#her own life!!!!! no matter how you feel about it they had that one like about her and lando! there is some form of jumbled emotional

[xxsteveharringtonxx]

A Little Time

(Steve Harrington x Reader)

Steve was always soft.

He was soft and gentle and kind.

Well, he was with you anyway.

It had always been that way since Middle School. When he first saw you again after summer break and you smiled at him with a quick wave across the park lot, Steve just knew you were good.

Too good.

He wasn’t as gracious in High School, he got popular and a little mean but you kept your distance, ran in different crowds. It was just how things were. But when he was paired with you in Bio or when he borrowed your notes there was a calmness that took over him.

A peacefulness he doesn’t experience often.

But now, after the hell you were all thrusted into at Star Court and everything that had happened since then Steve had hardened.

Exteriorly he had anyway.

The soft spot he’s had for you since Middle School was now goo, he was protective and worried and no matter how many times you reached out and touched his arm, gently telling him ‘it’s okay Steve, I’m tougher than I look’ it didn’t matter.

All that mattered to him was that you were safe and always within reaching distance.

And it’s not even that he didn’t know that, of course he knew how strong you were. He had witnessed it on more than one occasion. It was more like he knew that if he ever let anything happen to you he would lose his mind.

It would break him.

He almost felt as though he’d been looking after you since Middle School, making sure Tommy and his goon squad didn’t bother you, checking in during mid terms and finals, and even down to walking you to your car after shifts at Star Court.

And then more recently, dragging you out of the Upside Down and patching up whatever scratches or cuts you’d managed to get down there.

His touch always soft, always leaving you wanting and needing more. Despite his frantic and panicked over reacting, both of you always made it out alive.

Together.

And that was enough for now as you tried to adjust back into reality, real life taking over quickly and your early twenties flying by even quicker.

“Hey, you’re spacing out.” Robin snapped clicking her fingers in front of your face.

“Sorry.” You told her with a soft laugh, your attention spanning back to her.

“So are you coming?” She asked impatiently and making you nod not really knowing what she was referring to.

“Of course.” You replied to her just as Steve and Eddie rejoined you, a tray of fries and milkshakes placed on the table in front of you.

Steve sliding in easily beside you in the booth, his arm behind your shoulders resting on the seat, his back to the aisle so you were safely blocked between the window and anyone even passing through the diner.

His movements were casual but calculated.

He was comfortable when you were safe, and felt safe.

That’s all that ever matters to him.

“What are you gossiping about?” Eddie asked throwing a handful of fries into his mouth and chewing obnoxiously, your nose scrunching in disgust.

“Gross Eddie!” You scolded moving closer into Steve without even realising. His heart elating with joy as you did, his warmth showering you.

Robin watched with a small knowing smile as Steve passed you your milkshake, not even caring about his own until you were set.

“We were talking about your show later. When does it start?” She asked him also shoving fries in her mouth.

And you were listening to Eddie, you really were but Steve’s fingers brushed the side of your neck as you reached forward for some fries. And the electricity the small touch sent down your spine was deafening.

Literally.

You couldn’t hear Eddie talking about the itinerary. Just his mouth movement and animated hands as he spoke.

You couldn’t even hear Steve no doubt joking about bringing ear plugs.

It frightened you sometimes how he made you feel.

Because he was just Steve, your Steve. But just Steve nonetheless.

Gulping you blinked back into the room, a deep breath and focusing back on Steve’s voice.

“So we can get there at eleven? And you start around midnight? I’ll pick you girls up at ten thirty.” He confirmed looking down at you with an easy grin.

“Great! Sounds perfect.”

___

Later that night you were clutching onto Steve’s arm as if your life depended on it, Robin’s fingers hooked around your wrist as you all pushed through the crowds in the Hideout.

Steve, worried about losing you in the crowd wriggled his arm out of your hold and laced his fingers through yours instead. A grip you couldn’t escape from even if you wanted to.

Which you definitely didn’t.

Once you found a good spot you thought he’d let go, even when Robin passed him a beer you thought that must be it, he’ll want his hand back and you feel cold but he didn’t.

He tugged you closer beside him when the music started and eventually when bodies were moving and the crowd pushing forward he pulled you to stand in front of him, his hand letting go of yours but running down your rib cage and then finding home on your hip.

With you in one hand and his beer in his other he started to relax and enjoy the music. Nothing he wanted more in this moment. Having you in his arms in this moment was enough to make him happy for the rest of his life.

And then Corroded Coffin strayed from their usual set list and played some familiar chords.

The drums making you chuckle, Eddie’s cheesy line to ‘all the lovers out there tonight, let’s slow it down.’

Steve leaning down to your ear and you could feel his grin.

“I love this song!” He told you and you couldn’t stop the grin taking over your features as you turned to face up at him.

“I know Steve! You play this like a hundred times in the car!” You told him with a playful eye roll and he squeezed your hip in retaliation.

You giggled,

Giggled, like a pathetic little school girl.

But Steve managed to do that to you. Reducing you to a smitten girl with a huge crush.

Looking back at Eddie and his band you enjoyed the warmth of Steve surrounding you. His chest rumbling as he sang along.

I wanna know what love is

I want you to show me

I wanna feel what love is

I know you can show me.

Joining in the singing you felt Steve’s thumb brush over the exposed skin on your hip, Robin swaying beside you both.

You weren’t sure what came over you but your eyes burned with tears and you blinked them away, swallowing the lump in your throat.

You were happy.

Relieved.

But so happy.

And it was Steve, it always came back to Steve.

By the time he was dropping back off at your place you didn’t want the night to end despite it now being almost 3am.

“Hey Steve?” You heard yourself before your brain even processed what you were doing.

You spun on the doorstep and he’d stopped in his tracks to face you, hopeful.

“Yeah?” He asked already inching back towards you.

You didn’t know this and he’d never tell you but his heart was pounding in his chest, he could hear the thud thud thud ringing through his ears. A million thoughts running through his brain.

“You wanna come in?” You asked so quickly as if to not allow yourself to change your mind.

Steve smiled, slowly at first, maybe a little shy as if unsure you were being serious but then definitely confident when he saw your chest heave with a brave breath.

Grinning he nodded and your bottom lip was captured by your teeth to stop your own grin.

“Yeah.” He breathed out jogging back up the path to you. “I definitely want to.” And before even giving you a chance to respond his hands were on your cheeks and he was kissing you so intently.

Still soft and still gentle like you always knew Steve to be.

But also determined and eager.

“You have no idea how long I’ve waited to kiss you.” He told you finally pulling away but still close enough that you could feel his lips against yours as he spoke.

“You have no idea how long I’ve waited for you to kiss me.” You joked back, leading him into shutting you up with another kiss, just a peck.

“Well I won’t keeping you waiting as long next time.” He offered standing up straight and letting you unlock the door.

“You promise?” You asked over your shoulder, a glint of something in your eyes that Steve hoped he got to see everyday.

“I promise.” He confirmed and following you inside, hands itching to find your skin again and heart still pounding in his chest.

[thegreatstoryteller]

Female to Male Fridays!

The Great Shift: Meeting the Parents

“Are you sure you’re ok with this? We can still head home.” Jenny muttered. Clearly a bit nervous staring down at her boyfriend.

“Babe. It’s been almost a year since the Great Shift. I told you. Just because I’m unshifted, doesn’t mean I don’t want to meet your parents.” Youseff said smiling.

Jen and Youseff had met in their freshman year of college and immediately became close. They joined similar clubs, volunteered at the same food banks, and eventually friendship blossomed into romance one fateful summer night! The couple knew nothing could get between them and the love that they found… and a few years later that included the Great Shift. While Youseff remained unshifted, Jen Shale wasn’t so lucky.

They had agreed to meet at her sorority when the craziness of the Shift happened. Youseff was more than a bit surprised to find a larger older man in his 40s sitting nervously on Jen’s bed waiting for him! Since then many revelations have been shared with the couple. The first was Youseff coming out to his girlfriend as bi! He never had the courage to say it before and didn’t know how to share that part of his life with his girlfriend, but the shift offered a unique chance that worked out well with the couple. Two. Jen realized she was in a sports medicine professor who was quite in shape! He apparently was father to three student athletes on campus… and luckily her feelings for her boyfriend hadn’t wavered from the shift. A fact that they both enjoyed learning the first week of the Great Shift. Eventually the two became more comfortable with each other even buying a pair of matching pajamas!

It took quite some time for the world to get back in order. During that entire time communications were able to be set up with most families. Youseff’s family had many linear shifts, a term used by most of the world when your shift put you into someone very similar to your original body. His dad was a man his own age. His mother was a woman a few years younger than her. The only difference was his younger brother who now keeps telling Youseff to call him the bigger brother when he shifted into a former professional athlete. 

Jen’s family… was another story.

“And that brings us to today. Jen. I’m serious. I want to meet them. I know you’ve talked to them, but I haven’t. And when they invited us over for the holidays I thought it’d be the best chance to get to know them.” Youseff said hopefully, placing a hand against Jen’s cheek and training the thick salt and pepper stubble that was ever present no matter how close she shaved.

“I know- I know… but I told you before the shift that they were a bit much… and, well, now since the shift… they are still that! I guess… just… more…” Jen muttered nervously. A feat she seemed to still master despite her new commanding baritone. 

“They can’t be that bad.” Youseff said before knocking. And that’s when they heard heavy steps approaching the door.  

A handsome muscular man answered the door! He wore long pink dishwashing gloves and an apron! Aside from that he seemed to be wearing nothing else. The small potted flower he held seemed to be thriving!

“You must be Youseff! Jen has told us so much about you! Come in! Come in! I was just washing some dishes and watering the kitchen plants! We’re so glad to meet you. You can call me Margot! I’m Jen’s mother, or rather her second father!” Margot laughed. The man before them had a deep voice and almost a bro like tone. The motherly introduction he gave at odds with his gym bro form. 

“You must be hungry! I’ve been making lots of food these days. This young man I became had quite the appetite. And who could blame him. I’ve felt the urge to go to the gym almost every day of the week! Anyway, I just keep blabbering away! Have a mini quiche!” Margot led them to the living room where a small plate of appetizers awaited them.

