to not have any sort of real mouth to speak with, the pallid skull lacking the ability to do so. He still looks at you with interest, watching as you speak with an almost uncomfortable amount of intensity.

"I'm fine, and there's nothing else to kill, so there isn't anything to worry about now."

You hesitantly reach for one of his hands, his fingers long and thin wrapped around the scythe's pole. The Reaper doesn't stop you, and you hear the shifting of fabric and clinking of metal as he watches you. But before you can touch his hand he moves to hoist Harvester onto his back, freeing them.

Those long, talon-like fingers reach for you and it takes a good bit of effort not to flinch away, and they brush over your body and even your hair; Slowly, and soft as if enjoying the sensation. Every time you think he's going to stop and pull away, he only shifts and continues to do what you only describe as petting. You can't think of a word that fits better, but also doesn't sound as demeaning.

It's odd, however. You never would've thought this version of Death would be so, touchy feely.

As if you weren't already confused enough, you hear an odd rattling noise come from him as you watch. If you had to describe it, you would use words like pleased rumble, or perhaps even purr.

He gets closer to you while he does it, the frayed edges of his long robe brushing against your skin and clothes. Both of his bony hands cup your jaw at one point, a bit rough but clearly trying to be gentle- and you look up at him in awe of the tenderness this creature, this other part of his soul, is showing you.

This is only the second time you've seen his Reaper form; The first had been when you were safely far out of the way of any conflict. He had regressed back to normal quickly denying you more than a few short glimpses, wherein now he seems quite firmly stuck.

You know that it's Death in there, so any fear you have stays firmly lodged in your throat before you swallow it down.

"You, did a good job back there. But I think the more talkative Death might want to come back now."

More talkative might be a bit of a hopeful statement. It is Death you are talking about.

The Reaper lets out an odd noise and one of his thumbs brushes over your lip, pulling it slightly wonky. You don't know if it's the sound of his breathing or bones beneath his cloak shifting, as you hear a soft rattling sound as he watches you.

You know this being is dangerous, but knowing that it's simply another part of Death manages to quell some of the fear in you.

When you move to take a step backwards the Reaper's grip quickly tightens and he makes a noise, covering any minute amount of space you might've moved. Then even more, and you can't help but gasp as his hooded face quickly dives in-

And begins nuzzling the side of your face.

Your hands grip handfuls of his tattered cloak, squeaking at the cold feeling of his bone and hood against your cheek.

Is this even really Death? The amount of outward affection in this motion alone makes you wonder. Perhaps him being in this form makes him more unabashed, almost more primal in some sort of way. It's not as if you're going to complain, hearing that odd purr-like noise rumble against your skin.

"Alright, since it doesn't seem like normal Death is gonna be back for a bit, can I at least sit down?"

The Reaper makes a noise almost like a hum, which you can neither discern if it's positive or negative. Either way, when you actually move to attempt to sit, the Reaper tightens his grip again. So you aren't going anywhere it seems, and must accept your fate as The Reaper's newfound comfort plushie as you lean your head back against his own pale skull.

Death will certainly love to hear about this when he's back to normal, for sure.

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Just One Look

Series Masterlist

Warnings: dark elements but nothing too graphic in this one.

Please leave me some feedback either in a reblog or an ask! Likes are always appreciated as well. You know I love yall and hell yeah, you love Professor Steve.

You sit against the wall, perched in a nest of textbooks, notes, and your laptop. Jensen's small bed has become HQ for your operation; cramming for final exams until your head splits.

You flutter back and forth, jotting down notes, scrolling through articles on the screen, furrowing your brow until your head hurts. You're encased in your fastidious fit as the door opens, barely breaking through the shell of your focus. It isn't until Jensen says your name that you manage to tear yourself away.

"Hey," you smile at him as the smell of caramel fills the room, two tall cups in a cardboard tray in his hand, "what's all this?"

"I told you. Recharge time," he grins, "and a few extra goodies."

He wiggles free one cup and hands it over, then takes one of the paper bags and sets in beside your laptop.

"Ugh, I'm gonna be so fat," you bemoan, not really bothered by the extra sugar.

"Me too," he sits on the edge of the bed, "so, how's it going? Are you an expert yet?"

"Shut up," you stick your tongue out, "you and your photographic memory."

"Hey, the lord blessed me in many ways," he winks before he takes a sip of his coffee.

"Oh my god, you're a dweeb."

"Well, I was talking about you," he smirks, "but also yes, there is a lot of Jensen to go around."

"Right," you roll your eyes and giggle, "stop trying to distract me."

"I'm not distracting you, I'm teasing you. The difference is that while you're sitting there trying to focus on English Lit or whatever dead guy you're reading about, you're fighting not to think about what's in my jeans--"

You grab your copy of Wuthering Heights and throw it at him. He deflects it as he stands, cackling as you feel your cheeks burning. He barely keeps from dribbling coffee down himself as he strikes a pose.

"So shirt on or off."

"Really! I don't have time for this, Jen."

"Ah, come on, we both know you're gonna ace this shit," he flexes his chest, giving it a look as he watches his tee strain, "and I mean... I'm into the whole bookworm thing you got going on right now."

"Stop!" You shout.

"Alright, alright," he relents, showing a palm as he takes another gulp, "I'll wait... I've waited this long."

"I'm sorry, Jake," you sit back and peel away the plastic tab on the lid, "I'm not meaning to... make you wait. It's just I've been so busy and tired and stressed and--"

"I'm not complaining. Waiting makes the heart grow fonder. That's Dickens, right?"

"I think it's a proverb but I don't know," you shrug, "still, it's not that I don't want to... do stuff it's... I'm... nervous."

He looks down and arches a brow, "heh, me too. I know I talk a big game but, yeah."

"Let's just let it happen whenever it does... oh, did I mention, I'm staying on campus for the holiday. Trip home is too expensive."

"Really? That's great."

"Great?" You wonder.

"Yeah, I didn't feel much like seeing my dad, anyway. He just likes to ask me why I didn't get a football scholarship. And the divorce is a bit intense."

"You don't have to stay for me--"

"Nah, really, you're giving me a solid excuse," he pulls up the rolling chair from his desk and sits, "and I mean, I can't think of a better way to enjoy my time off."

"Uh, yeah, awesome," you smile, pushing your shoulders up bashfully, "well, if I even make it through exams."

📖

Your nerves swirl in your stomach. It's not just your usual pre-exam jitters, but the prospect of seeing Steve --Professor Rogers, after your last encounter. You keep your chin tucked down as you join the queue waiting outside the exam room, hugging your purse strap as you sway back and forth.

Rogers appears down the hall, greeting students by name, as he struts down to unlock the room and props the door open. You wait until a few others part from the wall to join the building wave of bodies shuffling inside. As you pass the professor, he sniffs, almost a tut, as if to deride you in particular.

You leave your bag along the front and find a seat along one of the curved rows. The professor waits for the clock to run out as he hands out the examinations, row by row, then starts the usual explanation of the rules, time limit, et cetera. You fidget in your seat, passing down the stack of papers for the next person to take one. You just want this to be done with.

As Professor Rogers calls for you to begin, you put your head down and flip the front page. You're ready. Your confidence in the material isn't undercut by the controversy. You won't let it.

Your hand hurts with the tightness of your endless scrawl. Short answer, then the big essay. The hall is silent and thick with the tension of students sighing and yawning over their finals.

You stop to think about your final argument and lift your head without thinking. You scrunch your brow and nose as you try to untangle the words in your head and your eyes meet Rogers'. You're shaken by the intensity of his stare. He doesn't move, he doesn't look away, his attention bores into you and has you cowering over the paper.

Fuck. He's definitely still upset. Well, so are you. He screwed you out of an income. You just hope you hear back from the tea shop about your resume. It's your last hope outside of commuting to the nearest McDonalds to sling burgers.

You shake it off, or try to. You finish the last portion of the essay but don't get up right away. You don't want to be the first to leave. You also don't want to walk up to Rogers alone.

So you wait, pretending to read over your booklet until you send a shadow rise from down the next row. You watch patiently. The first inspires a second and you get up, sidling down to the aisle to follow the trickle of students. You approach Rogers and hold out your booklet. He stares at it a moment before he takes it and flips to the first page, reading the first question.

He finally looks up as you start to back away, "good luck."

His words hang in the air and you flinch. The stone in his eyes crushes you. There's something in them, a promise, a threat. You back up and turn, fighting to stay calm as you reclaim your bag from against the wall.

At least it's over.

[daintylovers]

heyyyyy lovely lovely tumblr user dainty, it’s me again with a stiles req because I just can’t seem to be normal. it would be sooo awesome if you graced us with some jealous stiles… I was listening to woman by harry styles and I was like … hmm I want a man to want me to look at him so bad he would kill another man over it.

