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

[miange1]

THANOS

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

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

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

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

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

"Oh— dude!"

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Leave? I just got here."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Player 230, and 231."

[arabellasleopardcoat]

Autumn (Cregan Stark x Reader)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“His first wife died in childbirth!”

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

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

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

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

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

“Did you knew all along?” You whisper.

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

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

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

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

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

Your mother doesn’t answer.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Cregan approached you and gave you a bow.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It would not come to pass. Not any longer.

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

“You may enter.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[randombush3]

ojalá te amara

alexia putellas x reader

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

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

words: 2664 (short and sharp i would say)

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

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

“You’re watching me.” 

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

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

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

“He never played for me–” 

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

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

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

“Sit,” you say.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“‘Like’?” 

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

“I’m still yours,” she breathes. 

… 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

…

You’re bored. Massively so. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[basicallyjeankirschtein]

jjk men x streamer!reader hybrid smau

╰┈➤ Collab?

chapter one

ೃ⁀➷ you start your stream with gojo, your childhood best friend who happens to be internet famous. you’re surprised to see how people react to your presence on his live.

masterlist. prev. next

you were nervous to answer the call that rung from your pc, shaking for godsake. it was not that serious, you tried telling yourself over and over in your head.

but the thing is, it IS that serious! how did gojo already have five hundred thousand viewers, the stream just started???

you joined the video call after a moments hesitation, waving shyly at the screen. no way were you having internet anxiety, was that even a thing? online-anxiety.. the dsm-5 definitely doesn’t categorize that as a disorder.

“hi,” you spoke in a much smaller voice than usual, one you use towards your professors or customers at work. gojo mustn’t have caught on to your shy and anxious behavior, considering he immediately started screaming about how excited he was to introduce you to stream and how excited he is to play with you.

his personality was overwhelming. it’s what drew you to him all the way back to when you were seven. it could be a lot at times- but it’s what made him so enjoyable to be around. if it were anybody else, it would give you a migraine.

“chat, stop acting weird.” you heard gojo say in a disgusted voice as you booted up your own stream and game, greeting all your fans and letting them know you’re streaming with gojo. they were all so excited for you! it warmed your heart, easing your anxiety. you’d just focus on your audience, not gojos almost one million- oh my god, one million?

you were going to question gojo on what was happening in his chat, worried they were making fun of you, but when you noticed he had one million viewers you almost passed out. this was terrifying.

you discreetly opened his stream chat, making small talk with gojo and your audience while you took a look at what people could possible be saying.

you were fucking shaking. this was NOT that serious- but you had such bad self consciousness, you just had to see what they were saying… were they calling you ugly? weird? oh no- where his diehard fangirls mad that he was streaming with a girl-

to your surprise, all you saw were nice comments. they were all complimenting you, asking gojo why he didn’t introduce you sooner. you were shocked, a small smile tugging at your lips as you continued to read.

GOJOMARRYME: EEE SHES SO CUTE! how does she only have 50k?!? GUYS MAKE HER FAMOUS!

gojosleftnutsock: is she dating gojo? love her already, im going to live vicariously through her

gojoandgetostan68: yn can i be your lap dog

sugurugetotv ✅: why have you never introduced us, gojo?

you had to stop yourself from reading before your face went bright red. no wonder gojo called them out, some of these messages were so weird. but the majority were sweet! you were glad you had a good first impression on everyone.

however, one message in particular caught your eye. he’s verified, you recognize his name from gojo. he’s talked about geto a few times, talked about how he’s going to play games with him but it’s not the same as playing with you. gojo just said that to guilt you, though.

“yn, who are you gonna play?” gojo asked, reeling you out of your thoughts as you realized you’ve already loaded into a match.

“i’ll play cloak and dagger,” you insisted, preferring to play support over any of the other roles. “how about you?” you asked, though you received no response.

“gojoooo?” you called out, eyebrows furrowing together as he went silent, still haven’t chosen a character. you wondered if the call bugged out, but when you looked at your video chat, he was still very much there. he looked upset about something, a look of… jealousy(?) on his face. you weren’t quite sure why he looked mad.

