#i could do a whole fucking lecture series on it probably
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notquitedeadpod · 9 months ago
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I sent a Spotify q&a thing but idk if you check those. When I first listened to the mailbag/q&a episode you talked a bit about the themes and background of vampirism, queerness, cannibalism and eroticism and I was wondering if you had any rants you wanted to go on. This topic interests me so much but I don’t rlly have the media literacy imo to do a deep dive into Dracula etc and look at the context and imagery of this topic. You mentioned the feeling of being ostracised due to vampirism and how that mirrors queerness and again if you have any other thoughts I would love to hear them.
These boys have been occupying my every waking thought since I started the pod and I can’t express it properly I just!!!!!!! Thank you eira, it’s *sooo* good (:
yes this is one of my FAVOURITE things to talk about and I just absolutely love it. as mentioned elsewhere, I'm working on a post S3 bonus episode type thing where I'll go into more detail about this and expand on my thoughts, but it's something that fills my waking mind, I'm here for it conceptually.
right now I'm thinking a lot about the vampire as a metaphor for transness, and this very specific sort of desire i feel sometimes and felt particularly keenly, actually, before I was properly out of the closet. that sort of deep possessiveness, a hungry sort of envy, where sometimes it felt like there was this twisted up little monster inside of me and it was furious and starving and all it wanted was to consume and destroy. I've learned that actually the twisted up little monster is part of me, not some invading force, and it's not inherently destructive, I just need to acknowledge that desire, feed it, and it won't be violent anymore.
these ideas and concepts are very key to my thoughts and as i say i will expand on these more post-S3 so keep an eye out sort of June-ish time <3 thank you for dropping into my inbox and asking me to indulge in one of my fave things to talk about <3 I'm so glad you're enjoying the show!!
--- Eira xxx
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gothcsz · 2 months ago
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Body Language | Pornstar!Javier Peña x Fem!Reader | Part 2 to this bad boy right here | ~8.2k wc | Series Masterlist | Explicit. Minors DNI.
Summary: Caught in a charged and unexpected moment with Javier Peña, you struggle between resisting his relentless seduction and giving in to the tension that has been building since the last shoot.
Tags: smut, oral (f receiving), fingering, no use of Y/N, reader is shorter than javier but other than that no physical descriptions, some dirty talk, semi-public sex (we're in an elevator this time around), reader really doesn't like javi, steve being steve, other shit i’m probably forgetting.
A/N: this was supposed to be a short lil thing but then my ass had to drag it out just a little because their dynamic is very fun to write 😭 he's like whyyy don't you like me and she's like how much time do you have? lmfao. this is dedicated to @auteurdelabre đŸ–€ #1 pornstar javi stan, i almost submitted this for your trope off but decided to save that honor for my other story! anyways, i hope you guys enjoy javier begging to eat you out đŸ„‚ let me know what you think đŸ–€ mandatory mutual tags: @almostempty / @miss-oranje-disco-dancer
You sit in the cramped waiting room outside of Robbie’s office, the stale air clinging to your skin as you shift uncomfortably in the worn-out chair. The place is too quiet, save for the muffled sounds of the city outdoors.
You glance at the clock on the wall, anxiety creeping up your spine. You have a shift at the bar in an hour, and time is slipping through your fingers. The laundry, the groceries, the endless list of errands— it all piled up today, and now you’re cutting it too close.
But you need this check. It’s the only reason you’re here, tapping your foot in impatience. If you don’t get it today, the money won’t hit your account in time to cover rent, and you really don’t want another lecture from your landlord. It’s bad enough you’re already behind— no need to give him more ammunition to chew you out.
You sigh and lean back, eyes closing as you try to drown out the frustration swirling in your head. That’s when you hear the unmistakable ding of the elevator down the hall and turn your head to see who’s joining.
Your stomach drops and you sit up straight. No. Not now. The air feels heavier, thick with that familiar irritation, as the slow, deliberate sound of boots against the tile grows louder. 
Javier Peña.
Just the thought of him sends a hot wave through your being, a mix of irritation and something else you refuse to acknowledge. You don’t want to think about that last shoot, the one where things shifted. Where shit got weird. You behind the camera, filming as always, while he was balls deep in another woman, claiming you were on his mind.
“Bet you’d look just as pretty like this, nena.”
“Did you like what you saw? Like watching the way I fucked her but was thinking of you the whole time?”
It was like he’d stripped you bare with just a few words, leaving you more exposed than them in the midst of their carnal fucking. And the worst part? You’d been affected by it. Skin on fire, pussy wet. It also didn’t help that Steve had heard it too. The mic catching the flirting, the hitch of your breath getting stuck in your throat, clear as day.
He’d asked you about it later at Lucky’s, as promised, all smug and drinking that God-awful beer. But you’d brushed him off, hoping he’d drop it. Thankfully, he had— for the most part— but you could still feel his restlessness, wanting to stir the pot.
Now, Javier is here, of course, because the universe just loves to mess with you. You roll your eyes and cross your arms, leaning back against the chair in defiance. You refuse to look at him. You won’t give him the satisfaction of seeing how much he gets under your skin. 
His footsteps stop just a few feet away, the weight of his presence impossible to ignore. You can feel him looking at you, feel the weight of his brown eyes like a physical thing as they rake over your body.
You keep your gaze glued to the wall, focusing on the ugly, generic painting hanging there like it’s the most fascinating thing in the world.
“You gonna act like you don’t see me?” His voice is deep, smooth, and frustratingly cocky, just like always. 
You grit your teeth, biting back a response. You won’t give him an inch. Not again. This motherfucker will take a mile.
“Okay, so that’s what we’re doing.” Before you can react, he plops down beside you. You stiffen immediately, moving your crossed knees to the side, angling yourself away from him, as if the few inches of space will protect you from the onslaught of whatever the hell he’s about to say next.