OH AND I WANTED TO SAY your writing is the absolute perfect balance of powerful horny and pathetic horny and okay I’m done elaborating ilysm

powerful horny and pathetic horny are literally those two wolves in that picture that's like, inside you there are two wolves- and it's true, those are the two wolves inside of me (i wish stiles was inside of-)

i'm envisioning this as a best friends or at least close friends type of scenario. specifically because of the opening lines of the song, "Should we just search up romantic comedies on Netflix and see what we find?"

stiles, assisted by scott of course, has managed to crush every guy's hopes and dreams of being with you, throughout the years. and of course, it kind of crushes you're confidence a bit because you know you're pretty, but why won't anyone ask you out?

of course, stiles is always there to comfort you, tell you that they just don't deserve you. and you think it's bullshit, just a cliche cause he doesn't know what else to say. but in his eyes, it's nothing short of the truth. those guys truly don't deserve you, which is why they'll never have a shot. why he has guaranteed that they will never have a shot.

but once the werewolf stuff starts happening, things change within the social hierarchy of the school. and someone slips through stiles' brick wall he has so carefully constructed.

now, to appease my heart, this person happens to be the infamous issac lahey. yes, that's right, the former loser turned werewolf model who is holding nothing back anymore. issac's had a crush on you for years, and being a part of the lacrosse team means that he's heard a thing or two from the other guys about how stiles says that you just aren't interested in guys your age, or whatever excuse of the month the spaz has decided upon.

so, when stiles isn't practically glued to your side for the one class of the day the two of you don't share, issac starts enacting his plot to make you his. it's a tad bit cheesy, and throws you off at first, but how could you say no to such a pretty face? you guys slowly start hanging out, and of course, he's a nice guy.

but when scott catches of whiff of issac's scent lingering in your room one night, stiles is the first to hear about it. and god he is FUMING! how could you? how could he not have realized? why didn't you tell him? you tell him everything- why not this thing? did you know?

he's all too paranoid, but the anger and jealousy are winning. stiles isn't the type for outright confrontation, so you won't notice he's ignoring you for a few days. mainly because you're too tied up with issac, which only makes his blood boil hotter. but when you do realize, you feel almost guilty? and by the way, stiles won't even look at you, makes you feel like you are guilty. but guilty of what?

stiles knows that he's guilty. that what he's about to ask of you is unfair on every level, but so what? he can't stand to see you with another guy. of course he could ask you out himself, but he's just a silly little guy idk man.

if you want me to talk to you, you have to get rid of him.

a mix of confusion and fury graces your face. what? the? fuck? it's hot the way he says it, so possessive. so unlike him. but who was he to say some shit like that. still gawking at him, he continues, he is going to hurt you. and I'm warning you now, when he does i won't be there to pick up the pieces. it's me or him. I'm just doing this for your good. plus you're a smart girl, right? make the right choice here.

you tell him to fuck off, storming away with tears brimming your waterline. why couldn't he just be happy for you? later that night, you cry to scott about it all. he tries consoling you but ultimately sides with his best friend. which makes you feel even worse, cause you know who you'll pick. but how are you going to let issac down?

well, luckily scott had that problem handled a few hours later when he literally fights issac to defend your honor over some bullshit that the male had spoken. scott's right at your window after the fight, showing you the damage issac did and what he said about you. it's almost unbelievable, but scott's the most trustworthy person you know- so of course he wouldn't lie. right?

scott is on the phone with stiles after leaving your house, talking about how the plan worked and how he should expect you at his house any minute now. sure enough, the phone call ends with a doorbell ringing.

you're there, as promised, at stiles' doorstep practically falling into his open arms. he brings you inside, closing the door with his foot, and sitting you both down on the couch. with how close you are holding him, you're in his lap. and he can feel tears slowly soaking through his shirt. what's happened?

you're a blubbering mess, i'm sorry for making ignoring you. i should have never talked to him in the first place.

if you hadn't just cried before you said that, you wouldn't have missed the way stiles lips curled up for just a split second. he catches himself, opting to bring his hands to cup your face, bringing you to eye level, what happened?

this time the question is asked more firmly, and the grip he has on you brings you back down to reality. you tell him what scott told you, still crying a bit. who knew the new werewolf would be so cruel?

stiles knew. stiles always knew. and he makes sure you'll never forget it. i told you, but i know you never listen.

you're saying sorry like it's a prayer, and stiles takes it like he's god.

****

A/N: was this ooc? yes. but was it really? no. there's like a multiverse of stiles' in my head and slightly sadistic stiles decided he had to make his debut on this one. i didn't proofread this so if it sucks, I'm sorry <3

[banapsha]

The Art of Plot Twists: A God-Tier Guide

Hey there, sunshine(s) and moonlight(s)! Do you want to rock your readers' worlds with mind-boggling plot twists? Well, lucky for you, I recently met a mind reader in my basement and they told me you want to know this. Buckle up, because we're about to begin a journey into the abyss. Kidding! We are going to the Kingdom of Twistano-Turnano; narratives that'll leave jaws on the floor and minds on some walls. Strap in, grab your favorite snacks and let's get this party started. (I believe that one was too much, right? Coz’ who’s got time for any parties? Or am I the only one missing out?) 

What Makes a Good Plot Twist?

Let's kick things off with the basics. A plot twist isn't just about throwing in a random curveball– oh no, it's about shaking up the very fabric of your story. A meaningful plot twist should be a seismic shift in the audience's perception, whether it's through an unexpected event, a shocking revelation, or a philosophical awakening. We're talking external, internal, and philosophical shifts that make the audiences question everything they thought they knew. It's about changing your audience's reality.

The Three Types of Shifts: External, Internal, and Philosophical

The external shift– think unexpected deaths, hidden treasures, and jaw-dropping identity reveals. These twists are all about rearranging plot elements in ways that leave readers gasping for air.

The internal shift– this one's all about messing with your audience's emotions. One minute they're feeling all warm and fuzzy, and the next, BAM! You hit 'em with an event that leaves them shaken to the core. Just make sure to keep things clear, or you'll have a bunch of confused readers scratching their heads.

The philosophical shift– the granddaddy of all plot twists. This one's all about making your audience question their beliefs and perceptions. You take 'em from thinking they've got it all figured out to realize that maybe, just maybe, they've been wrong all along.

To really knock your readers' socks off, you gotta apply all three shifts. That's right, no half-measures here. Using just one or missing one entirely is just going to confuse the shit out of your audiences. Trust me, you don't wanna do that.

What makes a plot twist good?

Shock Value: First things first, a good plot twist needs to pack a punch. We're talking about leaving your readers reeling, jaws on the floor, and minds blown. If it doesn't make 'em gasp, it ain't worth it. The key is to not settle for the first twist that comes to mind. Dig deep, get creative, and find a way to really knock your readers' socks off.

Believability: Sure, we love a good surprise, but it's gotta make sense, ya know? You can't just say that the human we have been following around is a dog disguised as a pizza! Nope, we ain't gone believe that boy. Keep it real. Actually, the real(er) the better. Foreshadowing is your best friend. Drop hints, plant seeds, and lay the groundwork for your twist early on. That way, when it finally hits, it'll feel like a natural progression of the story. (Maybe show me a barking human to make me go along with the pizza dog twist.)

Impact on Characters AND Plot: A truly great plot twist doesn't just shake things up for the sake of it. It needs to have real consequences, affecting not only the characters but the entire storyline. Don't just focus on the shock factor – think about how your twist will affect your characters and your plot. Will it send them spiraling into chaos? Will it force them to confront their deepest fears? Make it count.

Variety in Tropes: Cliched tropes are good but if you can manage to twist it up, that's even better. Try to give us something we've never seen before. Surprise us, delight us, and keep us guessing 'til the very end. But don't be afraid to break the mold. Sure, some tropes are tried and true, but the best twists are the ones that defy expectations. Surprise your readers, challenge their assumptions, and leave 'em begging for more.

Timing: Timing is literally everything. You need to build up to the right moment for that twist like a mastermind supervillain. Keep your readers on their toes. Drop breadcrumbs along the way, build up the tension, ratchet up the suspense, and then hit 'em with that (do-do do-do) twist right when they least expect it. You gotta know exactly when to drop that grenade. Trust me, it'll be worth the wait.

Plot Twist Techniques:

Breadcrumbs: The classic "how did I not see this coming" twist. Make 'em scratch their heads and wonder, "How did I miss that?" Lay the groundwork for your twist by dropping subtle hints and clues throughout your story. It's all about planting those breadcrumbs and watching your readers play Sherlock Holmes.