“Wow, these are amazing Margot!” Youseff said digging in. I always wondered where Jen got her amazing cooking skills from.

“Awww! Jen! You didn’t mention your man was a little charmer.” Margot giggled as Jen blushed. 

“Mooom! Stop! You’re embarrassing me!” Jen complained burying her fuzzy face in her large hands. Her mom was always like this. If it wasn’t telling embarrassing stories about Jen, it was finding an excuse to show off her body. Ever since Margot got her new body she had been more than happy to show it off. She would say, “Well this young man clearly wanted to show off his muscles, who am I to cover them up!”. So bouncing around the house in her classic apron was just the way she dressed these days.

“Shush Jen. My little girl will never be too old for a little humor. Just because you have more grays on that head of yours than your father did pre shift, doesn’t mean you can’t laugh a little.” Margot teased.

“Speaking of where is Mr. Shale? Youseff asked.

“Well he’s always in the garage these days. When he got that 20 year old gymnast’s body, he’d become obsessed with the sport! I’ve got some biscuits to take out of the oven. You two should check on him.” Margot offered.

“Anything to get out of this conversation.” Jen groaned pulling Youseff towards the side of their home. As they opened the door to the garage they could see a handsome black man flexing in the mirror, wearing a tight singlet. The chalk on his hands implying a recent gymnastics routine.

“Jen! There’s my little girl turned big man!” Her dad said cutting his flexing short and heading towards Jen. Mr. Shale now was the shortest one in the family at 5’1. With his daughter at 6’0 and his wife at 5’10, the household tended to tower over him. However, he was more than happy with his new body.

“Hey dad, enjoying your gymnastics or whatever?” Jen half heartedly asked.

“Yes I am! I tell ya, being a few decades younger is great! Sure beats my beer belly and sore ankles. A 20 year old body like this is flexible. You can ask your mother if you don’t believe me.” Mr. Shale winked.

“Dad! Oh my gosh! NO! I brought Youseff here! Please don’t gross him out.” Jen screamed.

“Oh so this is the young man that’s caught my daughter’s eye. You can address me as Mr. Shale or sir. DO I make myself clear?”  Mr. Shale looked up at Youseff who just nodded. Despite the size difference between them Youseff was clearly intimidated by his dad-like tone. 

“Yes sir!”

“Good man. I guess I have you to thank for helping our dear Jen finally get some more manly clothes? For some reason she didn’t want my help with a new wardrobe.” Mr. Shale shook his head disappointed.

“Yeah! We actually had a lot of fun going to the store and finding clothes that fit. The toughest part was finding shoes in her new size.” Youseff conceded.

“Youseff!” Jen blushed. She knew it was true. With her larger feet, she realized just how difficult it was to find footwear that fit. The largest most places went up to was size 15. Her now size 18 feet were tough to find anywhere!

“Sorry babe, but it’s true. Plus you said you had a great time shopping. Like old times, remember? You said that you weren’t sure we’d find a single pair, but when we went to the Big and Tall store, they had a few shoes your size! Even sandals!” Youseff explained.

Jen just shook as her dad applauded Youseff’s resourcefulness!

Before long the family was finally all together to share a meal! Jen’s parents were loving her boyfriend, though he could see that she was clearly embarrassed throughout the whole dinner.

By the time they left Youseff was driving them back to their apartment, where he asked. “Jen? Are you alright? I… I’m guessing that night wasn’t the most pleasant for you?”

Jen just nodded and hugged her boyfriend. Her broad frame embracing him with a tight squeeze. “My parents just take a lot out of me. Before the shift they were overbearing in a different way and now… well now they are always just so comfortable in their new bodies! My mom started going to the gym almost every day with her old book club. Each of them became some kind of fitness influencer. And my dad! He won’t stop telling me how proud he is to have a son now and that I need to start acting more manly. I don’t get how they can be so well adjusted to all this! I… I thought I was getting there. With you… being this kind of man feels easy. Even more exciting at times too.”

“I do love your mustache.” Youseff noted, causing Jen to giggle.

“See. It’s stuff like that. You always make me feel like your partner… and… I guess I need more time before I start feeling like a member of my own family again and not some older hairy guy.” Jen admitted.

Youseff kissed her cheek. “I’m sorry I insisted we meet them so soon. I was so ready to take our relationship further and I was so nervous to meet them. But I forgot to consider how you were feeling about your parents. From now on, we can just focus on us.”

“I like that plan.” Jen smiled kissing back.

“Good. Maybe we can start with a pedicure tomorrow. I know you’ve been itching to try that out with your big new feet.” Youseff teased.

“Ha! These big new feet would love to get a pedicure. Maybe a foot massage later too!” Jen smiled, wiggling her big toes. When she was with Youseff she realized, maybe she could get used to this big body.

[claramelooo]

WOVEN FATES (1/???)

Here I aaam! Remembering that the posts will be every Saturday.

So, enjoy it!

*I'm a little drunk rigth now, so, I'm sorry if you find mistakes*

MINORS DO NOT MUST INTERACT

Pairing: AgathaRio X Fem Reader

Summary: A serie of events makes you fall into the good graces of two older women.

Hey! I've a masterlist

Fascination

You wake up to the first rays of sunlight slipping through the gaps in the curtains. Your bedroom is small, just 23 square meters, but it’s the only space in the world you can truly call your own. A study desk pushed against the wall, shelves crammed with books and notebooks filled to the last page, and plants scattered in every corner—ferns, succulents, and a small cactus that stubbornly clings to life even when you forget to water it.

After stretching, you get up and head straight to the window, where your plants greet the day. You talk to them in a soft tone as you mist them, almost as if expecting a reply. “You look beautiful today. I promise I won’t forget you again.”

Lucky, your overly talkative black cat, meows at your feet. He wants nothing but your attention, and you oblige, stroking his head with a tired smile. “Good morning, Lucky. Seems like you’ve got a lot to say, huh?” He meows back, and you laugh.

In the comfortable silence of the morning, your mind drifts, as it often does, to the past. You grew up in the suburbs, in a small house that was always full. Your father did his best to raise you and your five older siblings, but there was a gap that was never filled: your mother. She left when you were just a child, and though no one in the family spoke openly about it, her absence was a constant shadow in your life.

You remember the nights when your older siblings would laugh and argue in the living room, while you, the youngest, hid in a corner with a book or a notebook. Writing was your escape, your way of creating a world where you had control, where mothers didn’t leave and bad things always had a solution.

She left when you were little, leaving behind you, your five older siblings, and a father who never knew how to handle her absence. You remember the nights when the silence of the house was broken by questions no one dared to ask. Why did she leave? Was it us? Was it me?

No matter how hard he tried, your father couldn’t fill the void she left behind. He worked all day, came home exhausted, and did his best to keep the house running, but affection and kind words were never his strong suit.

“You’re strong. You don’t need to cry over this,” he’d say every time tears threatened to spill. Gradually, you learned to swallow your tears and convince yourself that you needed to be strong, even when everything inside you wanted to collapse.

Her absence shaped much of who you are today, though not in a way you like to admit. It’s hard to look in the mirror and not feel... inadequate. You wonder if she left because you weren’t good enough, because you weren’t good enough.

These thoughts are like shadows that appear at the most unexpected times, especially when you try to open up to someone. Intimacy is terrifying. You fear that if people truly know you, they’ll abandon you, just like she did.

In school, this made you shy and reserved. You always felt like a puzzle with a missing piece, unable to fit in. Your siblings tried to shield you from the worst, but they had their own battles to fight.

You were the youngest, the “baby” of the house, and yet you never had the chance to be treated as such. While they laughed and argued, you hid in your room, writing stories that transported you to worlds where mothers didn’t abandon their daughters.

This absence also gave you a fierce determination. You promised yourself that if no one was there to take care of you, then you would take care of yourself. You studied late into the night, devouring books on screenwriting and filmmaking from the public library.

When the college acceptance letter arrived, it felt like the world had paused for a moment. You’d made it. The first in your family to set foot on a university campus. Despite the pride, the insecurity is always there, lurking. The fear of not being good enough, of failing, of being discarded. You work hard because you feel you have something to prove, even if no one asked you to.

The sound of the bell above the door announces another day of work at the small café. You walk in, adjusting your apron with a resigned sigh. The air smells comforting, like fresh coffee, but the weight of the shift ahead is always present. You do everything there: serve tables, clean counters, even organize the stock. Your boss is an unpleasant man, known for his sexist jokes and invasive behavior. But you need the money, so you swallow your anger and keep going.

América, your coworker, is the opposite of you. Rebellious and fearless, she confronts the boss without hesitation, even knowing it could cost her the job. You make an unlikely team, but somehow it works.

As you wipe down the counter, you hear the sharp click of heels echoing through the café. The sound has a weight to it, cutting through the usual hum of the room. A barely perceptible pause spreads through the space, as if the air itself had been suspended for a second. It’s not just curiosity—it’s reverence.

Your gaze lifts almost instinctively, and it’s impossible not to notice the woman who just walked in. Tall, with perfectly styled dark hair and a black blazer that looks tailor-made, she exudes power. But it’s more than that. There’s something in the way her eyes sweep the room—a sharp coldness, as if she could dissect everyone there with just a glance. And people notice her. Some whisper her name, others try not to stare too long.

You swallow hard, trying not to seem intimidated. But when her eyes finally land on you, it’s as if the world around you has disappeared. She doesn’t look away, and the intensity of that moment makes your stomach churn. For a split second, it feels like she knows exactly who you are—all your fears, insecurities, and dreams laid bare before her.

Summoning what little courage you have left, you adjust your apron and force a smile you’ve practiced hundreds of times. “Good morning, what can I get for you today?” Your voice sounds calm, but your heart is racing.

The woman continues to stare at you, silent. Her dark eyes analyze every detail: the slightly worn apron, your hands gripping the notepad too tightly, even the stray strand of hair that escaped your bun. It’s unsettling, as if she’s assessing every tiny aspect of your existence.

“A caramel latte... and a black coffee. No sugar. To go.” Her voice finally breaks the silence. It’s low, gravelly, like distant thunder, and carries a strange familiarity—as if she’s used to being obeyed without question.