He spreads his thighs wide, his posture screaming obnoxious confidence. You just barely catch a glimpse of his bulge pressing up against his left thigh and how the fuck does it look so big even when he’s soft? “You know,” he says, voice dripping with that lazy, arrogant drawl, “you’re the only woman that treats me like this, and for the life of me, I can’t figure out why.”
You snort, the sound sharp and humorless. You still don’t bother looking at him.
Javier frowns, flitting his tongue across the top row of his teeth. “Is it because I came off too strong the first time we met? ‘Cause if that’s the case; then I’m sorry. Can’t help myself from flirting with pretty little things like you.”
You roll your eyes so hard, it’s a wonder they don’t fall out of their sockets. He doesn’t sound sincere at all.
Thing is, you didn’t mind the flirting. Even if he, like he’s so romantically put it, does flirt with pretty little things all the time; it did make you feel like just that. Pretty. It’s what came after that soured your Javier Peña experience.
He huffs, like a petulant child, frustrated by your silence. You don’t give him the satisfaction of even a glance. Instead, you shift in your seat, your mind racing, wondering what the hell is taking Robbie so damn long. He never works, barely lifts a finger unless there’s money or something else in it for him, and now, suddenly, he’s busy? Yeah, right. He’s probably in his office jerking it to one of his films, getting off on his own work. Typical.
You’re done waiting. With a sharp movement, you stand, startling Javier, though you still don’t give him the time of day. He’s used to women catering to his every whim, hanging on his every word. You aren’t going to be one of them. Not even if he did manage to get you all hot and bothered.
You stalk over to the door and knock harder than necessary. “I’m busy,” his voice grumbles through the wooden surface, and you resist the urge to scream.
“And I need my check. Just slide it under the door or something,” you snap, the urgency in your voice making it clear that you’re not in the mood to get fucked around with.
There’s a pause, followed by the sound of shuffling papers before the door cracks open just enough for Robbie to stick his hand out, an envelope clutched between his fingers. He practically shoves it into your hand before slamming the door shut again.
You stand there for a moment, staring at the envelope with your name scrawled across the front. Surrounded by imbeciles. Just one shift to get through tonight, and then maybe, just maybe, you can get some peace. Enjoy the first weekend off you’ve had in months.
Now that you have what you came for, you spin on your heel and stride down the hallway, ignoring the handsome pornstar still lounging in the chair behind you. From your peripheral, you can see him sitting there, skinny jean clad legs spread, looking all annoyingly sexy without even trying. It would be so much easier if he were ugly— or literally anyone else. But no, it’s Javier fucking Peña, with his ridiculous good looks and that cocky smirk that could probably charm the panties off half the city if he wanted to (it probably has, to be honest).
You mentally map out the next hour: hit the bank, dash home to change, then off to work. You could walk to the bank, maybe catch a taxi home if you’re lucky. But with traffic in this city, luck isn’t really on your side. You start considering your options— do you skip changing and just head to work as you are? Would your other boss even care if you showed up a little underdressed? You’re so lost in your thoughts, focused on cutting corners to save time, that you don’t hear the quiet footsteps behind you.
It’s not until the elevator dings and you step inside that you realize you’re not alone. Javier’s slipped in just before the doors close, sliding smoothly into the cramped space beside you. The sudden proximity makes your heart do this stupid little jump, and you curse yourself for it. You’re trapped now— stuck way too close to him in the tiny metal box.
The air feels charged, his presence impossible to ignore yet again. The smell of his aftershave hits you first— spicy, with a hint of something woodsy, layered under the scent of his leather jacket and the faint, lingering whiff of cigarette smoke. He tries to drown it out with minty gum, but it’s still there, clinging to him like an old habit. And damn it, your knees go a little weak, despite your best efforts to stay cool.
The height difference between you is glaringly obvious now. You’re eye level with the habitually open portion of his cream colored shirt, the buttons undone just enough to give a peek at his brown chest. It’s frustrating how effortlessly he pulls off the whole rugged look— like he doesn’t even try, but somehow manages to look better than most men who spend hours on it.
You swallow hard, trying to focus on anything but the fact that you can smell him, that you can feel the heat radiating off his body in the tight space. He’s just too close, and the damn elevator isn’t moving fast enough. You’ve got a million things to worry about right now—rent, work, your life— and the last thing you need is to be distracted by him.
But, like always, he’s right there, invading your space, making it impossible to think of anything else.
“What the fuck do you want?” You snap, breaking your vow of silence. You frown up at him, irritation bubbling just beneath the surface as you cross your arms defensively over your chest— a bad move, you realize too late, as the motion only pushes your braless tits together beneath the thin fabric of your tank top.
Predictably, his eyes drop immediately. You curse yourself for not wearing something more substantial. It’s not like I was planning to run into him today, you think to yourself.
“To understand why you hate me so much,” Javier says, his voice low, carrying that annoyingly casual tone, as if this whole conversation is nothing more than a mild inconvenience to him.
Your brows knit together, and a dry laugh slips from your lips before you can stop it. “Well, for starters,” you bite out, “you can’t even look me in the eyes when you ask.” 
His gaze snaps up so fast it’s almost comical, his dark eyes locking with yours, defiance flaring there. But there’s something else too— something that makes the air between you even more tense. You hold his stare, daring him to say something, to make this worse for himself. His expression tightens, but you continue before he has a chance to speak. “And I don’t hate you. I just don’t like you. You annoy the shit out of me.” 
He flinches, just barely, but you catch it. The smallest chink in his armor. You reach around him, your hand brushing against his side as you press the button for the main floor. The contact sends a ripple of awareness through you that you try to ignore. You don’t have time for this— for him.