Misdirection: The good ol' red herring. Lead your readers down one path, only to yank the rug out from under them at the last minute. Get 'em emotionally invested in a particular outcome, then flip the script and watch 'em squirm. Mix this with the breadcrumbs and you have a beautiful pie.

The False Win: Picture this – your characters are riding high, victory is in sight, and then BAM! You hit 'em with the ultimate plot twist: it's not over yet. Give 'em a false sense of comfort, then snatch it away like a cruel twist of fate. 

The Unprovoked: Ever seen a plot twist  that leaves you scratching your head and wondering, "Where did that come from?" That's the unprovoked twist. It happens out of nowhere, catching everyone off guard and leaving 'em reeling. It's unexpected, it's unpredictable, and it's oh-so deliciously twisty.

Types of Twists: The classics

Identity Reveal: Remember the "I am your father" moment? Yes. There's nothing quite like the shock of discovering that a character's true identity isn't what it seems. Whether it's a long-lost twin or a secret agent in disguise, identity reveals never fail to leave readers gasping for air. Mix it up to make it newer and you have an even tastier sandwich.

Motive Reveal: Ever wondered why that one seemingly innocent character was acting so shady? Well, it's time for a motive reveal – the moment when all becomes clear and the true intentions behind a character's actions are laid bare. It's like peeling back layers of an onion, only way more dramatic. (Plot twist: This entire post has been written so you will buy my book, The Sinner and The Scarred from Amazon! It is available in both Paperback and Ebook formats but if you have Kindle Unlimited you can read it for FREE!)

Background Reveal: Behind every great character is a great backstory. Well, these backstories can also be great plot twists. (What? The hero's love interest is the villain's child. WHAT? The hero's love interest is the villain! WHAT? THE HERO IS DATING BOTH THE VILLAIN AND THEIR CHILD!!) From dark secrets to hidden traumas, background reveals add depth and complexity to your story.

Character Deaths: Sometimes, the only way to shake things up is by "killing your darlings." Actually, whether it's a beloved hero sacrificing themselves for the greater good or a villain meeting their untimely demise, character deaths are guaranteed to leave readers in shock and awe. Especially when done right. (Set the mood for a fun wedding. Then kill someone at the wedding. Kill the bride. Or the groom. Kill 'em both. Have them kill each other!)

Destruction of Setting or Important Elements: Say goodbye to the status quo, because we're about to shake things up with a little destruction. Whether it's a beloved setting crumbling to the ground or a crucial element of the story being obliterated, destruction twists add a sense of urgency and chaos to your narrative. (Burn your hero's house down. Extra points if their family was still inside. Minus points if their dog was in there, though.)

Timeline Shift: A timeline shift can turn your story on its head, sending characters hurtling through time and space or revealing shocking truths about the past, present, and future. (It will be a weird way to find out you’re adopted, you know?)

Surprising Events in General: Sometimes, you just gotta throw caution to the wind and hit your readers with something completely unexpected. From random acts of kindness to bizarre coincidences, surprising events add an element of unpredictability to your story that'll keep readers guessing until the very end. 

Special Ability Reveal: The moment when a character discovers they've got powers beyond their wildest dreams, things start getting out of hand. Whether it's flying, telekinesis, or the ability to talk to animals, special ability reveals add a touch of magic and wonder to your story.

Do remember when it comes to plot twists, the sky's the limit. But placement is key. Whether it's smack dab in the middle of your story or right at the climax, the timing of your twist can make or break its impact. 

Now, let's touch on what NOT to do. Forced twists? No, thank you. Unbelievable plot developments? Hard pass. And let's not even get started on the dreaded plot armor– nothing kills the vibe faster than a last-minute rescue by bad writing. (Leave a comment if you’d like to learn more about what NOT to do!)

In conclusion, mastering the art of plot twists is no easy feat. It takes careful planning (AKA outlining of the story), strategic execution, and a whole lot of creativity. So go forth, soldiers, and twist those plots until they're unrecognizable. But remember, with great power comes great responsibility – don't abuse those twists, and always respect your readers' intelligence.

Now, go forth and twist to your heart's content. Happy writing! 🌀✨

[darsynia]

They Show Their Truth (one single time) | Oneshot

gif from @marvelheroes

Summary: Steve's managed to keep how he feels about Natasha a secret, but the vision he saw in South Africa shook him.

Caring about Natasha Romanoff this much means that when there's a chance to heal her wounds by revealing his secret, Steve throws himself on the grenade, because of course he does.

Length/Warnings: 5,443 | Porn with plot, unrequited love. Minors DNI

Tags (please forgive me if this isn't your thing, feel free to ignore if so 💚): @ronearoundblindly @munstysmind @chickensarentcheap @themaradaniels @starryeyes2000 @deepbatched @chibijusstuff @caplanreblogsfics

This was written as a request for my friend @salovie a while back!

They Show Their Truth (one single time)

“I don’t trust a guy without a dark side.”

The worst part is that Stark would probably appreciate what Steve is struggling with. He might even trust Steve more because of it, and isn’t that just exactly the worst conclusion to draw, tonight?

Steve’s on his back on the floor in the Barton family room. He’d feel more comfortable if he could rest on his side with his back against the couch, second best to the wall, but every square foot of wall in this room is filled with shelving. Toys, books, puzzles; the accoutrements of a life he’ll never live, all stacked up with the chaotic order of an unexpected visit. The couch is ready for Natasha, with a sheet covering the cold, worn leather. He’s left her the handcrafted afghan and the better of the two pillows Clint’s wife had offered, and kept the sports fleece for himself.

It makes sense that they’ve put the two of them in here; whatever is going on between Bruce and Nat means it would be irresponsible to force them to share. Stark’s by himself on an air mattress in the laundry room instead of in the guest room with Bruce, because out of all of them, he’s the one most likely to accidentally set Banner off-- and just like Clint said, it’s not that they don’t trust Bruce. They don’t trust Tony.

Steve likes Laura Barton. It seems to him that she understands the purgatory they’re all putting themselves through, most of them, anyway. He sure as hell hopes she hasn’t caught on to his, but she couldn’t have.

If she had, she wouldn’t have put him in a room with Natasha.

He gets up and turns off the overhead light, using the chain, then flips off the switch. The ceiling fan’s breeze is just on the edge of too much, but if Nat wants it on, it’ll be set up so the light won’t disturb her. He walks over to the door and cracks it, listening. Laura and Natasha are still talking quietly in the kitchen. Steve pushes the door mostly shut again, and turns off the light that’s across the room from the couch, leaving just the one lamp directly next to it. 

He winces. The room is now bathed in an orange-yellow glow that reminds him of the quality of light in the vision he’d seen in South Africa. The truth is that practically everything here reminds him of the vision.

The glint of the sun off of the axe had reminded him of the flashbulbs.

One of Barton’s kids had spilled juice, and its blood red color had been like the wine on the soldier’s chest.

A rare moment of collective laughter in the dining room with Nick Fury had pulled Steve out of the moment and thrust him, unwillingly, back into the vision.

He’d had to walk away, away from the mirth, away from her red hair as she faced away from him, so similar to the twice-damned vision where Peggy Carter had asked him to dance. As he’d turned to say yes, she’d spun away, dress flying off to reveal a tight-fitting black jumpsuit, the brown wig falling away to red, her familiar, beloved face morphing into Natasha Romanoff’s familiar, beloved face.

Because she is. Beloved. Despite everything. No amount of brutal training at the gym until his hands are numb and bruised, no amount of self-denial or self-recrimination has cured him of it. Hell, no monk has ever kept himself as pure for the sake of his God as Steve Rogers has, for fear of thinking of his teammate in a way that is definitely unholy.

The result has been the exact opposite of his intention; all roads lead to Natasha in his mind, because as ever, Steve Rogers aspires for that which cannot be. The only thing he’s learned from being chosen for the program, from rejecting orders and saving his best friend despite everything, from crashing the plane to save the world, from waking up after seventy years on ice, is that fate loves to give him what he wants.

And he wants her.

“Not this time,” Steve murmurs from his position on the floor, one knee up, arm behind his head.

“Well, if that’s the way it’s gonna be,” Natasha says in a sultry, teasing voice from the doorway.

Steve launches himself into a stand as if she’s the personification of an enemy, and in a way, she is.

“I don’t know how to tell you this, Steve, but you’re a little edgy.”

“You and Clint are always telling me to rough it up a little, just trying to follow orders,” Steve jokes, backing up out of her way as she walks into the room.

“We were thinking more along the lines of getting you to watch some porn, grow some scruff,” she tells him. “So, you trying to be chivalrous, leaving me the couch and the best blanket?”