You nod, trying to stay professional. But as you prepare the orders, you feel her eyes on you, watching every move. The weight of her gaze is almost unbearable, like a test you didn’t know you were being forced to take. Your hands start to tremble, and an anxious heat spreads through your body. The feeling of being judged grows.

When you turn to hand over the drinks, the tension in your muscles is so tight that your hands falter. Before you realize it, the hot coffee cup slips, spilling the brown liquid all over the woman’s immaculate white blouse. The sound of the cup hitting the counter is muffled by the low, controlled sound of frustration that escapes her lips—not a scream, but a deep, restrained noise.

“Oh my God, I’m so sorry! I’m so sorry!” you exclaim, your voice trembling. Grabbing napkins in a panic, you lean in to clean up the mess but freeze when you see the stain spreading across the expensive fabric.

The murmur in the café grows louder. Someone lets out an audible sigh, while another mutters something about “the mighty Rio” being treated so carelessly. The name hangs in the air, and only then does it fully hit you.

You knew she seemed powerful, but you hadn’t realized you were standing in front of Rio Vidal—one of the world’s most renowned visual artists. Like her wife, Agatha Harkness, she’s an icon. Together, they’re one of the few openly gay couples to dominate and be celebrated by the industry. Her fame precedes her, and now you’ve just spilled coffee on her.

The woman doesn’t say anything immediately, but her eyes—once analytical—now seem to pierce through you. There’s something terrifyingly calm about the way she looks at you, as if she’s deciding how much of a reaction you’re worth.

Before you can stammer out more apologies, your boss’s voice cuts through the air. “You’ve got to be kidding me!” he shouts, his anger exploding. “How can you be so clumsy? A client of this caliber, and you do this?! I should fire you right now!”

The embarrassment spreads through you like the coffee on her blouse. Your eyes well up as you try to explain, but the words won’t come. All you can do is look at the woman, hoping she’ll say something—anything.

She, however, doesn’t even glance at your boss. Her eyes remain fixed on you, as if he doesn’t exist. Finally, she breaks the silence with a low, sharp voice: “That really isn’t necessary.”

Your boss stammers, surprised. “But, ma’am, she—” He doesn’t finish the sentence. Her gaze silences him, and for the first time, you see a man who thrives on authority shrink back.

You try to catch your breath, your face burning with shame. With a thread of courage, you murmur, “Please, come with me. I—I can fix this.” Your voice falters, but there’s something in your insistence that makes her tilt her head slightly, as if weighing your determination before nodding.

In the restroom, the silence between you is heavy but not empty. You grab the spare blouse you always carry and try to gather your thoughts, but when you turn around, the air seems to leave your lungs.

The woman unbuttons her blazer with precise movements, and when she removes the stained shirt, she reveals a black silk blouse so delicate that the light highlights the curves of her collarbone and the edges of her lace bra.

Your gaze involuntarily drifts to her shoulder, where the skin reddened by the coffee looks almost fragile. The sight is intimate in a way you weren’t prepared for, and your face burns.

“I... I’m really sorry. I shouldn’t have...” you begin, but your voice falters. Your mind is torn between the embarrassment of the accident and the hypnotic presence of her, which seems to fill the small space of the restroom.

“Do you always get this nervous?” Her question is unexpected, her voice low and laden with something you can’t decipher. It’s almost a challenge, a test, and her gaze remains fixed on you, as if expecting more than a simple answer.

“I... I don’t know. Maybe?” You look away, shrinking slightly as you hand her the clean blouse. It’s cheap fabric but carries the faint scent of your homemade perfume. When her fingers brush against yours as she takes it, a shiver runs down your skin, quick and unexpected.

She puts on the blouse slowly, unhurried, and her words follow like an echo: “You shouldn’t apologize so much. Especially when you don’t know what for.” The statement is intriguing, almost disconcerting. Your heart races, as if you’ve just stumbled upon something you don’t fully understand.

Before she leaves, you blurt out, the words tumbling out in one breath: “Please... let me wash your blouse. I want... I need to make it up to you.”

She pauses at the door and turns, her eyes locking onto yours once more. There’s something different now, a genuine interest, almost calculated.

Without a word, she pulls a black card from her pocket, elegant and scented with a faint woody aroma. “When it’s ready, come to this address.” Her voice is low but layered with meaning you can’t interpret.

She leaves before you can respond, her posture impeccable and her steps controlled, as if every movement were rehearsed. You’re left alone in the restroom, holding the card that feels heavier than it should.

Rio Vidal.

The name echoes in your mind. A short, strong name, as enigmatic as she is. And for some reason you can’t explain, you feel like you’ve just opened a door to something that will change your life in ways even the worst coffee spills couldn’t predict.

A few minutes later, you gather enough courage to leave the restroom. Your heart is still pounding in your chest, as if trying to remind you of the disaster that just happened.

You find your boss standing near the counter, wearing the same disdainful look that always makes your skin crawl. But something is different today. He doesn’t explode into shouts as you expected.

“Rio Vidal. The Rio Vidal—” He crosses his arms and sighs, as if he can’t believe what he’s about to say, “—said it was fine. And she was very clear that you shouldn’t be punished.”

You blink, confused. The black card in your hand feels heavier now. Why would she do that? Was it pity? Some kind of veiled charity because of your desperation? Or... something more?

The woody scent of the card wafts up to you, a tangible reminder of the woman who, even with coffee spilled on her expensive blouse, had remained impassive and enigmatic.

“Get back to work before I change my mind,” your boss grumbles, but his tone has lost its usual edge. You don’t argue, just tuck the card into your pocket, still feeling every embossed letter like a secret waiting to be unraveled.

[...]

You practically run to the university. Your legs ache, but it doesn’t matter because today is important. When you finally reach the worn-down building that houses the film department, you can barely catch your breath. The room is packed with anxious students, and excited whispers fill the air.

“You’re almost late!” Darcy whispers, pushing a notebook aside to make room for you. Her eyes are wide, nervous. “Agatha Harkness is already here.”

Her name makes your heart race, in a completely different way from the panic you felt before.

Agatha Harkness.

The legend. The queen. The woman who made actors cry on set and screenwriters question if they were good enough to write even a single line of dialogue. She was a monster… but undeniably a genius. Everything that came from her hands was masterful, and you secretly harbored an absurd admiration for her.

Peter, sitting in front of you, whispers to Darcy, “Do you think she’s going to rip someone’s heart out today? She did that the last time she visited a university…”

Darcy, next to him, makes a face. “On the first day?”

“Without a doubt,” Peter replies, shrugging.

Before you can respond, the door swings open. The sound of her heels is the first thing that fills the sudden silence. And then she enters.

Agatha is everything you imagined and more. Tall, dressed in an impeccable purple suit that seems to radiate authority, with a smile that borders on cruel and eyes that scan the room as if evaluating every soul present. Her presence is a punch to the stomach, yet at the same time, something in you feels magnetized by her. It’s impossible to look away.

She wastes no time with warm introductions. Instead, she tosses a stack of papers onto the desk and begins speaking. Her voice is deep, firm, and filled with an intensity that makes the air feel heavier.

“Writing is an act of courage. And from what I’ve heard, many of you have been content with mediocrity.”

The students exchange nervous glances. Darcy practically sinks into her chair beside you. You, on the other hand, feel your heart race even more. There’s something hypnotic about the way she speaks, as if every word is carefully sharpened to cut.

“Now, here’s what you’re going to do.” Agatha steps up to the blackboard and writes something with an elegant pen. “Write a scene. Any scene. But make it something worth reading. Because if I think you’re wasting my time…” She lifts her gaze, and the silence that follows is more threatening than any word. “—your nonexistent careers won’t even start.”

Agatha picks up the first stack of papers and starts reading in silence, her eyes moving rapidly from side to side. The room is absolutely silent, so quiet that the sound of students breathing feels deafening.

After a few seconds, she lets out an almost exasperated sigh and lifts a paper, holding it up as if it were evidence of a terrible crime.

“Who wrote this?”

A girl in the back of the room timidly raises her hand, almost regretting existing.

Agatha narrows her eyes at the paper, then at the girl. “Is this a love story?”

The girl shakes her head, mumbling something about the plot being deeper than it seemed.

“No. It’s not.” Agatha cuts in, her voice as cold as steel. “This is a cheap fanfic disguised as a script. Characters with no substance, dialogues recycled from a teen drama. Where is the humanity? Where is the real conflict? This isn’t writing. This is a murder of art.”

The girl seems to shrink into her seat.

Agatha tosses the paper onto the desk and picks up the next one. This time, she doesn’t read for long before looking up. “Who thinks it’s acceptable to start a scene with ‘Once upon a time’ in an academic assignment? Are you trying to sell an idea or put a child to sleep?”

A boy in the front row tries to justify his choice, but Agatha raises a hand, cutting him off.

“I’m not here to hear excuses. I’m here to see talent. And so far, I’ve seen nothing worth my time.”

The silence in the room is palpable. You see Darcy whisper something to Peter, probably something like “Yeah, definitely heartless,” but you can’t focus. Your own script is in your hands, and the weight of the paper feels like lead.

Finally, your turn comes. With trembling hands, you hand the sheet to Agatha Harkness, feeling as if you’re handing over a piece of yourself. She takes the paper with an almost deliberate calm, and for a moment, you’re sure she’s going to toss it onto the “failures” pile without even looking.

But then, something in the title seems to catch her attention. Her eyes, previously indifferent, narrow slightly, and she begins to read.

Seconds turn into eternities as you watch her. The room around you fades away; all you can hear is the sound of your own heart pounding against your ribs. Your mind drifts back, inevitably, to the moment you wrote those words—the weight of the story, the piece of your soul you decided to share.

Agatha turns the page. Once, then again. Her silence is like a knife. You don’t know if this is good or bad.

When she finally finishes, she places the paper on the desk. Unlike the others, she doesn’t discard it immediately, but she also doesn’t show approval. Her eyes lock onto you, assessing, and there’s something new in her expression: a trace of curiosity.

“Interesting.” Her tone is neutral, but there’s something hidden in it—a hint of intrigue, perhaps? She leans forward slightly, crossing her arms. “Are you trying to tell a personal story?”