Javier scowls, his mouth pulling into a frown that mirrors yours, and before you can react, he half-turns and punches a button for a different floor, effectively canceling your request. The elevator jolts, shifting direction. 
You groan audibly, exasperation washing over you. “And here you are, proving my point,” you mutter under your breath. Every second you waste in this shitty elevator with him is another second closer to being late for work. Another second closer to not getting everything done that you needed to today. He’s not just in your way—he’s deliberately in your way, and the worst part is, he knows it.
“You don’t like me,” he counters, turning back to face you fully, his tone edging into frustration, “but you never even gave me a chance.” His jaw is set now, his eyes searching yours as if he’s waiting for you to crack, to admit that there’s more to it than just annoyance. Like he wants you to say it’s something else, something deeper.
If you had the luxury of time, you’d lay it all out for him, explain in excruciating detail just why you’ve avoided giving him that chance. How his arrogance grates on you. How his charm, though admittedly effective, feels hollow. How the way he flirts isn’t even the problem—it’s the way he looks at you, like he knows something about you that you don’t want to admit.
But you don’t have that kind of time.
You pinch the bridge of your nose, taking a deep breath in a vain attempt to steady your nerves. “As fun as it’d be to stand here and explain this shit to you like a child,” you say, your voice tight, “I have important things to do, and you’re keeping me from them.” You jab the elevator button again, hoping the damn thing will just go where you need it to without another unnecessary detour, but you already know it’s a losing battle. 
Javier shifts closer, just slightly, his presence looming. You can smell that damn aftershave again, all spice and leather and smoke, and it only pisses you off more because your body reacts to it before your brain can stop it. You feel your resolve slipping, just a little. His eyes are on you, unwavering, intense in a way that makes you want to both slap him and pull him closer at the same time.
“I’m not trying to keep you from anything,” he replies, softer now, the edge in his voice gone. His tone is almost... apologetic? No. It can’t be. Javier Peña doesn’t apologize. At least not in any way that feels real.
You don’t even bother responding, just stare at the numbers above the door, willing them to move faster. The sooner you’re out of here, the better.
“Just—fuck, give me something. Anything,” he growls, frustrated as all hell. His eyes are wild, and you can see the cracks in his usual suave demeanor, like he’s barely holding it together. “Ever since that last shoot, I haven’t been able to get you out of my head, and I don’t know why. You think you’re exasperated? How the fuck do you think I’m feeling over here?”
You raise a brow, leaning into your disdain as you pout at him mockingly. “Oh, boohoo. Cry me a river. A girl doesn’t like me back, wahh.” You mimic the sound of a crying baby, bringing your fists up to rub against your cheeks in the most exaggerated way possible. Then you drop the act, face deadpanning. 
His eyes narrow, and you think you’ve finally hit a nerve. Good. Let him stew in it. But instead of backing down, he does something you don’t expect— he turns, reaches out, and slams his palm against the emergency stop button. The elevator lurches to a sudden halt, the hum of motion disappearing as the car freezes between floors.
Your eyes widen, a sharp spike of adrenaline shooting through you as the reality of the situation sets in. “What the hell, Javier?” You’re about to cuss him out, to let him know exactly what kind of shit he’s just gotten himself into, but before the words can leave your mouth, he takes two long, purposeful steps toward you.
Instinctively, you move back, the sudden intensity in his eyes sending warning signals through your brain. But there’s nowhere to go. You can’t escape the tight confines of the elevator, your back is pressed up against the cold metal railing. You swallow hard, your heart hammering against your ribs as his broad body looms over yours, trapping you in a way that leaves you feeling both furious and breathless.
He’s too close. His chest brushes against yours, and you can feel his gaze as it drags over your face, down your neck, and lower still, lingering in a way that makes your skin prickle.
Any insult you were ready to hurl at him gets stuck in your throat. You hate how your pulse quickens, how your breath catches. You can feel every inch of him— solid muscle, tense with whatever storm is brewing behind those dark eyes. 
For a brief, dizzying moment, you forget to be mad. You forget that you’re supposed to dislike him, that he’s the last person you should let get under your skin like this but somehow is the only one who’s able to. All you can focus on is the way his breath fans across your cheek, the way the small space between you crackles with tension, like a wire pulled too tight.
“You think this is some kind of joke?” he murmurs, his voice low and rough, making your pussy tingle in ways you wish it didn’t. “You think it’s easy for me to just... shrug it off? Because it’s not. Not when I keep thinking about you, and I don’t even fucking understand why.”
There’s something raw in his voice, something that catches you off guard, making you pause to wonder if this really isn’t a game to him.
But you can’t let him see that. You can’t let him know how much he’s getting to you (even though he’s more than aware). So instead, you tilt your chin up defiantly, forcing your voice to stay steady. “And stopping the elevator? Trapping me in here with you? That’s your brilliant solution?”
“No,” he breathes, voice dropping to a near whisper as his face inches closer to yours. “But it’s the only way I could get you to stop running from me.” 
You hate how your stomach flips at his words. Hate how much you’re fighting against the instinct to lean into him instead of shoving him away. Every part of your body is screaming at you to tell him to fuck off and leave you the hell alone.
“Do you know what I think it is?” The words come out in a low, dangerous drawl, the kind that seems to wrap around your throat and squeeze. He leans in, crowding your space, eyes boring into you with an intensity that has your pulse skyrocketing. “I think you’re too fucking stubborn to let yourself have any fun. The idea of me fucking you is enticing, isn’t it?” His lips curl into a smirk, the kind that drips with arrogance and dark promises. “Could see it written all over your face that night at the hotel. That look in your eye while I was fucking Lexxie.”
His accusations slam into you, pulling up the exact moment you’ve been trying to bury. It should have been a professional gig, routine even, nothing personal
 except that wasn’t the case. Not with the way he looked at you the entire time, his eyes locked on yours, daring you to react.