“you okay?” you asked, which seemed to snap him out of his trance. his face immediately twisted into a wide smile, “yea! my friends just being weird..” he muttered, though you could tell his tone was far from friendly. did geto make him mad? you weren’t sure, it wasn’t your place to ask so you just stayed silent.

gojo finally put his phone down, sighing as he looked at the character lineup. you were playing cloak and dagger, your teammates consisted of a solo player who chose doctor strange, while the other three were in a party and all played dps.

gojo was clearly upset this party of three stole his dps role, cursing about how a good team should have two of each role and then immediately also picking dps. well, you were totally losing this game.

toji never cared for his view count. he only streamed to play games with his friends, and get some money along with it. he was naturally successful and never cared how many viewers he had or lost.

until today.

he lost 16k viewers in the span of fifteen minutes. he thought he got cancelled for a good minute there, until his friends brought him into the loop of things.

sukuna of all people even tuned into gojos stream, what the hell? just for some random? it made no sense. sukuna and choso assured him the hype was for a reason, but until he saw you, he wouldn’t believe it.

toji scoffed, rolling his eyes when his friends finally joined his call and began naming off excuses as to why they were late to chat.

“right, just get on the game bro.” he spoke in his usual cold tone. those who don’t know him would think he was being harsh to his friends, but this was just how he spoke.

toji invited them to his party, the three of them queuing up for a match. toji was happy to see someone instalock support- cloak and dagger at that- usually nobody wanted to play healer. he was making small talk with choso when sukuna suddenly spoke up,

“chat told me we got matched with gojo and his friend.”

first chapter is up!! i’m so sorry, i know i said this would be an smau but clearly there’s more writing than pictures.. i want to do an equal amount of both but i have to add context for some things ):

tag list

@estella-novella @ourfinalisation @definetlythinkimanalien @fuckisthatahotghost @m-0ona @sillybillylamb @ayla-1605

[hitlikehammers]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Fuck.”

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

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

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

“Do you think he’ll—”

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

Unless they’re something special to each other.

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

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

Boy’s a leaf in a cyclone.

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

But he does hear it.

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

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

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

That Henderson squirt, scolding Steve something fierce.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Tell him by the end of the weekend.”

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

“That’s fucking tomorrow!”

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

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

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

“It’s such a good thing, Steve.”

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

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

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

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

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

☕ 👀 ☕

✨ part ii >>>

♥️ coming tomorrow /// 14 Jan

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

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

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

divider credit here and here

[bitchface24-7]

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

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

I’M RIGHT HERE, SEE? - JAYCE X READER

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

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

genre: m/f or m/m

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

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

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

But it's not saving him now.

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

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

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

You're dead.

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

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

To take him instead.

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

He—

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

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

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

You're alive.

You're grumbling now as you slowly wake up.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Thu-thump

Thu-thump

Thu-thump

Thu-thump

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

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

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

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

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

[wonkizz]

do you feel the same way i do about you?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You don’t look like you.

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

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

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

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

“Okay, let’s go.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It’s not long before Sunghoon effectively abandons you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Ouch.

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

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

“That’s harsh, man,” Jake pipes up.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Suddenly you feel humiliated.

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

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

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

‘Where are you?’ It says.

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

You fall asleep with your eyes swollen and heart broken.

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

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

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

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

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

Sunghoon stands there, an evident frown on his face.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What are you talking about?”

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

Sunghoon’s face morphs from confusion to shock.

“I…you heard me?”

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

“Y/N I…I didn’t mean any of that—,”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

WONKIZZ 2025

[cablecar-s]

would you fall in love with me again?

It's been a while since the SAGA came out and idk if anyone has done this yet but THIS SONG. THIS. SONG. If you haven't already listen to Would You Fall In Love With Me Again that is part of the recent and last SAGA of EPIC: The Musical by the amazing Mr. Jalapeno. It just fits so well with Jason?? Recommend listening to the entirety of it as well! The music is so beautiful and I absolutely BAWLED. On with the story!! :D

———

"Just... Be safe, okay?"