Your face burns instantly, and you feel the weight of all the eyes around you. Still, you find the strength to nod in confirmation, even as shame nearly swallows you whole.

“Hmm.” Agatha raises an eyebrow, pressing her lips into a thoughtful line. “You have no technique. No structure. The writing is messy, almost amateurish.”

Her words cut deep, and you bite your lip hard to keep the bile from rising in your throat.

“But…” She pauses, looking at the paper with unsettling intensity. “You have—” then, she focuses on you, and seeing those ocean-blue eyes so close makes your body tremble. “—something.”

Her choice of words is as vague as it is provocative, and you feel the weight of that “something” hanging in the air between you. She narrows her eyes, as if trying to figure out exactly what it was in the text that caught her—or in you.

“Stay after the bell rings.”

Her voice is final, like a sentence, but there’s no hostility. She dismisses you with a slight wave of her hand, and you feel a mixture of relief and anxiety as you return to your seat.

While the others hand in their scripts, you remain restless, trying to decipher Agatha’s expression and the reason behind her words. What in your text could have caught her attention? The room around you is filled with muffled murmurs, but in your mind, it’s as if you’re trapped in a storm.

As soon as the bell rings, only three people remain in the room besides you. The silence is dense, heavy with expectation, as Agatha moves with the same deliberate calm as before.

Of course, she already knows exactly what she’s doing. This special, hand-picked mentorship was clearly a strategy to appear more "kind" to the public, even though, so far, there had been nothing friendly about her approach.

You watch as she begins the individual feedbacks, calling Darcy first. The girl in front of you seems to be caught between hope and terror but agrees to step forward. As Agatha starts speaking to her, you try to distract yourself, but you can’t stop your eyes from wandering back to the director.

She is... magnetic. Even as she crushes Darcy’s creative dreams with precise, cutting words, there’s something about her that simply demands attention. And then it happens.

For a moment—or perhaps for all eternity—her blue eyes meet yours.

Your throat goes dry instantly. It’s impossible to interpret what’s in that gaze, but it hits you hard. Curiosity? Judgment? Or something else? You try to look away, but it’s as if you’re trapped. She stares at you for only a few seconds before returning to her conversation with Darcy, as if nothing had happened. But you know it did.

Your heart pounds so loudly it feels like it echoes in the empty room. Nervousness is consuming you, but there’s something else, a sensation you weren’t expecting. A tightness in your stomach.

Desire? Nervousness? Anxiety?

You close your eyes for a moment, trying to take a deep breath and organize your thoughts, but it only makes things worse. It feels like she has pulled a piece of the air around you away with just that look.

Time moves slowly. Agatha finishes Darcy’s feedback, moving on to the next student. And then, when your turn finally comes, you don’t know if you’re ready—or if you ever would be.

She calls your name firmly, and you stand up. Your legs feel weak as you walk toward her, carrying the weight of her expectation and your own desire to impress her.

“So,” she begins, crossing her arms, her sharp gaze settling on you. “Let’s talk about what you wrote.”

As soon as you sit before her, Agatha picks up your sheet of paper, holding it carefully, as if she were carrying something precious—or something dangerous. She doesn’t say anything right away, just fixes her eyes on the text for a few seconds before beginning to read again, this time out loud:

"One day, I had a dream about my mother. She was married to the man she truly loved, and without children. There, I had never seen her so happy."

Her voice is deep, but it carries a softness you didn’t expect. It’s as if she’s savoring each word, analyzing every nuance.

When she finishes, Agatha places the paper on the table with a controlled gesture and looks directly at you. The silence that follows seems to last an eternity.

You swallow hard, feeling the weight of that gaze, as if she could see every secret you tried to hide.

“Is your mother the main character here?” The question is direct, blunt—like everything about her.

You feel your face heat up, looking away. “I... maybe?” you murmur, the words hesitant.

“No need to lie,” she interrupts, her voice cutting through the air like a blade. “The text screams it. Every line, every word choice… it’s as if you were exorcizing a ghost. Tell me, is that what you tried to do? Exorcize the guilt of loving and hating at the same time?”

The brutality of the question leaves you speechless. You shift in your chair, uncomfortable, but she doesn’t seem inclined to ease the tension.

“Did she leave you?” Agatha presses, her eyes locked onto yours, as if she could pull the truth out of you by force.

You hesitate but finally let out a shaky sigh. “Yes.”

For a moment, her face seems to change. Something in her gaze softens, but only for a fraction of a second before she composes herself again.

“And yet, you chose not to hate her.” She tilts her head, as if studying a particularly intriguing piece of art. “That is… rare.”

“I think that… she did what she thought was best for her,” you reply, your voice almost a whisper. “I don’t blame her for seeking happiness, even if it hurt me.”

Agatha remains silent for a few moments, as if processing something. There was something in the text—or maybe in the way you spoke—that seemed to touch an old wound in her. A shadow passes over her face, but she quickly pushes it away, replacing it with a neutral expression.

“You have talent,” she declares, breaking the silence. “Still raw, but it’s genuine. And, more importantly, you have courage. The kind of courage I’m looking for.”

You blink, confused. “Looking for?”

Agatha leans forward, her eyes gleaming with dangerous intensity. “I’m assembling a team for my next project. I need minds that think like yours—that see beyond the surface and aren’t afraid to explore the shadows. Would you be interested?”

Your heart races. Working with Agatha Harkness? The woman you admired, even feared? It was more than you could have imagined, but the answer was obvious.

“Yes,” you respond quickly, barely able to contain the excitement in your voice.

Agatha smiles, and the gesture is as enigmatic as the rest of her. “Good. Get ready, little gem. I’m going to shape you piece by piece," The way she spoke was hypnotic, pulling you in. “and it will be… painful.”

As soon as you answer affirmatively, Agatha pulls something from the pocket of her purple blazer: a business card. It’s blue, with purple lettering in an elegant cursive font. The floral scent of the paper fills the air as she slides the card across the table toward you.

“Come to this address tomorrow,” she says, her voice firm but low, as if each word were chosen with care. “Seven at night. And don’t be late.”

You take the card with trembling fingers, its weight feeling heavier than it should. The moment you touch it, a wave of déjà vu washes over you. The texture, the scent, even the sophistication of the design remind you of the card Rio gave you earlier.

Two women so different, and yet… so similar. Both had a presence that seemed to capture the room, leaving you breathless. Both seemed to see through you, as if they could decipher your deepest thoughts with a single look.

You feel your heart speed up, confusion mixing with excitement. Why had these women, so powerful and enigmatic, captivated you so much? Rio had left something in you—a sense of unresolved mystery. Now, Agatha was doing the same, but in an even more intense way.

“Something wrong?” Agatha’s voice cuts through your thoughts, bringing you back to the present.

“N-no,” you reply quickly, slipping the card into your backpack. “I’ll be there.”

She only tilts her head, her eyes lingering on you for a moment before turning and leaving the room. Her silhouette disappears through the door, but the weight of her presence still lingers—heavy, inescapable.

As you gather your things and prepare to leave, a single question echoes in your mind: What the hell were you getting yourself into?

And more importantly, why couldn’t you stop feeling excited about it?

~*~

Y/n... How lucky you are, huh?

Tag List <3

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[lilylushes]

Luigi x Pregnant Reader Headcanons

-Your sex life with Luigi had always been active, but once you two decided to see what happens in terms of getting pregnant, he got baby fever BAD and it turned into a whole baby making season for him. 

-You had sex almost every day before, but now it was constantly - on the countertop, in the shower, in the pool/ocean, etc. Even when you were tired, he’d happily make love to you with gentle strokes, humming how much he loved you and wanted a baby. He’d also lay on the praise even more during baby making season. “Mmm, going to give you a baby, beautiful.” “So good for me, taking all my cum, my good girl.” 

-He was SO excited when you both found out. The two of you both suspected you might be pregnant, so you took a test and decided to look at it at the same time. When you flipped it over and the two lines were clear as day, he was elated. He hugged you so tightly and even though he’s not an overly emotional guy, he cried tears of joy, and gave you so much praise. “You’re going to be the best mother.” “I love you.” “I can’t wait to do this with you.” Oh, and he’s thinking about how hot you’ll look pregnant.

-He immediately ordered a shit ton of books about pregnancy, fatherhood, babies, and everything.

-He thinks about different names all the time, too. He’d ask, “baby, what do you think of x as a name?”

-He goes to literally every appointment, ultrasound, and signs you up for a birthing class.

-NEEDS to find out the gender because he can’t not know. You’d do a little private thing, just the two of you. I picture one of those ones on the beach with a little cake and the wine glasses. No matter what you’d have, his reaction would be so precious. More hugs and tears, probably.

-He’s also kinda panicking because now he’s gonna be a literal father in charge of keeping another human alive. He is reading the books that he ordered religiously. He worries deep down that he’s not cut out to be a father.

-He proudly assembles all of the nursery furniture and makes sure it’s all safe.

-He takes up crocheting/knitting so that he can make socks, hats, a blanket, etc. for the baby. He goes kinda crazy with it, lol.

-He just wants to be a part of it all in any way that he can. He reads up on what you’re experiencing, is always asking how you’re feeling, wants to make sure you take all the vitamins you need, and takes part in your birthing class to ensure that he’ll be a supportive partner.

-He talks to your baby at night. “You have the best mom. She’s so pretty and so smart, you’ll see. You’re giving her kind of a hard time, though. It’s hard for her to sleep. Just keep still in there for a few hours, hm?”

-He is always encouraging you to try things out to make everything more comfortable for you, especially at the end.

-He talks about what the baby will look like and be like. You both agree on your eyes with his smile. You two take the opportunity to look at your own baby pictures. He’s a bit embarrassed at his, but he can’t get over how cute you were.

-Pregnancy sex, especially towards the end, is wild and constant. “I know you’re uncomfortable, baby. I read how we can induce labour, wanna give it a try?”

-He totally panics when you go into labour. He did pack your hospital bags long ago, but he gets all blushing and flustered.

-While you’re in labour, he gives you distance when you need it and is nearby when you need it.