And, fuck, you had reacted. You felt the heat rise in your face, the way your body betrayed you as you stood behind the camera, mouth salivating, thighs pressing together.
“Javier
” You push at his chest, your hand meeting the hard wall of muscle beneath his shirt. The intent is to shove him back, to create some space between you. But the second your palm makes contact, it’s like the air shifts, and instead of moving him, it’s like you’ve anchored yourself to him.
Goddamn him. Goddamn you for your spineless ass, for not being able to follow through on resisting the temptation that he is.
He smirks wider, clearly reading the war going on behind your eyes. “You were shaking,” he continues, his voice a dark whisper that coils around your insides. “Damn near moaning while you watched me go down on her. Rubbing those thighs together while this pretty ass was in my face as she was sucking my cock.” 
His large hand snakes around you, catching you off guard, fingers gripping a handful of your ass and pulling you closer. Your body collides with his, and that’s when you feel it— his erection, hard and insistent, pressing into your stomach. The heat between you flares up to unbearable levels, and you can’t help the small gasp that escapes your lips. His touch sends a jolt of electricity through you, every nerve ending in your body on high alert, buzzing with want.
“You’re delusional,” it’s breathless but you’re still determined to keep some semblance of control. You squirm in his grip, your body betraying your words, the friction making your mind tilt. “You just can’t stand the fact that, for once, a woman isn’t throwing herself at you. That I’m not kissing the ground you walk on or falling to my knees, ready to suck you off.”
His hold tightens briefly, pulling you even closer, and for a second, you wonder if you’ll be able to break free at all. It’s damn near impossible to ignore the ache building between your thighs at this point. But somehow, you manage to slip out of his grip, your body twisting away from his until you’ve backed yourself into the far corner of the elevator. 
You can’t breathe. Not properly, anyway. You’ve never felt so on edge, so exposed in such a small space. Every fiber of your being screams at you to keep your distance, to reassert control of the situation, but there’s a part of you— dangerous and impulsive— that wants to step right back into his arms.
Javier doesn’t move, but his eyes stay glued to you, watching your every movement like a predator stalking its prey. The elevator is still locked in place, a silent reminder that you’re trapped here with him until one of you decides to relent. His jaw clenches, and you think he’s going to say something cutting, something to tear you down. But instead, he surprises you.
“You’re right.” His voice is rough, but it carries a weight that’s different from the cocky arrogance he usually hides behind. “I can’t stand it.”
His words hang in the air between you, heavier than you expected. There’s no smirk this time, no sarcastic bite. Just honesty, and it’s a fucking curveball.
You weren’t prepared for him to actually admit it. For once, he’s not trying to fuck with you, not trying to win.
And somehow, that makes it worse.
You swallow hard, the weight of his confession making your heart leap out of your chest.
You don’t know what to say, so instead, you just stand there, staring at him, your body buzzing with a cocktail of adrenaline, lust, and confusion. Because as much as you want to dislike him, as much as you need to dislike him for your own sanity, you can’t deny the way your pussy responds to him. The way your mind keeps pulling you back to that night, to the way he made you feel without even touching you.
“Get over it,” you snap, cutting him off before he can sink any deeper into this conversation. You don’t need to entertain this further. It can’t happen, and it will never happen. The second you fall into bed with him, it’ll be game over. Javier Peña isn’t just a casual fuck— you know deep down he’d be the kind that wraps himself around your soul and doesn’t let go until he’s consumed every inch of you. 
The problem is, you’re terrified that you’ll let him. It’s why you’re so dead set on not giving in.
You cross your arms over your chest again, as if trying to shield yourself from the strength in his eyes, the way he seems to reach into your very core with just a look.
You try to focus on anything else— on the fact that you still need to get to the bank, then to your apartment, and finally to your bar shift. You don’t have time for this shit, for the endless back-and-forth with him.
But then he says your name.
The sound of it on his lips makes you close your eyes, every muscle in your body tensing. Damn him. It sounds so fucking sweet, almost reverent, and you know if you make the mistake of looking at him right now— if you see those beautiful, pleading brown eyes— you’ll fold.
He says your name again, softer this time, and the way his voice wraps around each syllable has your resolve teetering on the edge of collapse. “Please, just let me show you how good I can make you feel,” he murmurs, stepping closer, his breath fanning across your cheek. “Just one taste, nena, por favor.” 
And for the first time since you met Javier— he’s begging. You never imagined that he, of all people, would beg for anything. But here he is, his voice low and thick with desire, pleading with you to give him just one chance.
You blink your eyes open slowly, trying to process the whirlwind of emotions that have been ignited by his words. The synapses in your brain light up like fucking fireworks, each one triggering a new thought, a new possibility. There’s a moment— a split second— where you picture it.
You imagine his hands on your body, his lips trailing fire down your skin, his mouth between your legs. The image flashes so vividly, so intensely in your mind, that it steals the breath from your lungs. 
You can practically feel the way he’d elicit things you’ve been trying to suppress. Your legs go weak just thinking about it, and you have to bite the inside of your cheek to ground yourself, to remember who you are, what this is. 
But your cavewoman, horny brain betrays you— racing ahead, picturing every possible outcome. You can’t help but wonder how good it would feel to let him in, just once. How it would be to let him take control, to let him show you, like he’s promising, just how good he can make you feel. 
You’re already late getting to the bank. You should be focusing on that, on getting out of this damn elevator and away from him, but your body won’t cooperate. Every part of you is ablaze, screaming at you to just give in.
Javier’s standing there, staring at you with those chocolate eyes, his dark brows drawn together, pouty lips parted just slightly as he waits for you to say something. Anything. He’s laid it all out in front of you, leaving you to make the next move. And fuck, as much as you hate to admit it, you want to. You want to let him pull you into his world, even though you know it’ll consume you. You want to feel his hands on your skin, his mouth everywhere, his name slipping from your lips.