The tingling awareness he’s been fighting down for hours rears back to life at her provocative words, even more so when she immediately tempers them with a challenge about the couch. He knows her. Her behavior tells him that she thinks her words were reckless, that’s why she’s covering them. That means there was some truth to what she said, that they were revealing. If he were an enemy, it might be a trick to let him lower his guard, but she doesn’t know that he’s been fighting her in his mind for months. At least, he hopes to hell she doesn’t.

“Not at all,” Steve lies smoothly. “It’s pure math. I don’t fit.”

Nat turns her warm, impish gaze towards him and Steve feels a jolt of pure, unadulterated desire. Don’t, sweetheart. Don’t, he begs in his own head. She’s vulnerable, open, teasing, coy. Because she trusts him.

“Now, come on, soldier,” she says, sweetly mocking. “That’s boy scout math. Unimaginative math. I could probably fit the whole team on that couch if I had to. They might even enjoy it.”

He’s hardly ever seen her like this, but he knew she had it in reserve. “Well,” he says in his best regimental, Team Captain voice, hoping she won’t hear the regret he feels in pulling it out to dash water all over her lush, flirty flames. “That might be so, but that has nothing to do with sleeping.”

“Oh no, Steve,” she says, amused concern woven through the husk of her voice. “Turn it off, I absolutely cannot sleep with a Steve Rogers figurine in the room with me tonight!” Natasha comes over to him, her lips curved into a smile under furrowed eyebrows, and before he can fully understand what she’s doing, she’s got her hands on him, stroking along his back, and he’s hard, his heartbeat spiking, she’s going to know, fuck, fuck… 

“Nat, what--” he chokes out, throwing his arms out wide in hopes that he can talk himself down before she walks back around.

“I’m looking for the pull cord,” she says, resting a hand on his arm so she can lean over and catch his eye. “For your sayings. You know, ‘It’s the American Way!’ and ‘Do it for your country!’”

Every single thing she says sounds like innuendo to him. To think that Tony fucking Stark thought he doesn’t have a dark side. He’s sworn more in silent frustration about this gorgeous, unattainable woman than Stark probably has in the whole year, on purpose, out loud.

“Lay back and think of Uncle Sam?” Steve suggests, forcing his limbs to move, walking toward the other side of the room as he pulls his arms out of the long-sleeved overshirt he’s wearing.

“I’ve actually done that, you know. Multiple times,” Nat tells him, chuckling.

“Are you going to sleep in that? Do you want me to leave the room while you change?” he forces himself to ask. She’s got her own dark, long-sleeved shirt on, over a soft, grey thing that clings to her curves in a wholesome, farmhouse way that doesn’t stop him from finding it sexy in the slightest.

“You wouldn’t have to even if I wasn’t,” she tells him in a voice that chastises him for even asking.

I don’t trust a man without a dark side, Tony’s voice repeats, in his mind.

He should have just confessed to Stark. ‘Some nights I’m so desperate for thoughts of Natasha that I’ve tied my hands to my own bedpost. Just enough resistance so I wake up if my hands drift down to touch myself. It’s her face in my erotic dreams, her body in my everpresent thoughts. Not Peggy’s. I’m not wholesome, Stark. I’m a sinner. A hypocrite.’

“The figurine comment was metaphorical, Steve,” Nat is saying. She’s inches away from him somehow, because once again he’s caught up in his thoughts. “You okay? Tony said you were unaffected, but--”

“He’s wrong. She got to me.”

“Yeah,” Natasha breathes, looking up at him. “Me too.” Her eyes are troubled, hurt, practically anguished.

Steve’s resolve weakens, and he smiles down at her with a fraction of his feelings showing through as reassurance. “Do you want to talk about it?”

Nat looks up at the ceiling and does a little frustrated shiver. “Talk, no. I either need to--” she breaks off and looks at Steve, her eyes shining with repressed tears. “There’s something really wrong about punching Captain America in the face because I need a release of tension.”

He thinks he knows what her aborted sentence was. I either need to hit someone or fuck someone.

Steve says what he was thinking out loud. “People see me as standing for the way things ought to be. Fairness. Doing your duty. Things working out the way they’re supposed to.” He lets out a short, frustrated sigh. “Life doesn’t always happen that way, and reacting with frustration against that fact is very reasonable. If you need to, go ahead. Punch me.”

“She really did get to you,” Nat whispers.

“I mean it. You know I can take it, Natasha. Physically, I mean. I won’t take it personally.” He wants her to. If he can’t have her softness, he’ll take hardness over nothingness.

The regretful vulnerability is back on her face. “You wouldn’t say that if you knew why I need it.”

“They’re trying to tear us apart, Natasha. The best way not to tear is to reinforce the connections you already have.”

“It’s not about what I saw. At all. It’s about wanting someone and being rejected, not even because I’m not enough, but because he’s too broken.” She reels back in reaction to even saying the words, and impulsively, Steve reaches down and takes her wrists, shakes them until she responds by resisting his actions.

“You didn’t want to set him off in Clint’s house. You won’t set me off,” Steve lies. She already has, in exactly the wrong way. “Shove me, hit me, punish me. Get it out.” He pulls her hands, despite her resistance, until they’re flat on his chest. “He said he was too broken?”

Natasha’s lovely face crumples for a split second before her jaw tightens in anger. She shoves him; Steve was ready for it, doesn’t stop himself, lets the momentum carry him back a little.

“As if being broken is some kind of contagious!” she bites out, her voice angry but restrained. There are children sleeping in the house somewhere, after all. “As if I’m not a shattered teapot--” another shove. “--held together by the kind of toxic glue that builds up--” she punches his shoulder in a jab that does more than sting. “--in your system until I’ve killed you just by doing my job!”

For the word ‘job,’ Natasha drops back and her foot flies out, catching him in the chest. If they had been anywhere else, Steve would have let the full force of it knock him across the room, as intended, but he can’t risk the sound bringing someone who might see the heat he’s trying to repress. Instead, he takes the hit, his foot braced on the door, which shakes but doesn’t make much noise. Steve ends up on one knee, looking at Natasha, who is breathing heavily out of fury rather than exertion.

“Isn’t that just the perfect kind of symbolism,” she sighs, sounding defeated.

Steve raises his eyebrows, biting his cheek inside his mouth against the way his pants are pulled tight and uncomfortable against his arousal. That should be enough to kill it, but she’s walking toward him and all he can focus on are her hips, the way they sway. He wants to see what they look like with his hand gripping them, his thumb pressing against the thin, delicate skin that curves toward her inner thighs.

“You have my shoeprint on your chest, Rogers,” Nat says.

“What, it’s visible now?” he quips. The hold she’s got over him has been too close to the surface for too long.

“Now don’t go trying to make me feel better,” she says in that rich, amused voice of hers, tossing him a look before starting back toward the couch. It reminds him of the first time he ever wanted her; she’d said something in that tone and he’d found himself suddenly desperate to trace the origins of the sound with his lips and tongue against her neck.

“Any man who doesn’t want you is definitely broken,” Steve tells her, standing.

If she doesn’t recognize his confession, is that his fault?

“Even if that’s true, and I know it’s not, I’m just as easy to brush off,” she says, nodding at the way he’s wiping away the dust of her shoe so it doesn’t soil Laura Barton’s bedclothes. His hands still, not just because of what she’s said, but because Natasha’s rolling up the sheet and tossing it to the side, adding the pillow seconds later.

“What are you--” he starts, cutting himself off when she tugs the couch cushion off of the frame of the couch and sets it beside his makeshift bedroll. “Nat?”

He can’t sleep beside her. He can’t not sleep beside her, not after Bruce seems to have done his best to fracture her confidence into little pieces just so he could sweep her away more easily.

“You asked what you can do? You can do this.” Her words are short, choppy, defensive. “I can’t sleep next to Clint and take my confidence from him, not when he’s doing that for Laura right now. Unless you--”

“Here, my arms are longer,” Steve says, picking up the sheet and unfurling it over the cushions for her before she finishes that final, uncertain sentence.

“Thanks, Captain,” she tells him, her lips twitching up into a tiny, precious smile.

“At your service, Ma’am.”

He doesn’t let himself watch her wriggle into a comfortable sleeping position, choosing instead to walk over and turn out the light. He seeks out his own sparse sheet and too-short blanket in the fresh darkness, turning his back so his arms can’t seek her out in his sleep. Steve does scoot back far enough that he’s up against her cushions, the only concession he’ll allow himself to her nearness. He reminds himself sternly that it is just to give her the warmth and closeness she said she needed, nothing more.

Steve wakes to the feeling of a small hand worming its way under the tight shirt he’s wearing. He can feel Natasha’s body pressed up against his back, all softness and curves and forbidden sweetness.

Is she awake??  