-When your baby is born, he’d be crying so hard. Between your baby being here and how proud he is of you for going through labour, he’d be extremely emotional.

-He can’t believe how tiny the baby is, being totally in awe of their little hands and feet. He’s just in disbelief that you two made this sweet little baby.

-Afterwards, when you’re holding the baby, he says, “thank you for giving me him/her.”

-Even though he’s running on no sleep, he’d watch you sleep afterwards and come over to kiss your cheeks and forehead.

-He’s so proud to bring your visitors in. He’d by hyping you up to them, like, “she did such a good job, I’m so proud of her. She was so strong the whole time.”

-When you’re leaving the hospital, he’s beaming with pride to be able to look beside him and see you and your baby. 

-When you’re in the car, he’d look in the mirror at you and your baby in the backseat, and say, “There’s nobody else I’d rather do this with, y/n. love you, baby.”

[ni-idea-07]

you will never be alone again.

Platonic Yandere Jason Todd X Reader.

TW: illegitimate siblings, cheating, mild yandere, mutilation threats, non-graphic mutilation, paranoia, threats. English is not my first language, sorry if there are mistakes

Somehow Jason found out he had a younger sister. It didn't really matter how he found out, but he was excited and panicked at the same time. Well, he had a lot more emotions on his mind.

He had to find you and see you for the first time in person which touched him the most.

You weren't of age yet and you weren't a baby, you could take care of yourself, but he wouldn't allow you to be alone like he was in the past.

–"Hey, brat, how much for a candy?"

You were surprised when he asked you, after all he was twice your size and he didn't seem like the kind of person who would buy the ugly and cheap candy you sold out of obligation.

Once you told him the price, he pulled out his wallet, a rather full one, you threw away the box of candy and took his wallet from him, leaving him with a smile.

He wouldn't chase you, he already knew where you would go.

Like every night you returned to the shelter where they let you sleep, that night you slept well, when you gave the money to the "Madam" - as everyone called her - she let you sleep in a bed and gave you decent food. She always took in children and forced them to sell candy so they would bring money, if they didn't bring anything at the end of the day they wouldn't eat, but those who brought enough money could eat and sleep well for a week.

The next morning you woke up feeling strangely satisfied. You had brought more money than usual and you hadn't had to run too much to get it. The "Madam" had given you a decent bed and a hot meal, which was a luxury in your daily life. But that feeling of security didn't last long.

As you stepped out onto the street with your box of candy in hand, you ran into the same man from the night before.

Jason Todd.

You didn't know his name yet, but his presence was impossible to ignore. Tall, muscular, and with an expression that seemed a mix of amusement and something more... dark.

–"Morning, little thief"– he greeted you with a sly smile, leaning against a lamppost. I hope you slept well with my money.

Your body tensed. It wasn't the first time you'd stolen, but you'd never encountered someone who came back for what was theirs. Or worse, who seemed to enjoy the game.

–"I don't know what you're talking about" – you muttered, feigning disinterest as you tried to walk away.

Jason chuckled, but his hand moved quickly, catching your wrist with ease. He didn't hurt you, but his grip was firm.

–"Oh, come on. Don't worry about it."

–"Consider it a gift."– He leaned in a little, his voice dropping to a whisper. –"But tell me, do you like that place?"

Your expression hardened. You didn't understand what he meant.

–"I mean, the 'Madam' and her cute way of treating children. Making them work for their own food... that doesn't sound very fair, does it?"

Your stomach clenched. You didn't know why, but something about the way he said it made you feel uncomfortable.

–"It's none of your business"– you muttered, trying to let go of your wrist.

Jason didn't budge. His eyes, a deep blue, shone with something you couldn't figure out.

–"It is. And even more now that I know you're my sister...."

Your breathing stopped.

–"What... what did you say?"– you whispered, feeling the world around you shake.

Jason smirked, as if he'd been waiting for that reaction.

–"Yes. You're my little sister. I looked into it."

–"Don't worry about the details, the important thing is that I found you."

His other hand rose to ruffle your hair with a strange tenderness-. And now that I know you exist, I'm not leaving you alone in this hole.

Your instinct told you to run. To flee immediately. But Jason's grip tightened a little more, as if he could read your mind.

–"Calm down. You don't have to decide anything now."

His smile turned a little colder. –"But I'll make one thing clear to you..."

He leaned in, his breath brushing your ear.

–"If that woman ever lays her hands on you again or forces you to work one more day... I'll cut off her fingers, one by one."

A chill ran down your spine. There was no anger in his tone. There were no screams or empty threats. Just a promise said with the calmness of someone who would really do it without thinking twice.

And for some reason you knew he meant it.

Things went on as usual for the next few days... or at least, that's what you tried to convince yourself. But the feeling that someone was watching you never went away. Sometimes, when you turned a corner, you saw a silhouette that disappeared too quickly. Other times, you felt a presence nearby when you were selling candy, as if someone was making sure everything went well.

And worst of all: every time you brought money to the shelter, the Madam would You looked more closely. Something had changed in her attitude.

One night, when you returned after a particularly long day, you found her waiting for you with her arms crossed and a tight smile.

–"You've been bringing too much money lately."– Her voice sounded sweeter than usual, which only put you more on alert. –Who have you been kidding, sweetheart?"

Your jaw clenched. You knew any wrong answer could cost you dearly.

–"I'm just selling well"– you replied calmly.

The Madam clicked her tongue, approaching with slow steps.

–"Don't lie to me. I've seen that man following you. Tall, leather jacket... too well dressed to be a common customer."

Your stomach churned. You couldn't deny the obvious.

–"I don't know what you're talking about."

The slap came before you could react. Your cheek burned, but you didn't make a sound. It wouldn't be the first time this happened, and you knew that reacting would only make her continue.

–"Listen to me, you little shit"– her voice sounded icy. "If you're saving money or if you're thinking of leaving, you'll regret it."

You didn't answer. You knew you didn't need to.

That night, as you lay down on the bed you'd won, fear settled in your chest. Not just because of the Madam, but because you knew Jason was right. You weren't going to last much longer here.

And sure enough, the next day, Jason stopped watching from the shadows and took matters into his own hands.

When you left the shelter, you found him waiting for you right outside, leaning against his bike with a bored expression.

–"Good morning, sis. Ready to move in with me?"

You opened your mouth to refuse, but he just held up a hand, stopping you.

–"I don't want to hear excuses. I know what that witch did to you last night."

His gaze hardened for a moment. –"I made sure she never touches you again."

Your body tensed.

–"What did you do?"

Jason shrugged nonchalantly.

–"Nothing too drastic... yet. I just made it clear that if she tried to hurt you again, she'd lose more than just her fingers."

You didn't know what that meant exactly. You didn't want to know.

But when you looked back at the shelter, you saw the Madam peering through the window, her face pale as a ghost.

Your chest tightened. You didn't want to admit it... but being with Jason seemed safer than staying here.

The days with Jason in his apartment were... strange.

The place was horrible, unkempt and almost empty.

There was no decoration, just some functional furniture and a couple of guns lying around, as if they were decorations. The smell of gunpowder, cigarettes and old coffee permeated the air. Still, everything was in perfect order. Jason had made an effort to clean the apartment because he was afraid that you were allergic to dust.

Still, the real danger was him.

Jason was not normal.

From the first day, he behaved intensely. He wouldn't let you go out alone, always having an excuse to accompany you. He insisted on knowing what you were doing all the time and, if you took longer than expected in the bathroom or kitchen, he called your name impatiently, as if he was afraid that you would disappear.

And when you didn't get an answer right away... well, you'd learned that Jason didn't have much patience

One time, you locked yourself in the bathroom for a few minutes longer than usual because you wanted some peace. You hadn't thought it would be a problem... until you heard a loud BANG and the sound of the door being smashed in.

Jason walked in with his gun drawn, his eyes red with fury and his breathing ragged.

–"What the hell were you doing!?"– he demanded.

Your heart stopped.

–"I... I was just in the bathroom..."

Jason stared at you for a second, then let out a shaky breath.

–"Don't do that. Don't make me worry like that."

And then, without warning, he hugged you.

It wasn't a warm, comforting hug. It was tight, suffocating, almost desperate.

–"You can't leave me alone. Not again."

His words made your blood run cold.

Again.

You had no idea who he was referring to. But in that moment, you knew it didn't matter.

Jason wasn't sane.

And you were stuck with him.

==================================

Thanks for reading.

Interactions and reblogs are encouraged and appreciated.

Regards.🫠

[cocosparkel]

anything with hermes please

All For You

(Hermes x princess!reader)

Summary:You are the sole daughter to a king in ancient Greece. What will you do when Hermes gives you an irresistible offer ?

Warnings: none

Word count: 636

Story tags: fluff ______________________________________________________________

You sighed as you flung yourself on to your bed. Being a princess may seem like a perfect life to everyone, but all you wanted was a little freedom.

Being the youngest daughter of the king with 3 older brothers, you were heavily pampered, and looked after like you were still a baby.

While this was nice at times, there were instances where all you wanted was for your family to let you make your own choice.

Just a few minutes ago, you had walked in on your father and your eldest brother planning on marrying you off to some prince. You had argued with them, and your father sent you to your room and forbade you to leave.

Honestly, all you wanted is to travel the world, explore the places your brothers and father had told you about. You wanted to sail through uncharted waters, and discover new places. But, being a woman seemed to be the problem here.

“Why so sad, darling ?” A mischievous voice said, and you looked up to find Hermes.

You scrambled out of your bed, “Hermes ?”He grinned, his wings fluttering as he floated to her.

“Do you know anyone else as handsome as me ?”

Laughing, you shake your head. “I thought you wouldn't be able to visit today ?”

Hermes was one of your best kept secrets. You had met him almost 2 years ago, by accident, and after that, you kept seeing him everywhere. It wasn't too long before your tentative friendship turned into something more.

“Can you blame me for wanting a break from my extremely tedious job ?" He said.

You rolled your eyes at that, but smiled nevertheless. “No, I guess I can't.”

“Well, tell me, my sweet princess, who do I have to blame for that frown on your pretty little face ?”