But you can’t. 
If you give in now, you’ll never be able to walk away from him, and you can’t afford to let yourself get tangled up in Javier Peña. He’s chaos wrapped in temptation, and once you let him in, there’s no turning back.
You swallow hard, your throat tight as you try to hold on to the last shred of control you have. “Javier,” you whisper, barely able to get the words out. You feel like you’re on the edge of a cliff, teetering between desire and self-preservation. The weight of his gaze presses down on you, and for a moment, you think you might just jump.
But then, with every ounce of willpower you have left, you take a shaky breath, shaking your head and breaking the spell he’s woven around you.
“No,” you say, the word barely above a whisper, but firm enough to anchor you back to reality.
His face falls, the fire in his eyes dimming just a little. You almost regret it, almost, but then you remember who he is. What he does. And you know you made the right choice, even if every part of you is berating otherwise.
You stand there, locked in a silent standoff, both of you doing a piss poor job of pretending like you don’t want to tear each other’s clothes off right here in the elevator. 
You’re hoping—no, praying— that he’ll finally let it go. That he’ll stop pushing, stop testing your resolve, and just leave you alone. You’re begging for him to go back to what he does best, to leave you to your job— both of them.
You break eye contact first, glancing down at your watch. You’re definitely not going to make it to your shift on time. Shit. You need to phone your boss and give him a heads up before this gets even worse. But right now, you can’t seem to focus, not with Javier standing there like a Roman statue, immovable and perfect, watching you with that infuriating intensity.
“Now, if you can get the elevator to take us down, I’d really appreciate it,” you say, but the words come out softer than you intended. You hate how small your voice sounds, like you’ve already lost the upper hand, and you mentally slap yourself for it. 
But he doesn’t budge. He just stands there, watching you like you’re the most fascinating thing in the world, and it makes you want to scream. His gaze is piercing, boring holes into your entire existence, and it’s taking everything you have not to crumble beneath it.
“Do you really mean that?” He asks as he brings a hand up to smooth down his mustache. There’s a hint of a smirk at the corner of his lips, like he already knows the answer. “Because everything about your body language is screaming otherwise.” 
When the fuck did he get so close again? He’s right there, towering over you, and suddenly the air between you feels impossibly thin.
“It’s my fuckin’ job to read a woman’s body,” he continues, his voice growing huskier with each word. “And you know what yours is telling me right now?”
Your pulse quickens, your heart slamming against your ribcage, and you can’t find the words to respond. You don’t trust yourself to speak— not when his presence is drowning you in your own body. 
He leans in, lips so close to your ear that his breath almost has you fainting. “It’s telling me that you want it.”
Your stomach flips, every nerve ending in your body coming alive as his curved nose barely grazes your skin. The touch is featherlight, but it sends electricity straight to your cunt. You grip the railing behind you like a lifeline, your knuckles flushed as goosebumps ripple across your skin. 
Javier’s smirk deepens, the asshole clearly enjoying the effect he’s having on you. “Stop fighting it, pretty girl,” he murmurs, his voice like velvet, his hand sliding down the length of your figure in a way that feels too natural, too right. “Let me show you how good I can make you feel
”
You should stop him. You should. But you don’t. You can’t. His hands are on you now, moving with a confidence that’s impossible to resist. One large hand finds its way to your tit, groping it gently through the thin fabric of your tank top, and you gasp, the sound escaping your lips before you can stop it. Your body fails you, head falling back against the elevator wall, your chest arching into his touch. 
The way his hand moves, so sure, so practiced, has your resistance crumbling, piece by piece. 
“That’s it,” he whispers, his lips brushing against your neck, peppering soft, teasing kisses along your sensitive skin. “Barely done a thing and you’re already gone.” 
Your mind is spinning, your resolve completely undone as you melt under his touch. Every kiss, every graze of his lips against your neck feels like it’s unraveling the last bit of control you have. His body is pressed up against yours, and you can feel his erection through his jeans again, the hard (pun intended) evidence of just how much he wants you.
God help you, it feels too good to resist.
You sigh, a low, breathy sound that’s equal parts surrender and relief. His lips trail lower, his hand still groping your breast, and you let him. You let him because you’ve been fighting this for too long, and right now, you just want to feel something. 
Javier grins against your neck, his breath hot on your skin as he pulls you even closer, his voice hoarse in your ear. “Told you,” he says, his tone dripping with satisfaction. “I knew you wanted this.”
You don’t respond. There’s nothing left to say. You’ve given in, you’ll figure out how to pick up the pieces later, but right now? Right now, you’re letting yourself fall apart.
It’s like your whole body just deflates against his, sinking into the solid warmth of him as if all the fight has finally drained out of you. You’re giving him the green light, and he knows it. The grunt that escapes his throat is guttural, and you feel the weight of his palm pressing harder against your chest, his thumb and pointer finger expertly pinching your now hardened nipple through the fabric of your tank top.
“After this,” he murmurs, voice rough with restraint, “if you don’t want me anymore, I’ll leave you alone.” His words are punctuated by a sharp tug at your nipple that sends a surge of arousal straight between your legs. Then his hand moves, sliding up to cradle your jaw with a surprising gentleness. He tilts your head so that your eyes meet his, forcing you to look at him— forcing you to really see him. “You have my word.”
You search his eyes, not entirely sure what you’re looking for— honesty, maybe? A hint of something real beyond the heat of the moment? Whatever it is, you can’t find the words to respond, so you just nod weakly, your breath bated. 
Javier smiles at that, a slow, predatory grin, and he leans in as if to kiss you. But you stop him, your hand pressing against his sternum with just enough force to halt him in his tracks.