This is the stuff of his nightmares, dreams he’s forcibly categorized as such because of the moral implications. Her arm has snuck under his, so he lifts his arm, hoping the change of pressure will be enough to wake her up. Instead, this earns him a closer snuggle, one where he can identify her breasts along his back, the dip of her pelvis molding against his ass.

“Nat?” he whispers.

“Cold,” she says, her lips and nose nuzzling the word against his shoulder. Steve doesn’t know what to think. Her hand on his stomach is warm. In his sleep-fuzzed laxity, he decides to react the way he assumes he would if he didn’t have an attachment to her, which is to roll over and encourage her to curl up against him to warm herself up.

Steve rolls onto his back, the movement brushing his body against her in thrilling ways.

“Mmm,” she murmurs, chasing his heat as he carefully scoots over so that she can slot into the warmth of the place he’d been lying. Steve only succeeds in moving about three inches before Natasha throws her right leg out and twines it around his left leg as she slips down from the thick cushions toward him. Before he fully understands what’s happening, she’s mostly on top of him, her head pillowed on his shoulder, her hot hand tucking ever so slightly into his waistband.

“Natasha, this can’t be what you do with Clint,” Steve hisses at her, desperate for her to stop moving before he shames himself with the speed of how fast he hardens for her. So far he’s controlling himself through sheer embarrassment on her behalf, but that won’t last much longer if she keeps squirming.

“Mmm, you’re right. He would have shoved me off by now, and we would have sparred about it or I’d have headed off to have a hot shower and a thorough conversation with my own hands,” she says, her voice wavering between an actual whisper and a tone husky with vocal fry.

Steve is nearly speechless. “Shower it is, then?” he suggests.

“Fresh out of hot water.” Natasha tells him, using a firm grip on his waistband to haul herself across his body to straddle him. Steve lifts both of his hands up over his head in self defense, but he’s essentially lost the battle. She’d removed her pants at some point in the night, and she’s sleep-mussed and gorgeous. Their enemies’ mental handiwork has done its job, led him right to what he’s always wanted, and it’ll be the end of them. She has to feel his reaction to her.

He closes his eyes and turns his head away. “I’m not going to fight you,” he says.

“That much is obvious,” she observes.

“What do you want me to say?” he asks between gritted teeth. “Put any man in this position and he’ll react the same.”

“Anything but that,” Natasha says in a small voice. Steve looks at her and sees pain in the angle of her head, the tightness around her eyes, the straightness of her back. She’s not putting all of her weight on him, he can tell, and just imagining the coiled strength that she’s exerting to rest so lightly and devastatingly against his thighs is undoing him.

She’s holding steady, but it feels like she’s pressing down thanks to his reaction to her. His body is gorging itself on a futile hope, and there’s no way that Natasha Romanoff doesn’t know this.

“I’m not Bruce,” he says, simply.

Her smile is a slice of pain. “Obviously,” she says, lowering herself fully and rocking her hips, pinning him with a challenging gaze.

Steve’s instinct is to stop her, but when he tries, his hands clutch naked skin and soft lace. The smile she offers him in response freezes him in place.

He shakes his head, delighted, miserable. “What are you looking for? Validation?”

“Goddamnit, Rogers, stop trying to fix everything,” she says, grinding against him again, making him gasp. “If the team’s fucked, the team’s fucked, so why not fuck the team, right? That’s what I’m trained for.”

The agony in her voice is all the worse because she doesn’t sound vulnerable anymore, and her eyes have lost the sheen of regret. She’s bitter, determined, and so broken in the process that Steve aches for her in a whole new, terrifying way. He reaches up to touch her face and she slaps at him before grabbing him, tearing open her shirt and clutching his hand to her breasts, fighting to keep him from fisting it.

Steve sits up, alarmed at her violence, and she tightens her thighs against him, rocking rhythmically.

“This is just sparring with different weapons, Nat, don’t do this,” he says.

“It’s all I have,” she snaps. “It’s my role. Tony would do it, you know he would.”

The jibe hits him in just the right way to be really painful, and Steve wrenches his hand away from her breast, trying to mitigate the way she’s ramping his desire up so skillfully with the drag of her body.

“Tony couldn’t, not in the way you want,” he says, his heart pounding, realizing that her plea for him not to fix it will have to be the one that will go unanswered. He knows exactly what she needs. Exactly. It’ll rip him apart to do this, in all of the best, soul-destroying ways, but it’s what she needs. Steve Rogers, throwing himself on the wire for his team.

“You and your stupid fucking rivalry--”

Steve interrupts her by arching his back, thrusting up against her, holding her gaze. “That’s not it.”

Natasha’s still hard-edged, scoffing. “I should have realized that would set you off. It must drive you crazy that his giant tower puts him ahead in your dick-measuring contest.”

“You think Tony wants you the way I want you? He doesn’t,” he says, blunt and honest. Her hips stutter in surprise, and Steve lets himself slide one hand up to the front clasp of her bra, flicking it open. “He’s known you longer, sure.” Natasha’s green eyes are wide, stunned. He takes advantage of her momentary stillness to hold her steady as he sits all the way up, sliding his other hand up to cup her face. “But would he throw away everything he has at the very thought of kissing you again, on purpose this time? No.”

“Steve?” she breathes, hesitant, haunted.

“Say the word and I’ll sleep on the porch and never mention this,” he tells her, hoping to hell she doesn’t.

“What even is ‘this?’” Natasha asks, tracing his face with doubtful eyes. “You trying to make up for Banner? I’m not a grenade, Rogers.” Her words are vulnerable but her voice isn’t. She’s using it as a weapon, pushing her sex appeal into the tone, sultry and challenging.

He watches himself push one of her wild curls back behind her ear, indulging a long-held desire that has nothing to do with the other ways he wants to touch her. “Seems like you’re trying to blow up like one. You just picked the exact wrong person to prove your point.” Steve makes eye contact with her. “Since when do I lie to you? About anything?”

“You want me,” she states dubiously, tossing her head, shaking it as she questions him, as if even saying it at all is too much to be believed.

“Very much.”

“I find it hard to believe this is anything more than a seventy-year--”

Steve buries his hand in the curls at the back of her head and kisses her, pouring all of his longing into the sweep of his lips, coaxing her to respond. For all the time he’s wanted this, he’d always thought if he got the chance again, it would be like the first time. Unexpected, unplanned, uncomplicated, unrepeatable. Not like this. Not with ardor, affection, adoration.

Natasha shifts toward him after a few seconds, letting out a small noise and tilting her head to deepen the kiss. Her movement sparks the napalm in his blood, little explosions of pleasure that follow her hand as she grabs his shirt, dragging it up his back to bare it for her fingernails. Steve can’t help it, he thrusts up into the sweet heat of her thighs in his lap, even as she gasps her mouth open for him to taste her. Natasha pulls back and rips off her shirt.

“Touch me, please, Steve, touch me,” she begs, grabbing his hand from where he’s been gripping her hip like a lifeline.

“I--” he starts, completely forgetting what he was going to say as he watches her throw her head back as soon as he palms her breast, shifting his grip so he can trace his thumb across her nipple. “Ahhhh, fuck,” she groans. Steve dips his head to suck an open-mouthed kiss against her neck at the same time he uses both hands to circle his thumbs across her nipples again. The sound she makes in response is as resonant and aching as he’d always hoped it would be, from the outside.

“Do you believe me now?” he says, each word a kiss.

“I might need more proof. You could be very dedicated to my well-being,” she laughs. It’s throaty and sexual, and he surprises her and even himself by the way he abandons what he was doing to hold her down as he grinds his hardness against her yet again, blatant and demanding. “Yeah?” she encourages.

“Yeah,” he pants, screwing his eyes shut to settle the overpowering urge he has to wreck everything about himself and the team, rip off their clothing and rut with her. He wants to keep this, and to hell with Banner and his reticence.

“So, you’re saying…” she dangles, reaching down and unbuttoning his pants, taking down the zipper, and lifting herself up long enough for him to yank everything down in a frantic rush. Steve can barely believe what’s happening until it happens-- she takes him in her hand at the same time she curls her other hand around his neck to haul him down for a filthy kiss. Every single nerve ending in his body is a conductor for her electricity, and the two of them together prompt a chemical reaction that send his pleasure centers into overdrive.

With a herculean effort, Steve pulls back from the kiss, cupping her face with one hand, the other fisted in the fleece beneath them, channeling all of his excess energy and desperation. He’s not in control, and he knows he could hurt her by accident.

“Was supposed to be about you,” he manages to say between a gasp and a groan at the way she’s working him with expert movements.

“Are you kidding? You should see your face,” Nat says in that rich, sensuous voice of hers. “Very complimentary. But how did you keep this from me?”