"I'm Robin, I'm always safe."

And that was the last time you saw him.

If only you knew that Bruce was going to come to your apartment to break the news to you. If only you knew that Jason was going to get himself killed in Switzerland. If only you knew that his boyish smile you always loved would be the last time you would see it. If only you knew that you would never get to voice your love for him ever again once he left.

It ate at you.

Every wonder, every what if, every 'If I had just stopped him'

But that would never bring him back. Jason Todd was dead.

The boy you grew up with is gone. No more running from cops. Stealing tires together. Fulfilling that promise the two of you made under the stars. The dreams you had with him, forever gone.

And yet..

You hung on to those promises. Because he promised you, and he never broke his promises.

–––

You woke up to your alarm, the annoying sound of it buzzing on your bedside table. With a groan, your hand sneaks out from under the warm covers to slam on the reset button.

Wake up, brush teeth, have breakfast, go to work.

That had been your routine for the past few years now. Helped you keep whatever sanity you had left.

You became a journalist. Trying to shed more light to the less fortunate. Make people give a damn even if you knew very well they wouldn't because it was Gotham. And when did Gotham ever give a shit about those who suffered?

You also dabbled in a bit of the underworld. Trying to put crime lords behind bars. You weren't no Batman or Robin, but you weren't going to stand and do nothing while those rich assholes go away scot free.

Bruce had warned you to be careful. That you were practically putting a target on your head if you dug to deep. The only thing he got in return was a finger and a slam to the door.

Begrudgingly though, you had agreed to let him add more security to your apartment. If you were going to be doing something as dangerous as writing articles about said crime lords, it was better to be safe than sorry.

As of recently though, someone new had shown up to the underworld.

The Red Hood.

You had scoffed at first, "Another Joker knock off."

But then news of the mysterious figure spread fast.

He had killed eight drug lieutenants, killed anyone who dealt drugs to kids, and rapists and abusers alike killed with bullets infesting their bodies.

Red Hood: A Hero or a Criminal?

That was the title for your next article. People were skeptical of the Red Hood. Yes he cleaned up crime better than Batman, but technically it was still murder, and technically he was still selling drugs.

An exhausted sigh left your lips, your hands going up to rub at your eyes. You were beginning to see double, and you still needed to buy groceries for the next week and head home to make dinner.

Packing your things, you said your quick goodbyes to your colleagues and left to the store before the sun had disappeared from the sky.

You made sure to shop light to not have any wandering hands or eyes, you would get the rest tomorrow morning.

Your feet trudged up the multiple flights of stairs, the elevator not being fixed for six months now. God how you hated your landlord.

You struggled with your things, the loops of the plastic bags digging into your skin while trying to find your keys in your bag. With muttered curses, you were able to finally open the door.

You were too tired to notice the shadowy figure standing in your living room. Watching as you shut the door with your foot while dropping everything to the ground with relief.

"Nice place ya have."

The voice was deep, a bit gruff and modulated, with a hint of an accent beneath it all. It made you jump with a small yelp. Your head turned, hands fumbling for something, anything, to use as a weapon.

With wide eyes, you stared at the glowing white eyes that stared at you, and the slight shine of a red helmet.

Red Hood was in your home.

Jason felt like throwing up. He knew it was a bad idea. Told himself over and over and over again that he shouldn't see you. And yet, here he was; standing in your apartment, waiting for you to get home from work.

Your place was.. Homey. A bit messy, but you were always messy weren't you?

He couldn't help but snoop around. A fridge with not much (he'd have to go shopping for you some time), a few dishes here (he'll clean it up for you), papers scattered about on the table (you'd probably get mad if he touched those), and a bookshelf.

Filled to the brim with books. Books that he told you he loved. That he read to you. The only things he would gush to you about other than being Robin.