“No kissing,” you say, your voice more resolute than you feel. “You said one taste, so get to it.” You’re setting boundaries, trying to keep some semblance of control in this situation. No kissing, no fucking— just head. That’s all this will be. He’ll get a taste of you, and you’ll finally get a taste of what all the hype is about. Then it’ll be over, and you’ll go your separate ways. That’s the deal.
His frown deepens, a flicker of disappointment crossing his features, like he’s not used to anyone telling him no in any capacity. But it’s brief, because he’s not about to take the proverbial bone you’ve thrown him for granted. He agrees in his own way, pivoting without protest, his mouth returning to your neck like he’s already forgotten the attempt to kiss you.
Now that the rules are clear, you allow yourself to let your guard down— just a little. It’s not like your sex life has been riveting lately, and truth be told, you can’t even remember the last time a partner went down on you willingly. At least you’re getting something out of this fucked-up little arrangement, and for now, that’s enough. 
He kisses and licks a line down your throat, his stubble scraping deliciously against the sensitive flesh. You sigh, your breath hitching as you feel his hands roaming your body with a confidence that should piss you off but doesn’t. 
His rough palms map out your curves like he’s trying to commit every inch of you to memory. He’s groping, squeezing, learning you in a way that makes you feel like you’re his personal discovery. 
The warmth of his breath, the skill in his movements— it’s intoxicating. You can’t help but respond, your hips shifting, your body bending instinctively toward him when one hand slides up under your shirt, fingertips brushing the underside of your breast.
He’s good at this, you’ll give him that. Too damn good. It’s almost like he’s a fucking pornstar.
You hate that you’re enjoying it so much, hate that you’re already melting under his touch like some lovesick fool.
“Don’t overthink it,” he murmurs against your skin, feeling the nerves radiating off of you. 
His touch lingers as he reaches the button on your denim shorts, undoing it with a flick of his fingers before pulling down the zipper, slow and deliberate.
“You and these damn shorts
” you hear him say, more to himself than to you. His voice is gruff, frustrated, like he’s been waging a silent battle against his own restraint. He hooks his fingers into the waistband and tugs them down over your hips, watching as the fabric slides off your skin. You step out of them, standing there in nothing but your underwear, top and sneakers, exposed in ways you hadn’t intended to be when you walked into that office earlier today.
His brows shoot up, and you feel the heat rush to your cheeks. Of course, it’s laundry day. Of course, you’re left wearing your least practical pair of underwear— this skimpy, lacy purple number you hardly ever break out. The delicate string disappears between the cheeks of your ass, and the sheer front does little to conceal the soft tuft of hair just below your navel. 
And he’s drinking it all in.
“Fuckin’ hell, nena,” he breathes, his voice filled with a mixture of awe and lust. His eyes flick back up to yours, dark and hungry. “You always walkin’ around like this?” His hands grip your hips, and before you can even formulate a response, he’s sinking to his knees in front of you, taking his sweet ass time, like this is some kind of worship.
“No, I—” Your voice is breathy, your heartbeat pounding in your ears. “I had to do laundry today
” It’s all you can manage, barely coherent as his lips begin pressing soft, teasing kisses to the inside of your knee.
He throws one of your legs over his shoulder, steadying you, his fingers gripping your thigh with enough pressure to leave you keening. You brace yourself against the elevator railing, your body tense with anticipation, your mind a chaotic swirl of logic and lust. You barely notice as the check you came here for flutters to the floor beside you, forgotten.
Don’t forget to deposit that, the reasonable part of your brain chimes in, but you tell that bitch to shut up because Javier Peña is currently on his knees in font of you, about to take you on the ride of your fucking life, and you’re nowhere near strapped in.
His head is tilted up, lips brushing dangerously close to where you want him most, and all rational thought is slipping through your fingers like sand.
He looks up at you then, his dark eyes glinting with something wicked, and your breath catches again. You don’t know how to feel about any of this anymore. There’s a line you swore you wouldn’t cross, but now that he’s right there, so close to giving you what you’ve craved for longer than you care to admit, it’s hard to remember why you drew that line in the first place.
Javier’s lips graze the sensitive skin of your inner thigh, and a quiet moan escapes your lips before you can stop it. He smirks against your skin, his fingers tracing a slow path up your leg, sending shivers coursing through you. “Relax, bonita,” he murmurs, voice thick with desire. “I’ll take care of you.”
You want to tell him to hurry up, to stop teasing, but all that comes out is a shaky exhale as his hands part your thighs wider, positioning you exactly how he wants you. His grip is firm, possessive, and for a moment, you wonder if you’ll survive whatever it is he’s about to do to you.
You don’t even have time to dwell on the thought before his mouth is on you, lips pressing a lingering kiss over the thin fabric of your panties. The sudden pressure sends a shockwave through your body, and your eyes fall closed, surrendering to the moment. His tongue teases the fabric, nudging against your already soaked cunt, and you can feel the wetness seeping through the lace. He hums low in his throat, savoring the first taste of you.
“These are so pretty. Don’t think I’ll take ’em off.”
He hooks his fingers into the delicate fabric and pulls it aside, exposing you to him completely. The cool air hits your slick folds, a contrast to the heat of his breath as he hovers just inches away. He’s staring, taking you in, and when he curses under his breath, it’s like he’s caught off guard by how badly he wants this. Wants you.
“Fuck,” he mutters, as he drags his nose up and down the length of your wet slit. The touch is maddeningly light, just enough to make you clench involuntarily, your body reacting without permission. More of your slick leaks out of your pussy, a response to the subtle stimulation, and you grip the elevator railing tighter to keep yourself from falling with how weak your knees get.