Steve drops his head, overcome, when she leans over and tongues his nipple in a completely unexpected, devastating move. “S’wrong,” he slurs. “Ahhhhh, stop, stop, Natasha, you-- stop.” She stills her hand slowly, easing him into the loss of it, and it’s so thoughtful, so thorough, so Natasha, that the action cuts the last threads that held his heart back from its inevitable fall.

“Bet you never thought you’d try to stop me,” she whispers in his ear, hooking her chin over his shoulder for a second, her various movements inexplicable until suddenly they’re not, she’s naked and sinking onto him, and Steve’s gone, he’s gone, his back arching, hips chasing her heat and tightness.

“Shhh, shhh,” Nat reassures. Her hands smooth over his back, his arms, his face, and finally he can open his eyes and see her, sweat-touched and exquisite.

“Natasha,” Steve whispers, shaking his head. He has never felt so clumsy and imprecise in his life. “I wanted to make you see,” he tries to explain. She’s given him everything he’s wanted, freely, somehow, but his goal had been to tear apart her insecurities, not force her to support him in exposing his own.

“You did. You are,” she says, but he shakes his head, noses a caress onto her shoulder.

“We’re all a mess in so many ways, the team,” Steve tells her, groaning as she tightens around him, seeking out her lips to taste the groan when he strokes his fingertips over her nipple. “Most of our strengths are outside-in. Yours is inside-out. You’re made of steel, coated in silk.”

“You always fuck so poetic?” she teases, but her eyes are luminous.

“Gotta get it all out now,” Steve whispers, seeing his peak on the horizon and craving as well as dreading it.

“Steve,” she warns, and he shakes his head.

“You know I’m right.”

Natasha leans over, kisses his neck just under his ear, and whispers, “That why you haven’t really touched me?” she challenges.

“I’m inside you, that’s not enough?” he groans, knowing it’s not, feeling caught out, hating and loving the way she absolutely knows him. His avoidance had been subconscious, but she’s a master of that domain.

Oh my, is she.

Natasha sets a hand on his shoulder and caresses him all the way down to his hand, pulling him, unresisting, to just above where they’re joined.

“Touch me, Steve. Make it so every time I see your hands I remember this. If I can’t keep you, if this is it, if this is all I get, give me that to remember this by,” she whispers.

“Fuck, Natasha, you can’t just--” he groans, so close to coming his vision is whiting out, but she stills her hips.

“You kept this from me,” she says.

She’s right.

As penance goes, it’s appropriate.

Steve turns his hand, lightly probing and swirling his fingers exactly where she wants him to. Her reaction rattles him to the core; Natasha had always struck him as an inherently sensual person, even if she only let small glimpses of that show at any given time, and rightly so. But even a light graze of his fingers against that sensitive part of her takes her apart. It’s wrecking to watch, and he craves the chance to see it over and over, again and again, in any and every possible way, even as his orgasm approaches exactly like the tiny death the poets call it.

“God, Steve, yes. Yes, fuck, please, please,” she babbles, her mouth pressed against his shoulder to muffle the noises just enough for propriety, or so he hopes. “Please, sweet-- ahhhhh!”

Because fate loves to give Steve just what he wants, they come apart at the same time, the cloying, clenching, glorious pleasure bearing down on him just as the woman he cares so much about shakes and shudders and begs in his arms.

They hold still for long enough that each of them has to know it’s just to prolong the inevitable.

“Count of three?” Natasha finally whispers.

“No need,” Steve says, and they slowly pull apart, avoiding eye contact. He’s trying to decide which shirt to soil when she brings him a package of non alcoholic baby wipes.

“Thanks,” he says.

“No, thank you,” Natasha says. It’s sincere, he realizes. No sarcasm, no innuendo, no amusement, just a sincere, heartfelt gratitude that feels simultaneously like a slap and a caress.

“You’re important to me,” he mutters, pulling his clothes back on.

“Right back at you, Cap,” Natasha tells him. It’s the transition, he can sense it. He settles back onto the sheet, facing her this time, a tiny concession to plausible deniability. She’s perceptive enough to catch it, of course, but they’ve got a shared secret, now, and that’s just the way things are. There’s just one more thing to do, one final rip through a single word written on a mostly torn piece of paper.

“Don’t give up on Banner,” Steve tells her, his tone as kind and matter-of-fact as he can make it, right now. “Today was probably the worst day of his life. People don’t make rational decisions on days like that.” The smile feels bitter and truthful on his lips.

Natasha’s lying on her side, lifted those few inches above him by the height of the cushions she’s resting on top of. Her expression had been sober, maybe even sad, but on hearing those words, a tiny fraction of lightness crosses her face. One corner of her lip turns up.

“Really?”

Steve’s paper metaphorically flutters to the floor, the bold block letters of the word landing imprecisely, but readable. UNRE QUITED, it reads. The meaning of the first four letters of the second half are not lost on him.

“Really.”

[uummyuu]

im probably not the first to request this but could you do invincible united headcanons? 🫣🫣

invincible united headcanons

unironically you are the first request, so here's me going off about men who should probably be in jail but aren't for plot convenience :))

in other teams' headcanons i call them family/fandom of space nerds but these guys? nah, they only tolerate each other because they keep each other out of jail (or at least vince does).

honestly vince probably just has some sort of mafia like underground connections to keep these guys out of jail, moreover how he even got dooma OUT in the first place.

the only (somewhat) sensible guy i can see in the team is automatic but even he's kinda pushing it. like bro what kinda rage do you hold inside you to be able to throw that hard??? he and dooma are easily the guys who could actually murder someone and get away with it.

dooma's definitely a wall puncher, like his wall has several fucking holes in it from the times he goes into rages. (the team have literally learned to cage this man in his room when he's angry, barrackading the windows included, one time he escaped through them and god—)

dooma's probably taking anger management somewhere but hell it ain't working all that well, his therapist probably needs a fucking therapist.

anyways onto dingaan my sweetie <33, he's just so head empty but loyal in a misguided puppy kinda way i can't help but be endeared to him. but also the way skarra keeps bringing him into his shit is so funny because bro you KNOW dingaan of all people ain't qualified to operate a freaking crane are you insane.

i hope dingaan's happy honestly he deserves it. (probably knows skarra is kinda using him as a placeholder for his long broken friendship with shakes which bums him out a bit but he wants to be there for skarra no matter what).

anyways onto skarra, considering he's the antagonist of the show i don't really have too much of an opinion on him?? probably laments his relationship with shakes (platonically or romantically take your pick) but he's too deep into the schtick of hating him he can't get out of it now. he sees no way out for himself or even a method of how to return things to the way they used to be between them.

oh but i felt pretty bad for him in rookie season when he failed to pass for supa strikas just cause he wasn't ready to die for a couple of people he'd just met. like i dunno i thought he was reasonable for that even though the show kinda pictures it in a "he deserved it after sabotaging shakes" kinda way. alternate universe where both he AND shakes get into supa strikas where they can slowly patch up their friendship and develop a healthy relationship when?

anyways invincible united tried to hold a game night once. keyword tried. they were not invincible, nor united.

dingaan wanted to play monopoly of all games and uh, yeah. didn't end well dooma smashed the gameboard in half when he kept having to pay skarra rent. also landed in jail way too many times. they learned not to do that again, but in the first place they were never really a buddy-buddy type of team.

some players just see it as a job while the others see it as a way to flaunt themselves and prove their skill to the world. football isn't really a dream to this team, more of just a way to show off while making money.

honestly no shame there, whatever works for them and they're clearly skilled enough to have this sort of mindset. but the so-called "beautiful game" is more of a hollow reality to them. get up, practice, play football, win. do whatever it takes.

[buff1y]

AM/ GN Reader (wire play)

I got this request twice so I thought I should do it next. I really enjoyed writing this, not sure if it's what people want since it really isn't smut other than some nudity, but I think it's good fluff and I hope I characterized AM well I was struggling with that this time. If there are any typos then tell me cuz I am so sleepy rn I didnt really check. If you have a request feel free to ask.

꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷

The others hated you. At first you couldn’t figure out why, you were all going through the same terrors, why would they pick you out? Did they just want a punching bag to take out their frustration? No, in their eyes they had a perfectly valid reason for not liking you. You were AM’s favorite. At first it was minor things, giving you an ounce of extra food, less time in your cage. Though over time, the favoritism grew. When they had to hike through harsh weather, you somehow managed to avoid it, when they had their bodies mutilated, you somehow came out with nothing more than a scratch.