His gloved hand ran over the multiple covers, his hand pausing upon a familiar book.

Pride and Prejudice.

He couldn't help but smile a bit. You had teased him about being a hopeless romantic when you found the book. His younger self was embarrassed beyond belief, but you had convinced him to read it out to you anyways.

He flipped through the pages, his eyes skimming through the many notes you made and the passages you had highlighted. As the papers flew by, something fell out, making him give pause and crouch down to the ground.

It was a polaroid picture of the two of you as teens. You had written the year at the bottom with a pen. What caught him off guard were the words after it though.

'I love him.'

You obviously could have meant as a friend. Nothing but simple platonic love. But he knew better, the both of you did back then. You two were still awkward teenagers, but it was there, your feelings for each other bare for one another.

Hand holding became more than leading the other through alleyways. Sleeping next to each other became more than just keeping warm from the cold. And stolen glances were never unnoticed.

His stomach dropped for a moment, his breathing stuttering.

Maybe he should leave, before he did something he would regret.

Did you even love him still? He wasn't the goofy kid you would hang out with in the middle of the night anymore. He didn't have that pure innocence. That 'Robin gives me magic' bullshit.

Jason was now a man who had been through hell and back. A man who had left a trail of red in every step. A man who took more lives than he can count on his hands.

Would you still love him then?

Would you fall in love with him again even knowing all that's he done?

Before Jason could even have the chance of going out the same window he came in, the lights to your apartment came on, and he froze.

Both out of fear, and out of awe.

You were.. Pretty.

Well, you were always pretty. But you were more.. Mature. Tired, but mature, and pretty, and every word that was synonymous to it.

"Nice place ya have."

He internally cringed.

He watched you jump and try to grab a weapon near you, a smile cracking underneath his helmet when you grabbed the coat hanger.

What were you going to do?

Red Hood was in your apartment. He didn't attack, or kill, those who didn't do anything wrong. Meaning he wanted to talk. But about what?

"What are you doing here?" You questioned, trying to gather all the bravery you had. Your eyes narrowed when he held his hands up, picking up what seemed to be a chuckle coming from him.

"Just wanna talk."

"About what? I don't have anything for you."

You stayed in place, unblinking and on guard, but like you, the Red Hood just stood there.

"I thought you'd be happier to see me." The crime lord chuckled.

Your brows furrowed. Was this guy crazy? If you had met the Red Hood before you would definitely know.

When opening your mouth to say something, all words died on your tongue, time practically becoming still.

He had taken off his helmet, revealing messy, black helmet hair with a white streak at the front. A few scars decorated his face. His eyes an almost glowing green. And a face sharper than it's original round baby one.

It had been years. Years. But you could recognize that face anywhere.

"No welcome back—"

You had practically ran straight into him, Jason letting out a small 'oomph!' upon impact.

"It's— But— You—?" You were at a loss for words. Your arms practically squeezed his torso.

Breathing. He was breathing. You could hear his heart, hammering against his chest.

Alive. He was alive.

He was alive.

"Long story." He chuckled.

Tears were practically falling from your eyes already. You pulled away enough just to look at his face, hands cupping his face.

"Jason..?" You croaked out.

He smiled at you. Awkwardly, but a smile that you remembered all those years ago.

"That's me."

You could only stare at him, him staring back at you. You could barely process him standing before him.

He was real. He was breathing. He was warm.

"What? Am I that handsome?" He tried to joke.

Always trying to lighten the mood.

A broken laugh left you, a smile on your lips. "Shut up."

And you had shut him up. A kiss that was long overdue.

It was messy, teeth slightly clashing, large hands awkwardly trying to find its placement. But it was everything. It was perfect.

And then he pushed you away, hands holding onto your shoulders.

"We shouldn't— I can't—"

"What?"

Your heart shattered for a moment, watching Jason who had his head turned to the side, a frown on his lips.

"Why not?"

"We just can't."

"Jason."

"I'm not—!" His voice raised for a moment.