Javier flattens his tongue, delivering a slow, deliberate lick from your entrance to your clit, and it’s like your entire body ignites at once. You throw your head back, a ragged cry of his name ripping from your throat as your hips buck instinctively, searching for more of him, more of that friction that feels like pure electricity.
He’s not done, though. Not even close. One hand snakes around your thighs, strong and sure. His middle and pointer fingers spread you open, forming an upside-down V, and then he does something so filthy, so perfectly Javier— he spits directly onto your exposed pussy.
The sound alone could get you off, but the sensation is something else entirely. His saliva mixes with your slick, making everything wetter, hotter, and you feel like you’re unraveling before he’s even truly begun. A series of high-pitched moans spill from your lips as he latches his mouth onto your cunt, sucking and licking with a precision that has your entire being quaking.
Lips, tongue, teeth—he’s using everything he has, dragging you deeper into a haze of pleasure where nothing exists but the heat coiling in your belly, tightening with every flick. He’s devouring you, utterly relentless, and it’s too much but not enough, all at once. Every nerve ending is on fire, your thighs trembling as you fight to keep your balance. His grip on your leg tightens, keeping you locked in place, helpless to do anything but take what he’s giving.
“Fuck, baby,” he groans, pulling back for just a moment, leaning his cheek against your inner thigh. His face is glistening, covered in your arousal, but his eyes are dark and hungry, never straying from your face. “With noises like that and a pussy this pretty— you’d be a fucking sight on camera.”
His words send another jolt through you, dirty and wrong and so fucking hot that you nearly forget how to breathe. He nips at the sensitive skin of your inner thigh, leaving faint marks in his wake, before diving back in with that skilled tongue of his. He’s a man with something to prove, alternating between broad strokes and tight circles, zeroing in on your fleshy clit with a precision that makes your head spin.
It’s obscene, the way he’s working you over, all these years spent perfecting this art, but there’s a rawness to it too, a desperation like he can’t get enough of you. You’re soaked, dripping onto his face, and he laps it up like a man starved, the sounds of his mouth slurping against your wetness filling the small space around you. Your moans are louder now, more desperate, each one pushing you closer to that edge where you’re not sure if you’ll survive the fall.
His fingers tighten on your thigh again, and then he’s dragging them lower, inching toward your entrance as his tongue flicks mercilessly against your clit. When he slips two fingers inside you, curling them just right, you nearly scream. The combination of his mouth and his fingers is enough to send you spiraling, your legs trembling uncontrollably as you arch into him.
“So fuckin’ tight,” he grunts when he pulls away to get a good look at your beautiful face and how you look when he’s making you feel like you’re on top of the world. It’s enough to get him to latch onto your clit, sucking on it harshly.
“God, Javier,” you gasp, your voice shaky, barely coherent. You can’t think, can’t form any rational thought, not with the way he’s pulling you apart, piece by piece, until there’s nothing left but the pleasure.
“Let go,” he growls against you, the vibrations of his voice sending shockwaves through your core. “I’ve got you, nena. Just let go.” 
And with that, the dam breaks. You’re coming hard, hips jerking wildly as waves of pleasure crash over you, your entire body shaking with the force of it. He doesn’t stop, doesn’t let up for a second, working you through it with that relentless mouth until you’re gasping for air, hands clenching at the railing so hard you’re surprised it hasn’t snapped. 
Your vision blurs, your mind goes blank, and all you can do is hold on as Javier takes you on the ride of your life, just like you knew he would.
You don’t know how long it takes you to come back into your body after letting him take the reins for a little. You’re trembling, legs weak and body heavy against the cool metal wall of the elevator. He’s still on his knees, knuckle-deep inside you, lazily curling them as if savoring every last second.
His mouth trails soft, teasing kisses across your soaked panties, and the tenderness of the act startles you, nearly pulling you under again. But then he withdraws his fingers, slipping them into his mouth with an almost obscene groan, tasting you one last time as if to commit your flavor to memory. He carefully adjusts your underwear back into place.
Javier stands to his full height, your leg falling from his shoulder, towering over you. His hand comes to rest lightly on your waist as if to steady you. “You okay?”
You nod, though your bones feel like jelly. Your eyes stay closed as you try to gather yourself, forcing yourself back into reality, back into the woman who doesn’t fold like a house of cards for her co-worker. You bend down to retrieve your shorts and check from the floor, fingers fumbling with the zipper as you button yourself back up. He presses the button to resume the elevator, the gears shifting as you’re slowly carried back to the main floor. 
And just like that, it hits you. It happened. You’ve came on Javier’s tongue and fingers. You swore it wouldn’t— swore up and down that he was nothing more than a nuisance at work, a distraction you wouldn’t let get to you. But here you are, post-orgasm, in a goddamn public elevator, of all places, with the man who was supposed to be just a headache.
“Hope you got your fix because it’s never happening again,” you mutter, trying to summon the biting edge to your words, almost like you’re trying to convince yourself as much as him.
Javier just smirks, that infuriating glint back in his eyes like he already knows better, but he doesn’t push it. Not now.
The elevator doors slide open with a sharp ding, and the scene before you is worse than any nightmare you could’ve concocted in the heat of the moment. Two firefighters, the building manager, and— of course because why the hell not— Steve Murphy are standing there with varying degrees of shock and amusement.
You can see the moment Steve takes it all in— your flushed cheeks, the slightly mussed state of your clothes, Javier standing just a bit too close to you. His blue eyes narrow, then widen, and then he breaks into a shit-eating grin so wide you could slap it right off his face.
“Well, well, well,” Steve drawls, barely containing his laughter. “What do we have here?”
Your stomach sinks. Not again. 
Javier, ever the cocky bastard, simply raises an eyebrow and slides his hands into his pockets, all cool nonchalance like he hasn’t just been between your thighs minutes earlier. “Just crapped out on us randomly,” he says smoothly, and you want to strangle him for the audacity.