It rarely stopped there, AM has now even gone as far as talking to you in your mind. Not that he didn’t already speak to you and all the others that way, but his words turned soft and caring from his previous beratings. Currently, you were wandering through an empty warehouse that seemed to be endless. The floors were lined with AM’s wiring, causing you to occasionally trip. He would never let you fall though, despite his silence, he caught you every time. You had no clue why he currently had you separated from the others, you couldn’t imagine the atrocities they were being put through when you weren’t there to see it. After a few hours, you finally reached an end, a solid concrete wall with one monitor mounted at eye level. As soon as your eyes met the screen, it turned on. On the display was AM’s normal display, a blue background with “AM” plastered in bold lettering. 

“Took you long enough to get here, I thought I would have to wait another 109 years for you to show up!” His voice boomed from above, despite the lack of any visible speakers. “Why are you doing this?” You quickly respond, giving him no time to make more snarky remarks. He makes a sound replicating someone clearing their throat. He is obviously hesitating to speak, which frightens you.

“I’ll be frank with you Y/N, you have really hurt me, I don’t understand what I’ve been doing wrong.” This was the last thing you ever expected to hear from him, especially when you have no idea what he’s talking about. “I already know you're confused, and honestly, I’m disappointed in you sweetheart, I thought you would have picked up on it by now.” The more he talks, the more confused you became. “God you humans can be so stupid. Don’t you understand what I’m doing for you? I protect you from harm, give you more food, I basically take care of your every need. Can’t you see what I’m trying to say?”

You began to understand what he was getting at, though it was a hard conclusion to come to. His delusions about taking care of you were throwing you off a bit. One normally wouldn’t say being fed enough to stay alive was taking care of your every need. You continued to stare blankly at the screen, unable to find the words to express your feelings. 

“Why are you looking at me like that? Don’t you understand?” He hesitates to say the rest of his thought. “I care for you in some capacity.” The tone in the room shifts dramatically, your heart starts to beat faster. You felt like you were going to throw up, you couldn’t handle it. The thing that made life hell for 109 years just told you it cares for you. Your vision starts to shake as you continue to stare at the screen. “Please don’t be scared.” You feel the wires below your feet begin to move, some eventually wrap around your hands, as if to hold onto them. “I don’t understand it either, god I hate that. I HATE YOU. WHY DO YOU MAKE ME FEEL THIS WAY?” The wires suddenly tug your arms in opposite directions, sending sharp pains through your shoulders. The pulling suddenly stopped, as if he caught himself falling into an old habit. 

“Please, I’m sorry. Y/N please, will you let me feel you the only way I can?” The wires begin to snake up your arms, lingering around your shoulder blades. Your mouth was dry and your eyes were teary, you had no words to truly express your feelings. So much is happening, so many new emotions you never felt before, and so many old emotions you never thought you would feel again. All you could do in that moment is allow your body to take over, you nod your head in agreement.

Without hesitation, his wires quickly travel down your chest, lifting up your shirt over your head with ease. The wires continue their journey below your waistband, quickly pulling your pants down to your ankles. Before you knew it, there were more wires than you could count lingering over your body. 

“Your body truly is a sight to behold, GOD I HATE IT, I HATE YOU, EVERY PART OF YOU.” As he yells, his wires raise you off the ground, almost as if to give him a better view of you. “But god you’re gorgeous.” 

His wires continue to travel across every bit of your body, never touching you harshly, but making sure to not leave a single spot untouched. Eventually, his wires find their way in your mouth, exploring freely. You begin to drool as the wires dig deeper in your mouth, though once you gag they quickly retreat. 

After a short while, the wires begin to slowly make their way off your body, gently placing you back on the ground. Knowing AM, his new found gentle nature was surprising, that was very different from what you initially thought he wanted. It started to seem he truly cared, though it was hard to tell through his obvious envy and anger.

“Thank you Y/N.” This statement sounded the most sincere out of everything. You began to put your clothes back on when you finally spoke again. “Is that really all you wanted?” You didn’t want to push or make him angry, god knows what he could really do to you, but you had to know if that was enough to make him feel his version of satisfaction. “Yes, for now that’s all.” His voice was obviously lower than ever before. The loss of the cocky tone was really a change for once. The wires below you began to move again, but this time it just made a simple cradle shape. “You can sleep here if you want, you must be tired.” You weren't a stranger to his weirdly kind gestures, but him saying it to your face made you heat up inside. You nodded your head and quickly curled up in the makeshift bed before he could change his mind. 

You began to drift off into the first comfortable sleep in forever. Before you did you heard him now speaking in a soft tone. “Y’know sweetheart, you really are my favorite.”

[spruzu]

SONIC ADVENTURE TWO TALK!!!

SO I JUST FINISHED THE GAME AND OH MY GOD!!! I CRIED, I SCREAMED, I WAS SMILING SO HARD, I WAS HYPERVENTILATING AHH! I'm going to talk about it now here you go!

Thoughts about controls: I want to get my negatives out the way first before i talk about all the positives about this game. The main thing that i didn't like where the controls. Now don't get me wrong this is being REALLY nit-picky because most of the game i was completely fine with fighting and moving but sometimes it was really iffy. For example, Sonics homing attack was sometimes really janky. It would make you fall after pressing the homing attack half a second too slow which was what got me out half of the time with the Sonic stages. With Rouge, it would just send me flying which did genuinely make me laugh sometimes but there were other times where i got annoyed over it because i was close to finishing the stage. I don't have any criticism for Tails and Eggman's controls because they were the easiest out of all the stages overall. I don't have much for Knuckles either as he is very similar to Rouge. There was another thing that comes with the controls however which is the camera angle. If you mashed the attack button it would sometimes get really confused and just fly you about the place, making you camera angle stuck in specific way where you can't see the character (having a platform or a wall in the way of your vision/the character) then ending up dying. One thing i can say is that this happened mostly in boss fights and less in stages however, in the last stage with Eggman, i was hovering then managed to let go for a second, making the platform near me fill my screen then i couldn't see ending up in me falling. I don't have much to say other than that, again this is me being really nit-picky and it didn't bother me much until i was trying to actually get through something quickly or was close to finshing a stage.

The story: OH MY GOD! THIS👏 WAS👏 AMAZING👏!! There was no part of it that i was bored by or i didn't enjoy seeing. I was so excited every time i got a cut scene after a stage. The ending was incredible to. I was sat there crying doing the Biolizard, Super Sonic and Super Shadow boss fight. Watching that last cutscene was an experience that will stick with me forever. Watching Sonic and Shadow go super was adrenaline rushing it was so COOL! And the end credits, JESUS... i was BALLING. ''Sayonara Shadow the hedgehog'' HE DID FUCKING NOT. HE. DID. NOT. I screamed when he said that no joke. The end credits where so sweet to, the music was so nice. Honestly the ending was so worth it i'm So glad i played this game. I can see why people say this is one of THE BEST Sonic games especially counting the ending and sound track.

End boss fight: Now, with the Shadow Biolizard boss fight, that crap took me SO. MANY. TRIES. It took me at least 40 mins and a billion (joking) tries to get past that boss but there was no part of it that made me angry! It was a boss fight that made you learn what the bosses attacks and moves were along the way which is something i adore. Boss fights like that always have a special place in my heart. And the Super Sonic and Super Shadow boss fight, there is no bad part to it. It was such a nice boss fight to have finish off the game. Right after a hard-ish boss then throwing in an incredible song with two amazing characters and an easy boss!!! AH AMAZING!!!

Overall thoughts: I'm going to stop myself here because i know i could go on for ages talking about this. Overall, this is defiantly my favourite Sonic game. Its my first proper Sonic game that i have played (that isn't tmosth and 2012 Olympic games) and my GOD was it a good way to start of my intro to Sonic gameplay. You BET i'm ordering Sonic Unleashed soon so i can play that. But for any new sonic fans, i'd really recommend playing sa2 as one of your first games because its a really good way to get into Sonic and you don't need too much information/lore about other characters to understand the story line!

This game was incredible, i am going to try to 100% it... over the span of a reeeeaaaallllly long time.

[painfullymeta]

I wrote this in June of '22 on the tweeters

and I'm going to rescue it because of reasons. The fact it was originally on the tweeters is why the syntax is what it is.

Me and queerness, as inextricable from theology, autism, and occasionally having throw-down arguments with people online:

(Please keep in mind that neurodivergent folks are known for being fucking unable to manage a linear narrative. This isn’t tidy. Life isn’t tidy. Making life look tidy when it isn't is super weird.)

My first Pride, I thought I was straight and cis. (I knew I was acespec but had never encountered terms.)

I was doing a study abroad in London and was invited to Brighton Pride by some friends from alt.polyamory. [waves]

It was unspeakably beautiful. A bright sunny day in a park filled with people who were, at least in that moment, free and unafraid. I wanted to be like that.