He closed his eyes, taking a breath. "I'm not who think I am."

Jason braced himself, forcing himself to look at you. "I'm not.. I'm not the same person. I'm different. I'm not..." He paused, inhaling sharply.

"I'm not a good person.."

You stared at him. The silence between you two becoming tense.

God was he dumb even now.

"So what's the problem?"

His grimaced before calling out your name, every syllable rolling off his tongue with such ease it almost made you want to jump him.

"The problem is that—"

"Do you still like chili dogs?"

His brows furrowed, taken aback by your question.

"What?"

You took a step forward. "Do you still like to read your boring classic novels?"

"They're not boring—"

Another step.

"Can you play the piano?"

"Well, maybe, but I might be rusty."

And then you had him in your hands once more.

"Then what's the issue?" You questioned, staring into his eyes.

He stared back at you, dumfounded now. He opened his mouth, before closing it. You spoke for him.

"Jason, I don't care if you killed people, that you sell drugs, or that you're some kind of zombie."

He cracked a smile at the last comment.

"You're still the same boy who promised me the stars on that rooftop. Whatever you've done, whether good or bad, I love you."

Jason stared at you, breath catching in his throat. And then his eyes, his beautiful, now green eyes glistened under the light.

"You mean it..?" His voice cracked for a moment, his hand reaching out to gently grab your wrist, squeezing it to try and reassure him.

Your own eyes began to water again, a broken laugh leaving you. You leaned forwards, pressing your forehead to his.

"Of course I do."

———

Reblogs are GREATLY appreciated :] (please reblog, I worked really hard on this)

[thollandsgirl2013]

𝐌𝐢𝐥𝐞 𝐇𝐢𝐠𝐡 𝐂𝐥𝐮𝐛*

Parings → Peter Parker x Reader

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

Summary → You and Peter joined the mile high club.

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

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

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

Peter: Please baby 🥺

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

You: Nope

Peter: But I’m so hard right now 😭

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

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

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

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

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

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

You: Wait till we reach the hotel.

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

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

Peter: YES! I LOVE YOU SO MUCH.

You: You owe me.

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

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

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

“Uh, it’s occupied.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your cheeks instantly flushed, and you quickly typed back.

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

A second later, another text from Peter appeared.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Peter: What are you guys talking about?

Peter: Oh my god! Did MJ find out?

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

You: Yeah, she found out.

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

You smiled despite yourself.

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

Peter: You still love me though, right?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You smiled softly, your heart swelling with affection.

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

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

‎∗ ࣪ ˖༺ 𓆩☆𓆪 ༻˖ ࣪ ∗

[greenerteacups]

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

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

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

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

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

[nerdygaymormon]

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

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

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

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

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

Oof, that's tough.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[dailydemonspotlight]

Dante - Day 151

Race: Fiend Occupation: Devil Hunter Alignment: Neutral, with the Devil May Cry Agency January 13th, 2024

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

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

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

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

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

[90shetfield]

Lessons - Jason Newsted x f!Y/N

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

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

Word Count: 1376

Lessons

1991

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

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

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

At all…

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

----

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

-Maxine

[ineffablelara]

I'm aware I'm being extremely annoying and bitchy right now but I'm so bothered by the way some people treat Loki as a delicate little baby instead of the badass, powerful and ancient God he is

Like, I get it, his ending in the show was sad but no, I don't think Loki spends his days crying about his situation, I don't think he's scared and desperate, I don't think he'll be traumatized when he leaves the tree, I don't think he's having the time of his life there either, it's a hard and lonely job but he knows someone's gotta do it, just like he knows he's the best person to do it

He spends s2 trying to explain to Sylvie that she can't just give people free will and walk away because that's not how it works, he knows that if you want to give people freedom you also have to make sure they'll be safe to fully enjoy their freedom, you can't just leave them to fend for themselves when you know full well they're powerless to stop the horrors that may come with their newfound freedom

When he explains to her that they can reform the TVA so they can protect the people living on the timelines she says they would be playing God if they did that but Loki says that they are indeed Gods and walks away frustrated by her lack of understanding of the situation