You could feel your cheeks turn red at his subtle flirting, as you stammered out a reply, “Father wants me to marry some prince..”

His face fell slightly,“I see.”

“But I don't want to marry him,” You blurted out.

“Oh ?” Hermes murmured, an unreadable expression on his face. “And why is that ?”

“I-I want to travel the world, I want to see every corner of the world and meet new people, learn about their culture, and-” she stopped suddenly, seeing the smile on Hermes’ face. “Sorry, I was rambling again… It's just that if I marry a prince.. I'll never be able to do that.”

“No no, it's fine.” He said, plopping down on her bed next to her, as they lapsed into a comfortable silence.

You bit your lip, stopping youself from saying how he was one of the reasons you didn't want to marry that prince, or any prince for that matter.

“You know, I could take you around the world.” Hermes said, suddenly standing up.

He looked at you, a strange intensity in his eyes.“Wherever it is you want to go, I can take you.”

You blinked, taken aback. “What ? Why ?”

He looked away, “I’d do anything for you, princess, if it means I get to have you for myself.”

You swallowed, shocked. Your thoughts were racing, was this his way of saying he wants you in a romantic way…?

“How ?” You asked.

He pulled you up with him.“You don't have to worry about it darling.” He said winking at you.

You still weren't convinced. Seeing your hesitation, he sighed.

“Don't you trust me ?” he asked with a small pout.

“I do.” You said without missing a beat.

His smile grew wider, “In that case, what are you waiting for?”

Giggling slightly, you hold his hand,and he pulls you towards him, before lifting you bridal style, leaving you a blushing mess.

“Ready princess ?” He asked, the glint in his eyes making you feel excited and apprehensive.

______________________________________________________________

A/N :

Hope you like this, your request was kind of vague, so I did this first.

(rules for requesting)

[bestworstcase]

I hope I’m not weird or offensive for thinking this that Oz and the GoL relationship has abuse undertones. I go as far as it reminding me of sexual violence. The violation of bodily autonomy, lack of informed consent, using someone else’s body for one’s personal use, sense of domination from the perpetrator, the victim having a fucked sense of self and self-hatred. The GoL is also Salem’s abuser who violated her autonomy and consent so it’s not out of character for him. RWBY has handled similar topics like Adam and Blake so it’s not like uncharted territory. I even seen ppl claim that the Curious Cat has similar undertones considering what they did to Neo.

"undertones"--even in the extremely biased narration of the lost fable, jinn, telling the story as ozpin understands it, draws an overt equivalency between the god of light and SALEM'S FATHER. you know,

What more could a man want? Just one thing: a son and heir. When his wife became pregnant, the whole castle rejoiced. But soon the lord’s fortune reversed. His beloved fell ill, gave birth to a baby girl, and lost her own life in the process. The lord locked his daughter in the highest tower of the castle and retreated to his chambers to grieve. Only he and the girl’s nanny were allowed in or out of her tower room, on punishment of death. Many weeks passed before the lord visited his baby girl for the first time, and he refused to hold her no matter how much the nanny encouraged or even begged him to. Over the years, his daily visits grew shorter. Then they became visits two or three times a week. By his daughter’s eleventh birthday, he was visiting only once a week. “Why must I stay in this tower?” the girl would ask him. “I am protecting you from anything or anyone that might harm you. You are the most precious thing in the world to me. I could not bear to lose you.” He brought her food and presents: dresses and hairpins, brushes and dolls, but nothing that she could use against him or to take her own life. [...] Meanwhile, miserable and alone, the lord’s sorrow gradually twisted into resentment. He raged against the unfairness of the gods and took out his anger on his staff. He became obsessed with increasing his wealth, as if money could replace the love of his life, increasing land taxes on his tenants and cutting his staff’s wages. Paranoid about losing all he cherished, he dismissed half of his servants and replaced them with trained soldiers to protect his riches and defend his castle. By the girl’s sixteenth birthday, the king was visiting only once a month, whenever the whole moon was visible from her tower window. “This was your mother’s favorite place in the castle,” he told the girl. “She loved gazing out that window.” “And now it is my prison,” the girl said. “You aren’t my prisoner. You’re my daughter.” “Then let me go,” she begged. “I cannot. Someone would abduct you and demand a ransom,” the lord said. “Or worse.” But the girl realized that the lord did not love her as a parent loves a child. Rather, he thought of her as just one of his treasures, to be jealously hoarded like his gold and jewels. […] “What is it?” the knight asked. “What else would make you happy, my dear?” Freedom, she thought. But she bit back the word, for that kind of talk made him angry and violent.

the man who was so viciously abusive that this is how ozpin depicted him in a sanitized fairytale account of what happened.

note, for emphasis, that by the time salem was eleven she was so actively suicidal that her father had to vet every object that went into her room against the risk that she might try to kill herself with it, and he didn't care.

ozma modeled beacon academy after salem's father's castle and put the headmaster's office at the top of the tower—in her cell. whether or not he could actually articulate this feeling consciously, deep down he regards the god of light as an abusive parent too powerful to defeat or escape. and we have seen, with light, that he becomes angry and violent whenever something doesn't go his way and that his immediate, first reaction to one of his creations doing anything he doesn't approve is brutal murder. he tears jabber apart, incinerates ozma, bites salem, shrugs when his brother vaporizes mankind. his ultimatum for remnant is "obey me or die." there's no undertones he is explicitly abusive toward everyone he comes into contact with including his brother.

[differenteagletragedy]

In which Soap's significant other/spouse dies unexpectedly :(

“Aren’t you afraid of dying?”

It was a question Johnny had been asked countless times over the years: in hushed, anxious tones by his mother in visits home, when she still held onto hopes that her son would pick a safer life, and in slurred, almost voyeuristic voices from girls he’d pick up in bars.

And the answer was always no. An easy, thoughtless no, because he wasn’t, not really.

Now, as he stands in front of the mirror of the bedroom you used to share until you were taken from him, he realizes why.

The hard part isn’t in dying. If something were to happen to him on the field, it would likely be quick — a gunshot, an explosion, with no time to think about what it would mean to no longer exist. And even if his last moments were drawn out, there would be an ending to it in sight. A clear cap on whatever suffering there would be.

No, the hard part wasn’t in the idea of leaving this world. It was in being left.

Johnny takes a breath, tugging up the pants of his dress uniform -- the only nice clothes he had, and the ones he'd wear to bury you.

It wasn't supposed to be like this, and the weight of that knowledge threated to drag him down, so hard and heavy that he wasn't sure he'd be able to carry it. After he fell in love with you, really let himself fall and feel it, it broke his heart to know that someday he might die on you. Thoughts of your sweet, beautiful face, crumped and lined with tears when someone told you he'd never be coming home would flicker in his mind during missions sometimes, always unwelcome. They haunted him.

It never even crossed his mind that he'd be the one on the other side.

He shrugs on his jacket, lines still crisp from when he'd hung it up in the back of the closet after moving in with you, and quickly does up the buttons and tugs it into place. He looks at his reflection, but it's all wrong. Who gives a fuck about medals and ribbons and how nicely the seams are pressed when he's never going to hear your laugh again?

But it's not just that, the awkward formality of it all -- his eyes come up to his hair, too. He's always liked the mohawk (obviously he has, or he wouldn't have kept it this long), but seeing it now feels almost shameful in a way that doesn't necessarily make sense but still burns.

He's in the bathroom, decked out his dress blues with clumps of dark hair lining the sink, when Simon comes in.

Johnny barely remembers this -- some plans made at some point in the last week for Simon to come help him with everything. Did he give him a key, has he been locking the door? Ever since he got the news, things have been happening in waves of clarity and a strange foggy dissonance, so he can't be sure what's real, or if it matters.

The deep, familiar tone of Simon's voice as he says his name though ... that feels real. The feeling of his fingers brushing against his chest as he unbuttons his jacket and carefully dusts it off, countless tiny hairs falling to the floor, that's crystal clear.

Johnny's own voice sounds further away, a rush of words coming out that barely registers in his mind. "Feels like a fucking joke," he tells Simon, but what he's talking about, he's not exactly sure.

Simon tells him a number of things, rattling them off in clipped, calm sentences, enough to start to push through the fog, and he doesn't fight it when he takes the clippers from his hand and spins him around, saying something about cleaning him up.

"Just get through the day," his lieutenant tells him over the buzzing. It almost sounds like an order, and Johnny, ever the good soldier, gives an affirmative hum, like it's possible.

When Simon finishes with the clippers, he grabs Johnny's jacket again, holding it out for him to put back on, and when he does, he rebuttons it for him. He systematically goes over the insignia, strong, steady hands making sure everything is in order, and Johnny could almost weep at the small relief of not having to worry about one more thing.

But more than that, Simon's hands feel like an anchor, like a tangible weight holding him to now. There's warmth radiating from his body, and it's not like yours -- he doesn't think he'll ever be able to find a warmth like yours again -- but it's there. It's something, and after days of wallowing in your empty home, smelling your pillow and cradling your clothes and letting himself cry in a way that he hasn't since he was a child, it's a hell of a lot better than nothing.

"You ready?"

Simon's words are phrased like a question, but Johnny picks up on the tone -- another order. It's time.

And he's not ready, not even close. His stomach turns at the thought of seeing your lifeless body laid out in a casket in clothes he picked, and everything in him is screaming, telling him to run, far and fast and hard, from all of this.

But, as always, he's been hardwired to obey his superiors. So instead, he nods.

The funeral is unbearable, but somehow, Johnny bears it. And later, when the grief has settled into an old achy wound instead of bared nerves burning, he'll know that it was because of Simon. Because of his presence beside him, an occasional hand on his shoulder, calloused and sure, that kept him tethered to him when all he wanted to do was float away.

[lightlyblooming]

Allowed to Live

Pairing: Rio Vidal x Reader

Summary: Death decides to give the reader a second chance.

Words: 893

A sickly feeling churned to life in my gut as I stared down at my own body laid out on the ground before me.

There was something uncanny to it. The person I’d seen in the mirror every day was stretched across the dirt-covered forest floor, looking like just another casualty of battle. Too many open wounds to count littered the body. The largest gashes still leaked blood, adding to the muddy pool of darkening blood around the body. The eyes were still recognizably mine, but held none of the shine I was used to. The chest I had known to fill and move with breaths stayed completely still. 