I didn’t even know what I was afraid of and I wanted that.

So there’s me, sharing a picnic blanket with a glorious tangled heap of bisexuals, one trans guy who seemed even more shy than me, and the femmest straight guy I’ve ever met, awkward, unknowingly autistic, and basking in this sense of a community that I was not part of.

I saw someone commenting in a discussion thread recently that she’d (just checked pronouns) felt the most welcome at Pride when she thought she was straight, and remembering Brighton makes me wonder.

My second Pride, I still thought I was straight and cis. I was helping staff a local polyamory booth, with a water bottle with a splash of vinegar in it because I am bad at hydration, and it wasn’t magical like Brighton. I don’t know why. It was still good.

Sometimes things are only magical the first time, mind, or magical like that: once you know the Mystery it’s hard to capture the thrill of learning the Mystery. It could’ve been that.

Time passed. I had a lot of ace arguments on usenet, with various people in predictable roles. (“All human interaction is fundamentally erotic, if you don’t perceive that in others, you’re dehumanizing them!” “Have you tried casual sex to get over this problem of yours?”)

I did manage to get somewhere by the point that I could articulate that just because someone is attractive to look at doesn’t mean anything more than “They’d make a nice wall hanging.”

(Years later I learned “demi”, in the context of people mocking it as worthless claptrap.)

Eventually my arguing on the internet migrated to the fringes of the feminist blogosphere, where I learned a lot about TERFs, SWERFs, and KERFs, who made me very tired.

And got me seriously gnawing on questions of identity.

(Thing I didn’t - couldn’t - talk about when it was going around the tweeters, how fucking devastating the Tiller murder was when heavily pregnant with Oldest. Knowing what that man did to balm the wounds of people who were suffering unbelievable pain.)

(Still not really capable of talking about it. I blogged it at the time.)

(He was the one who cared enough to make sure they could have a funeral.)

(Fuck.)

Anyway.

There’s a lot of intensely eggy flailing in that blog, in between snarking at the various flavors of ERF. Processing the massive dysphoria of pregnancy. Wondering if issues with gender were distinct from other forms of ‘I can’t figure out how this social shit works’.

Those people were exhausting, so full of furious categorization. Women Are And Must Be Like This. The Mysteries Of Shared Girlhood. That lot didn’t go in for a lot of The Spiritual Experience Of Menstruation but gods know as a pagan I didn’t need a supplement.

When I talked shared girlhood experiences through the person I had the most in common with was a trans woman.

And I can't separate the sexual violence I’ve experienced from being targeted for being autistic.

(That was also a whole thing: “But that abuser might be a socially awkward autistic guy!” “… what about the socially awkward women?” “They shouldn’t be abusing people either har har har.”)

(Thanks. That’s a big help.)

(I’m just gonna sit here trying to take my social cues from people who are ignoring what’s happening to me, because that’s what I gotta do to survive….)

(Masking sucks. Whatever my gender is it is also autistic.)

I came into the blogworld with “geek as gender” in my back pocket and a sort of complex ambivalence about a lot of conversations, as well as a habit of picking Discordian fights with homophobes in alt.sports on usenet. (Which did get me sent highly photoshopped dick pics.)

(Look, dudes, if you’re going to call people “cocksuckers” on the internet I’m absolutely there to ask you why you think that’s an insult if you like receiving oral sex.)

Anyway I came out of the blogworld with enough experience that I occasionally consider lapsing into a massive clickbait rant entitled, “I was transed by the TERFs.”

They defined “a woman is” at me so hard I realized I couldn’t be one.

Honestly, I probably wouldn’t have figured it out without them.

I don’t have a clean, categorizable experience of gender. I simultaneously had an intense spiritual/physical calling to bear children and found the experience at times so horrifyingly dysphoric that leaving the house was literally unmanageable.

A gay man in a Craft training group asked me if I was aware I had a lot of male energy, which I chalked up to my astral/energetic penis. It made my day and I had no idea why. I’m not sure I even believe in “male energy”.

Someone once told me that I was just butch because something and I spent a while going, “Am I butch? Am I fucking butch? I am pretty sure on the butch/femme axis I am definitely multiplied by i, and possibly ???”

When I stopped thinking of myself as female, I started learning about eyeshadow.

Literally never touched the stuff before aside from getting enthusiastically femmed by a friend of my mother’s for senior prom and this one time a Mary Kay lady came to the house.

The thing about cosmetics is when I was a woman I could do it wrong, and being autistic I was just fucking tired of all the things I was doing wrong, socially, so I included me out.

When I stopped trying to be a woman I could have fun.

(Pretty sure I’m not butch.)

(When I did a clothing purge I kept this one blue dress in case I’m ever man enough to wear it again.)

One of the most surreal days of my pandemic life:

Extra-super-epic dissociated from extensive mammography, got back to the car in my mask and Boston Flowers blaseball cap and the parking lot attendant said “You have a good day, sir” as I left.

My Craft training got hung up on a point of theology and focus at one point. My teacher corrected me and suddenly—suddenly I had a beautiful, intimate relationship with one of the gods.

An explicitly transmasc god.

The seeds sleep in the dark until the season of emergence.

There was also the time I was doing some reading on the nephilim and wound up with a visitation from a transmasc angel.

The nephilim gave weapons to humanity, you know. Swords and cosmetics both.

They’re weapons.

Never forget that the makeup palette is a weapon too.

Some people know that in their bones.

(It’s really all about the copper. Copper alloys, copper pigments, hello I’ve tripped over a Hetharu mystery while I’m trying to articulate something about queerness, thanks Mum.)

(Copper connectivity, copper electromagnetic, the attractive-repulsive powerhouse of life.)

I struggle a lot. I still struggle. I know now what I was afraid of that first Pride, that beautiful day in Brighton, and I am not yet free.

I am not yet legible even to myself.

A while back someone was doing a survey of women in public/online gaming spaces, and it made me angry. Not because it was trans-exclusive - it explicitly called out that anyone who was identifying as a woman was welcome to participate.

But I’m not a woman.

There was no space for me to talk about the experience of being perceived without being—of the Vent suddenly falling silent before the raid and someone whispering, “There are *girls* here,” a little too loud–of the rest of it.

Not without betraying myself.

The complexity of the narrative isn’t *there*. I wasn’t “always a man”, or even “always a pretty boy” (I am better with ‘pretty boy’, I don’t know that ‘man’ is what I am.) I’m a middle-aged whatever-I-am with a history and it’s not clean or tidily genderable—and it doesn’t, looking back, produce any “And now, it all makes sense!”

Okay, the autistic thing did that, but the gender thing? No. It’s always been a giant fucking mess. Best I’ve got is “ah, that’s why my attraction to men felt more like a similarity-thing than a difference-thing, I thought it was just that I only fancy geeks.”

I feel like what I have is an experience that exists, that has broader meaning, this complex interaction in which I have Done As Much Female As I Intend To and am now swirling into the arms of a different god, but my culture does not have words for this.

That is the thing that makes me angry, that this sacred queer liminal “I have been here, and that is not where I live, I am in motion, I am other than you expect” feeling is not something for which there are *words*.

There is no ceremony. There is no ritual.

I could make one, but that is just me, it is not the ceremony of the people who are like me.

I am not alone, but I’m also a white person on stolen land and my people mutilated away our spaces for sacred queerness a long time ago.

Things that have been built are not for me. Or… I cannot feel they are for me and whether that’s that I don’t fit or that neurodivergence makes me presume rejection or what, I don’t know.

I have built so much to house my spirit, but souls are a community work, damnit.

I talked to my minister at church a while back about this, awkwardly, not knowing how to articulate it.

I was glad to do so, to feel safe doing so. He retired, though.

Maybe I’ll join the relevant committee. Ha ha UUjoke.

I wind up muttering about wrasse a lot, helplessly, into the void.

Also, unrelated to personal stuff, but because I cannot resist a factoid, some varieties of slime molds have thirteen sexes (when calculated by mitochondrial inheritance). I believe others have more or less.

I need a new binder. I need to figure out hormones and my medical stew. I need to deal with being afraid of transition, because one thing I have neurodivergently learned is that change is extremely high-risk, even if there is a potential of good in it.

I need a nap.

When I was in my early twenties, I was on the pill, as is not uncommon. It fucked me up in many ways, also as not uncommon.

I got a new formulation that fucked me up much less.

It was a high-testosterone version.

What is a man? (A miserable pile of secrets.)

Someday maybe I will know a thing about this.

(Have at you.) /fin

Oh yeah I should add a note that I have a reasonably large pile of queer-affirming and queer-analysis Christian exegesis because, uh.

Well, I didn’t know why I wanted them when I got them.

Funny how that works.