The more mature Loki we see in the show doesn't view his Godhood as something that puts him above other people, he views it as something that gives him the responsability to take care of those who can't defend themselves, there's no arrogance in his voice when he says that they can protect the new multiverse with a reformed TVA, he doesn't say "I can protect them" he says "we", he's not separating and positioning himself above the TVA workers, he wants to work with them, he genuinely just wants the best for everyone: for the people on the timelines to be safe and for the agents who feel at home in the TVA to keep doing their job

All this to say that Loki doesn't view his fate as a punishment, he's doing what he wanted to do from the beginning, OF COURSE he didn't want it to be like that, he thought he could just stay in the TVA and help them fight the HWR variants by going on misisons and stuff, OF COURSE he wishes he could have a more "ordinary" life (I mean, is it really ordinary when you're living inside an organization where time doesn't pass and constantly traveling through time?)

BUT

We have to keep in mind that Loki isn't a stupid little human like the rest of us, his perception of things is not like ours, we are limited and weak, he  wields infinite power and wisdom now, for all we know he can project his mind and consciousness into any timeline he wants and interact with people if he wants, I kinda HATE when I see people writing Loki in fics as if he's this helpless pathetic thing after he leaves Yggdrasil, like, the man can create portals to ANY place he wants to go (let's not forget that he conjured the portal to the citadel while holding the branches and also materialized the stairs that lead to his throne), he can sustain entire countless universes with the touch of his fingers, I promise you he's not the helpless babygirl we all love to call him

I just...

It's so frustrating to see people acting as if Loki is just a random scared human who was tossed in the center of the multiverse tree instead of being the God who fucking created it, I think that's bc some people relate to him and they kinda start forgetting who he actually is, maybe it's just another way to woobify him but idk, it realy annoys me

Anyway, I’m sorry if I’m being annoying, but I really needed to get this off my chest. I’m not saying that Loki doesn’t feel sad at times or that he doesn’t miss his friends—because I absolutely believe he does. I just think that, deep down, he’s proud of himself for being able to take care of everyone. He understands that it’s his responsibility as a God, and he accepts it without trying to make things easier for himself, unlike HWR. After all, that’s the difference between a human playing god and an actual God fulfilling his role as a protector of people in need.

[miimo96]

Tbh if this show doesn't get a 2nd season I won't be entirely upset because then they'll get the chance to maybe actually REBOOT the show and do Moon knight real Justice, because the way he was handled in this show was just not right, I mean if you wanted to appeal to a modern audience then you should've just instead either stayed true to his source material OR write him in a way that doesn't really copy other characters and makes him really relatable as well, don't just write him with the same quote unquote "comedic" formula over and over again, ACTUALLY give him a trait that makes him distinguishable and likable from other characters

for example If there's 1 thing I love about Moon knight, it's the Shit that comes out his mouth 🤣 like the guy is so random and weird that it actually makes for some great comedic moments, like I know they're just Memes but some of the shit here is so good that I HONESTLY wish it was part of his character, because it just fits SO WELL, not to mention his supernatural side is SO interesting, people tend to forget that moon knight isn't just a street level hero, he actually fights demons and monsters as well

Hell his 1st appearance was in Werewolf by night issue #32, not mention he has ties to other supernatural characters like Blade, the midnight sons and of course, the Infamous DRACULA, I feel like they really misunderstood Moon knight because he's not just Marvel's batman or Egyptian indiana Jones, if he anything he's Marvel's local Crazy person; he's a loose Canon who is willing to do anything to win in a fight, a character who is so Unpredictable that TASKMASTER is scared to fight him, a character that is so complex that his LITERAL nickname is Looney Mooney, and a character that is so obscure, that the entire premise of his books keep changing. I feel like if you wanted to make a Moon knight show, then you should've had just dived into his weird /Supernatural aspect more rather than abandoning it almost entirely and ended up sticking to his grounded side, like have him start off with fighting regular criminals and then lean into/ introduce some of his supernatural enemies like Demons, Gods, monsters, and Vamps, just to keep things more interesting, in fact HE should've been our introducing to the Supernatural in the MCU, Not Blade, not ghost rider or Whoever they originally did it with, if Strange is the mystical, Spiderman is the street level, then Moon knight should've been Supernatural