The pain of all those wounds still echoed in the back of my mind. I could almost feel the unnerving warmth of blood as it grew around me. The icy fear was still fresh, swimming around in my gut.

I followed the body’s gaze and turned my attention to the sky. 

The inky black night, framed by the silhouette of towering trees, caused a deep tranquility to wash over me. The scattering of stars seemed engrained in my soul. The quiet companions to my final moments as a living, breathing person. I wished I had taken more time to learn the constellations, if only so that I could thank each of them for being there with me.

I looked back down, but my eyes caught on a shadowy figure standing in the treeline before my attention could fully return to the cooling corpse.

There was something oddly familiar about it. More comforting than any blanket of night could be. More distant than the array of stars. More familiar than the rise and fall of my own chest. More foreign than the name of those constellations that hung over my head.

Leaves crunched as the cloaked figure walked out of the deepened shadows of the forest. With every step, they grew closer, and my familiarity grew deeper. They brushed back their hood, and it was only then when I could put a name to that familiarity.

“Rio,” I breathed.

“Death,” she corrected, her voice a balm to my soul.

Death.

It was only a matter of time before I met her. Truly met her. I’d sent more people than I could count into her embrace. I’d bargained and begged for her to leave me alone and, for the most part, she had.

Death wore the face of Rio, a woman I had grown to know--and love--throughout my life. That was a mercy, I supposed. Death, my silent companion. Death, the only certainty there was in life. Death, walking hand-in-hand with Rio, the woman who had shown me how to live. Rio, the woman who had shown me what it meant to love so fiercely that it ached. Rio, the woman that had entwined herself into my heart so thoroughly that I feared it’d shatter if she tried to untangle herself.

“It’s been a while,” Rio said, her slow walk coming to an end at the head of my corpse. A small smile fluttered at the corner of her lips, but it didn’t stay for long.

“Too long,” I said, my voice far softer than I’d intended. I had no desire to correct it. There was no use in pretending. Not in front of Rio. Not in front of Death. “I missed you.”

Rio laughed, the sound hollow. “There’s a less dramatic way to get my attention.”

“That wouldn’t be as fun.”

Rio’s expression darkened. “No.” 

She looked down at my corpse, going so still that I nearly thought she’d turned into one of the trees looming behind her. Her stillness washed over me, turning my mind quiet. In the silence, I noticed the aching silence in my chest. The emptiness of my lungs, the absence of my thudding heart. 

Slowly, Rio’s eyes lifted to mine. A sorrow swam in the depth of her expression. Her pain hurt more than any of those wounds had.

She held my eyes as shadows started to wind their way around my corpse. Wandering, searching, caressing. I searched her eyes, trying to decipher what she was thinking, what she was doing. My muscles grew tight. I wondered why it was taking so long, why I hadn’t moved on into the empty darkness of the afterlife.

“I’ll call you for drinks next time, yeah?” she teased.

I blinked, my eyebrows furrowing. I opened my mouth, but before any sound could come out she snapped her fingers and the world fell away from around me.

For a split second, I was in that nothingness. There was nothing and no one.

Then, there was searing pain.

My bones, my blood, my flesh. It burned stronger than anything else ever had. The pain turned into a white-hot knife that cut through me.

I gasped for air, but my lungs protested. They refused to move. They refused to draw in that life-giving air. 

I tried to scream, to beg for help, to beg for Death. 

Darkness pressed in around my consciousness, that inkiness once again washing over me. I braced myself to fall back into it, but my lungs gave in first. Air rushed in, expanding my lungs, causing my chest to rise and fall. My chest ached, likely from a combination of broken ribs and atrophying muscles, but I was breathing. 

I was alive. 

[promiscuousg1rl]

Desperate Measures — Rafe Cameron 02

Series Masterlist

Warnings: mature language, [talks of ] violence, homicide, sexual language, mental illness

“Hello Y/N.” 

The robotic tone of the voice makes you brows furrowed. You pull the phone from your ear, looking down at the screen. The word “UNKNOWN” staring back at you. 

“I’m sorry, who’s this?”

“She was a cancer, you know that right?” 

You frown at the lack of answer. You usually don’t answer phone calls with no caller ID and now you were being reminded why. “What?”

“I had to cut her out. For you.” The voice continues. “She was trying to hurt you and I couldn’t let that happen.”

Shooting upright in your bed, you rush to flick the lamp on your bedside table on. The shaking thats taken over your fingers almost makes it impossible. 

“You’re…you’re the killer. You did that, you—” 

“Yes, for you.” It soothes. You don’t want to give it any type of labels. Mostly because you don’t see whoever it as human. The things that were done to Stella’s body couldn’t have been the work of a human being. 

Goosebumps start to appear on  your arms; you don’t know whether to blame the night air coming in from your window or the fact this…thing was telling you that you were the reason a murder was committed. 

You scoff. “For me? You killed my best friend—”

“Don’t!” The demand is bellowed and you can’t help but to flinch; it’s almost like you can’t feel the sharp breath against the skin of your ear. “Do not fucking call her that okay? She was not your best friend, she didn’t deserve to be called your best friend. She was slut who took advantage of you and your kindness. She basically fucking spit in your face.” 

“What are you talking about?” 

“That bitch was not your friend. She betrayed you in the worst way possible and had the nerve to laugh about it behind your back. And I couldn’t…I couldn’t just let her get away with it y/n." It rants on angrily. "I had to do it, show her that there are consequences to hurting you. That’s why I gutted her the way that I did. It was for you. It’s all for you, it’s always been for you!”

They were insane, It was insane. You and Stella were no where near the perfect pair, but taking advantage of you was something she was not capable of.  Not her. And it was obvious to you that this psycho was either playing mind games or truly thought they were doing you a favor by killing her. 

You shake your head as if it can see you. “I didn’t ask you do that, I didn’t ask you to kill my best friend I would never—.” 

Just like before, it barely allows you to get a word out. “Of course you wouldn’t baby, that’s just who you are.” It sighs. “Too nice and naive for your own good. It’s why I knew I had to take matters into my own hands. All for you.” 

“Once again I did not ask you to do that you fucking psycho! All that shit you’re spewing about Stella hurting me, what do you think killing my best friend did to me?” 

The too-big shirt your in falls off your shoulder as you stand up from your bed. Your arms wrap tight around yourself, your French-tip nails digging into the fabric of the tee. You couldn’t believe it. That this nut-job had convinced themself that killing Stella was some kind of crime of passion on your behalf. 

“I can not sleep because of you, I am having nightmares because of you. I can’t even leave my dorm because of you!” You shriek, tears fall down your warm cheeks as you start to pace across the floor. “You didn’t help me, you fucking ruined my life!”

You’re so deep into your rant that you don’t clock how loud and uneven the breathing on the other side of the phone has gotten. 

“You don’t know what you’re talking about.” 

“Because I’m naive right? What, you want some type of thank you?” You snarl. 

“Yes!”  It barks back just as loud, making you flinch. “And I deserve one because if it wasn’t for me, that whore would still be fucking your boyfriend behind your back while everyone else laughed at you!”

“What?”

The laugh—the cackling that comes after is nothing but cruel. Your jaw goes slack and you hate it but your lip starts to quiver. As strange as it sounds, you didn’t feel pathetic like you do now. The tears that were shed earlier were of anger and rage aimed at this thing and what they were doing to you. But now, as it laughs in what you can imagine is the same manner “everyone” was said to be laughing at you in. 

But…why? Why are so quick to contemplate the true motive behind Stella’s murder, but even quicker to believe that she was sleeping with Jesse of all people. 

She’d never do that to you. Jesse would never do that to you. Right?

“You—you’re lying.” You sniffle, wiping a quick trembling hand under your nostrils. “She wouldn’t do that, Jesse wouldn’t—” 

“Lola you’re not stupid.” It censures. “You’re a smart girl. Read between the goddamn lines and face the truth. They were screwing each other behind your back for months.”

“N—no.”

“No?” It seethes. “Do you wanna know who Stella thought I was before I slit her throat? Do you wanna know who she thought she was begging to chase her when I cornered her that night? Your prick of a boyfriend.” 

Your breathing has gotten just as heavy, it’s sick how in sync you are with It. 

“As a matter of fact, before I got to her, she was on her way to be dicked down by him. How crazy is that right?” 

“I—” 

“So yes, Lola. I expect a fucking thank you for making sure that slut didn’t get one last screw in with your boyfriend before she died. I got that bitch out of your life, I made sure she didn’t get away with betraying you! Me! So before you shed anymore tears over that “friend” of yours, watch this.” 

The dial sound is quickly followed by the ding! of your phone. 

Slowly pulling the phone from your ear, you find that a video was sent from a blocked number. 

You take a shaky seat on your plush comforter before hesitantly clicking on the white arrow representing the play button. And within seconds familiar moans fill your bedroom.

Your heart drops. 

It’s her and him. Not a piece of clothing on either of their bodies as they go at it in what looks to be the football team’s weight room. The same arms that were wrapped around you the other day, are clutched tightly around her sweaty body. The same hand that held yours when she wanted calm your nerves as you entered your first college party during freshman year, is in his hair while the other is right over his heart. 

The tightness in your chest becomes almost unbearable and you find yourself trying to physically rub it out as if it’s a possible remedy. 

author’s note: i know this is very very short, but that’s intentional!

if you want to be added to the taglist pls let me know!

taglist: @zya8tracks @rafecameronsfavourite @sereneera @akisesgf @ababycake

[gingiesworld]

Untitled Drabble

Wanda Maximoff x GN! Reader (Platonic)

Warnings: TW: Suicide, character death, not a happy one

AN: If you are uncomfortable or triggered with reading things associated with the warnings topic, feel free to miss this one. Also remember to talk to someone if you ever have feelings or thoughts similar to what's in this drabble. Also remember to keep on fighting, you are stronger than you know. Although this is going to be my only post for a while, I am not entirely sure when I will definitely be coming back. But remember your feelings matter, as do you.