hell if ya really wanted to ya could've just probably had him go up against ancient Egyptian cult like worshippers like Sun king and Ra, that way you can still do the whole Avatar thing and have it make more sense especially for a power vs similar powers type play story with Marc being the Avatar for the MOON God and Sun king the avatar for SUN God, and with both coincidently happening to be Birds (what can I say I'm a simple guy lol )

Another thing I really wish that they could've done more would be playing more into Marc's and Konshu's relationship and had it FEEL like whether he was really real, or just a figment of Marc's imagination, like NOW you can't do that so that's out the question, but if they did I'd probably have it like he's just a voice in Spector's head telling him to quote unquote enact his "Righteous" vengeance upon people, I mean you can still probably play it off like with Marc seeing him and stuff like that and just give us the idea that if he's REALLY there or that if it's just another part of Marc's imagination, like have him really struggle with what's real and what isn't, like Did he make Konshu up or something like that when he died, or was it truly real? I think the big interesting thing about Moon knight is his Mentality and how he struggles with his other personalities and reality, all while he tries to not seem Batshit Crazy, in fact I feel like instead of going with Steven grant or any of his personalities to start off the show, they should've have went with marc himself and introduced his personalities later episodes or even start it with him as moon knight and slowly give us his origins through flashbacks so we can at least see how he got to this point

Finally i think they should've handled his power set a little better, don't get me wrong I love the idea they went with his suit being ancient armor and giving him unlimited moonerangs and weapons and whatnot but the thing that makes Moon knight REALLY cool is that he's just a guy in a suit, giving him actual Powers was a big mistake because then it takes away from all the urgency and suspense we could have if the possibility of him dying could happen, having him not being able to be Stabbed or killed was just crazy because then it makes him F*cking INVINCIBLE, mortality is what we love to see in our character's because then we can both relate and root for them when they're stuck in situations, making him invulnerable basically takes away from that and doesn't really make him all that interesting, don't get me wrong you can still give him powers if ya want, just don't make it like that if he's effing invincible or can fly like Superman though, instead have it be more like he gets Enhanced strength, speed, and durability from the moon God Konshu, that way he still can have powers and be hurt at the same time, and if or when he finally loses his powers, either by something or if Konshu's completely done with him, you can have him then Make his own moon knight suit and still be a vigilante, that way you still have Moon knight and he's more like his comic accurate self. Maybe even have the show be something like about if he still wants to be Konshu's disciple /Puppet or if he wants to just be done with everything and then have him have this whole character arc and realize that he still DOES want to do this but NOT as a servant to Konshu, he wants to act HIS righteous vengeance on people, not just be controlled to do it, he wants to protect people because he's the only who can and no else can do the job except him, tbh, that would've made for a WAY better show than what we got, hopefully they can still do it with all the popularity moon knight's been getting lately, but lemme know what you guys think, do ya agree or should they just leave things as it is?

[lafcadiosadventures]

Le principe de la liberté littéraire, déjà compris par le monde qui lit et qui médite, n’a pas été moins complètement adopté par cette immense foule, avide des pures émotions de l’art, qui inonde chaque soir les théâtres de Paris. Cette voix haute et puissante du peuple, qui ressemble à celle de Dieu, veut désormais que la poésie ait la même devise que la politique : tolérance et liberté.

The principle of literary freedom already understood by the world of readers and intellectuals, was no less adopted by this immense mass, avid of the pure sensations of Art that flood every evening the theaters of Paris. This loud and powerful voice of the people that resembles that of God, wants poetry to have the same devise as politics: tolerance and liberty

Victor Hugo, preface to Hernani