MINORS DNI 18+

It had been months since the accident, since Y/N had lost their entire world, struggling with grief and purpose. Always putting on a smile and a brave face for everyone of their friends and family. Little did they know what lies beneath the fake smiles.

Y/N was always one who struggled with expressing their feelings, always answering everyone with “I’m okay.” But no one really saw the pain behind their eyes, the emptiness that they felt, the lack of purpose they had felt. That’s why they had written letters, hidden them away in the drawer of their night stand.

Every night, for months without fail they went out, heading towards the one place where they felt they had belonged, after drowning themselves in booze or drugs, hoping to get rid of the pain somehow, but nothing had truly worked, the pain they had felt only grew day by day, becoming unbearable. Although one night on their walk, they had reached their limit. Sitting on the edge, overlooking the overpass, watching as cars and trucks passed by underneath, wanting to finally be free, they rose to their feet, their heartbeat increasing slightly, although they had found peace in that moment, free of the pain as they stepped off of the ledge.

It was the middle of the night when Wanda had gotten the call, lying peacefully asleep beside her husband before the phone rang. Once she had heard the words she feared the most, the loss of her best friend. Jarvis was quick to pick up the phone once she had dropped it, finishing the call before wrapping his arm around his wife, trying to console her.

As the days went on, preparations for their funeral were ongoing, but Y/N’s mom had asked for Wanda’s help in finding their suit, the one they had bought for the wedding that was cancelled. Once she had the suit hanging, she had took a moment to gather herself as she sat on Y/N’s side of the bed, her eyes soon fell on the nightstand, the drawer slightly ajar, her curiosity peaked as she opened it, revealing sealed envelopes, addressed to different people, although she had come across one addressed to her. With shaky hands, she opened the envelope nervously, her eyes soon drawn to their handwriting. She had always admired their penmanship, seeing how neatly they had written in cursive. She chuckled at the memory of them telling her that they hate writing in print, always telling her you can see how much effort had gone into the words just by the neat handwriting. She then took a deep breath before reading it.

Wanda,

I’m sorry to be telling you this in a letter, but I am not okay, as you already know if you’re reading this letter. I tried to carry on, taking everyone’s word that it gets easier in time, but in truth it has only gotten worse. The pain has become too overwhelming, I have tried talking to someone about it but the words just get stuck, it’s like I know what I want to say, but on another note, I don’t know how. I don’t know how I’m supposed to carry on, I just don’t have the will to keep fighting anymore. I feel like I am drowning, in my own grief and the thoughts that come with it, but there have been moments where I don’t feel a thing, not a single thing. I don’t even recognise myself anymore, and I hate the person that I have become. I had become the liar that I never was, because everytime I said that I was okay, I was barely holding on. I hope that you can have the life you have always wanted and I know you will get through this, because you have people to help you, you have people who give you purpose, especially those two boys of yours.

I just want you to know that I am at ease now, I’m no longer drowning in my own pain, I have found peace. But most of all, I want to thank you for being the best friend that anyone could ask for. You were truly more than I deserved and I will always love you for that.

Y/N/N

No one truly knows what others are fighting, whether we can see it or not. No one knows what thoughts or feelings we have, but it’s not always easy to express them, it can be difficult to find the words to say, even if we were to say a simple “I’m not okay.” Doesn’t exactly say what kind of battle we are facing alone.

Taglist : @mothertoall2 @natashamaximoff-69 @canvascoloredin @wizardofstories @louxbloom @wandanats-goodgirl @the-ox-fan20 @ladyqueenxoxo @aemilia19 @wandaromamoff69 @mfd-101 @dorabledewdroop @marvelogic @dopeyouth @karsonromanoff @bimad @reginassweetheart @machyishere @gemz5 @pawiie @duckiekong (If you want to be added to my taglist, please DM me or comment)

[gorgeys]

thirty minutes ★ santana lopez x fem!cheerio!reader

santana only has you for thirty minutes a day

word count: 885 warnings: SMUT - fingering, lowk angsty

a/n: the santana brainrot is so real ughhhhh

thirty minutes.

that's the exact amount of time between the end of cheerios practice and the end of football practice.  and you and santana make the most of it.

while the rest of the cheerios hit the showers, you and santana race to the parking lot, her hand tightly wound around yours.  she looks both ways, ensuring there's no witnesses, before literally shoving you into the backseat of her brand new car.

"it's not cheating," she reassures you, grabbing you by the hips and settling you in her lap.  "if the plumbing's different."

before you can ever protest, her lips are meeting yours in a bruising, dizzying kiss and any thought of your kind-hearted boyfriend, quarterback finn hudson, is erased from your memory.

he's probably throwing the football around on the field right now, thinking about the date he's going to take you on tonight.  he probably overthrows a ball because he's too busy contemplating what type of flowers to buy you or what shirt he's going to wear.

you do feel bad for doing this, especially since you can see the bleachers of the football stadium from the rear window of the car, but the death grip santana has on your hip bones, forcing you to grind down onto her bare thighs, feels too good.

and santana says it's not cheating anyway.  she wouldn't lie to you, right?

her fingers start to creep beneath the hem of your skirt, leaving goosebumps in their wake as they skim the inside of your thighs.  for the sake of time and her own eagerness, she pushes your underwear to the side and buries two fingers inside you without warning.  the way you groan and arch into her hands leaves her looking up at you like you're the only thing in her world.

"bet he can't make you feel like this," she says, driving her fingers deeper.  she feels like she's on cloud nine when you nod back.  all the hate in the world couldn't compare to what she felt for stupid finn hudson.

other than her occasional whispers, this is the only time in her life that she actually shuts up and listens.  she listens to every sound and incoherent babble that leaves your lips and the squelching sound of her fingers inside of you.  she watches you screw your eyes shut and throw your head back, an attempt to avoid the way she looks at you.  it's easier to ignore the longing and desire in her eyes than to accept it.  especially when you only have ten minutes left.

it doesn't matter how many times you cum or tell her that the overstimulation is too much.  finn may have you for the rest of the day, but these are her thirty minutes with you and she intends to use each and every one of them. 

"you can take it," she mumbles, pulling down the front of your cheerios uniform so she can leave kisses on your bare chest.  "don't you wanna be good for me?"

she keeps curling her fingers inside of you and watching your wetness drip down her wrist with blown pupils until you notice the football boys start to emerge from the field.

"shit," you mumble, brain still fuzzy as you climb off her lap. she frowns as you flatten your skirt, missing the feeling of your nails digging into her neck.  "do i look okay?"

she thinks you look perfect as always with lips puffy from kissing and ponytail much looser than before.  to anyone else it would have been obvious you were up to something, but finn was so oblivious santana didn't even have to worry.

"yeah," she says breathlessly, her chest still heaving beneath the school logo of her uniform.

"okay," is all you say before you open the car door and step out.  she sighs before following your lead and stepping out the other side.

she closes the door just in time to see finn walking up, his helmet tucked under his arm.  she leans against her car and crosses her arms as he engulfs you in a hug, not even questioning why you had emerged from the backseat of santana's car.

she scowls watching you beam back at that stupid gassy infant grin on his face.  maybe she wasn't ready to proclaim her love to you in front of the entire school like he was, but she still couldn't understand what you saw in him that you didn't see in her.

he slings an arm over your shoulder and starts to lead you toward his car, but you make sure to turn back before he can take you too far.

"i'll call you later, san!" you shout with the smile she'd give up everything for.

santana only grimaces back, conflicting feelings fighting each other in her head.  finn, who's still somewhat scared of your intimidating best friend, looks back and gives her a subtle wave and tight-lipped smile.  it only upsets her more.

you never say it, but she knows you'll end up in her car tomorrow, bouncing on her lap again.  and the day after that and the day after that.  so for now, she'll just have to replay the vivid memory of you in her head, wishing she could be so much more to you.

[possamble]

I'm not allowed to be on social media for more than two seconds today but I just wanted to say that Laios will absolutely have his own reaction to all this as someone who would die for Falin but has also imprinted on Marcille as his Emotional Support Comphet White Girl Not-Girlfriend along the way

[butts-bouncing-on-the-beltway]

I feel like the post I just reblogged pointing out the all-or-nothing in how many people interact with their deconstruction of systems of oppression is resonating for me right now with so many different moments in my life where someone decides that because some part of myself has access to some of the levers of control/influence/etc that come with the relationship to power, and decides what that must mean about all the other parts of me that might be explicitly refused access to those same levers.

It has happened in so many spaces/aspects of my life, and it can be so hard to feel safe and seen and trusting of others when that's my chronic relationship to being perceived - half truths and obfuscation.

It doesn't really change regardless of who's doing the assuming either. Like, where they land in relation to systems of power may influence which direction they lean in their assumptions about me, but even that is often inconsistent. Both sides of the equation (those who share my marginalizations and those who exist in spaces of closer proximity to power) will still do it nonetheless.

When I was doing my liminal social identities work in undergrad, this was actually a big part of the conceptualization we explored of traumtic alienation of self as individual from self as collective, and what it can do to people to exist in this liminal relationship with your environment and the people in it. As I'm starting to gather my thoughts about my stress modeling, this conceptualization is bubbling back to the surface. I'm finding myself meandering through it on both a path specifically my own, and in an effort to better understand what other paths may be available to people during their version of the process/experience.

Selfhood is so fragile, and so in need of balance between self-construction and co-construction for us humans, and that gives us so many beautiful, even spiritual, experiences of meaning making and generativity of self. It also createa many pivot points where we may find room in our path for vulnerability or blurring of self. As much as these pivot points can be distressing, I think they also sometimes become our foundations of change/personal evolution, when we find that through the distress of existing in shift, something meaningful is occurring or observable in our experience of self-in-transition.

I think something I've valued especially about my own relationship with self is its transience. It doesn't always end up somewhere I would be happy to sustain, but it always allows me a degree of comfort in complexity that I think has made my body-mind a safer place for me overall.

[seventh-district]

it's always something. PLEASE can i just go One single day without there being Something

[pantoranqira]

"Anakin/Obi Wan/Yoda/Padmé/Shmi is the most tragic character in Star Wars" you are WRONG actually. L3-37 HOWEVER.....