Steve chuckles, shaking his head as if he’s in on some big joke that only you and Javier are the punchline for. And as you step past him, cheeks burning, all you can think is that this will never, ever happen again.
But even as you repeat it to yourself, a small part of you— the part still buzzing from the memory of Javier’s mouth— wonders if you’re lying.
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kyliafanfiction · 1 month ago
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One of the things I like to do sometimes is imagine the canon - any canon - as the fanfic, with all the tropes and changes that implies, and try to imagine what the notional canon of that would be.
And one of my many fic ideas is a little write up of what the notional canon for what was the 'source media' for Worm would be. It's actually a crossover between three things:
a novel centered around Eidolon and the Triumvirate, includes Scion and the Endbringers,
a fairly dark, aimed at like college-aged people graphic novel series about New Wave (and especially Amy and Vicky) that really delves into how fucked up having superhero parents and them being open about it could really be (like what Worm/Ward canon does with them),
and a cartoon about the Undersiders that's like, aimed at 12-15 year olds. And it would get a little more serious with each season, as the initial audience got older or something. Though obviously not as much as Worm canon did. Vaguely 'saturday morning cartoon network superman/batman/etc' vibes perhaps.
And the idea would be that Worm is a crossover fic between all three media, taking bits and pieces of all three and combining them into one surprisingly cohesive fanfic world.
And the Undersiders cartoon idea just really sticks with me.
Like, I envision the Undersiders cartoon being about them as like, friendly neighborhood supervillains, they rob sure, but it's mostly harmless and they usually go up against supervillians (like sanitized versions of Bakuda and Lung) most of the time in their robberies anyway.
Coil could still be their boss, but he'd be played for laughs, probably regularly exasperated in a comedic way by the Undersiders antics. Armsmaster would the hapless superhero who keeps trying to bring the Undersiders in but eventually has to accept they're not actually that bad (because of course that would be an arc of the cartoon, them becoming heroes of a sort).
I have this image of Piggot being a police captain or something that keeps having to not prioritize the Undersiders or something, and at one point she lectures and scolds them like a principal. Just seems like a funny mental image and fitting for the medium/genre/target audience there.
The show would start with Taylor joining the team. There'd probably be a lot more chance of the Trio getting punished, maybe near the end of the first season, and some of what they do would be toned down. Sophia being a hero who bullies in her civilian life could be kept. Taylor's power would probably not be exploited to the fullest in the cartoon, but I think they could make it work. Rachel couldn't be called Bitch, of course, and Regent and Heartbreaker, etc, would need to be toned down some, but I think you could keep the broad strokes and put it on implication.
Uber and Leet would probably be in the cartoon, and they'd probably be more the mostly fun and friendly version of them some fics paint them as, rather than the jerky assholes who also beat up hookers just for the bit version they are in canon.
I hardly have the whole idea worked out, and the notional fic Idea would probably be like, an outline of the 3-4 season show (and related summaries of the other two media) focusing on what Worm took in from the media and how the 'OG' version differs, etc. All in good fun. No idea if I'll ever write it, but the idea of an Undersiders Cartoon is just an alluring notion that I can't get out of my head.
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hittmeandtellmeyouremine · 5 months ago
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505
pairing: experienced!harry osborn x collegestudent!reader
warnings: swearing, mentions of anxiety.
word count: 1.1k words
a/n: a blurb based on the song "505" by arctic monkeys. specifically, the line "but i crumble completely when you cry". this will most likely be included in a future chapter of the heaven is a bedroom series. the next chapter of the series will be posted once ᎄʜᎀ᎘᎛ᎇʀ 1 surpasses 20 notes (and i have time) but i wanted to give you guys something for now.
-
you had been sitting at your desk in frustration for what felt like hours. you were going into your second month of second semester and it had been the worst start you could've thought of. you barely saw peter these days, even though you guys were in the same biology 2 class. he barely ever showed up which meant you were suffering alone.
the professor was such a dick. one of the few times peter had actually shown up, he made a joke about one of the pictures the professor had shown of an organism. you smiled and silently laughed, making sure not to disrupt the lecture whatsoever. the teacher had called you out in front of the whole lecture hall, disrupting the lecture himself and making everyone stare at you.
he went entirely too fast through the slides, you could barely get a sentence down before he moved onto the next topic. you were starting to give up on taking notes entirely. another time, you had raised your hand to ask him if he could slow down and repeat what he stated. he told you that if no one else was complaining, maybe you should take a hint and do the same.
maybe if he actually did his job right you wouldn't be complaining.
the test were absolutely fucked. the first test he had royally screwed everyone over because he "messed up" the exam keys making almost everyone receive a failing grade. he never handed anyone back their test. when he was done grading, on your way out of class, students were supposed to stop by his desk for him to tell you your grade. the sick prick probably got off on watching everyones smile's drop.
you had asked him if he could fix yours and properly match your test up to the correct key. he agreed, but then pointed out that he found a problem with your answer on a few more questions. you were genuinely confused because the test was multiple choice and there could only be one option, which you politely brought up. he told you if you felt so confident then maybe you should teach the class instead.
you shut your mouth and accepted the D he gave you through gritted teeth.
you tried not to stress about that test too much. he dropped the lowest of the test grades and surely this would be it. you could learn from this test, study harder. you had the next test in the bag.
right?
wrong. your eyes started to well with tears when he told you your grade on the second test which was yet another D. you immediately went home and cried about it, reassuring yourself again that you would do better on the next test. the pep talk wasn't working as well this time.
you were a straight A student, you had to be. it wasn't like you weren't trying either, you were constantly staying up all night to study, even waking up at crack of dawn to study before your exam too. you were practically eating, sleeping, and breathing biology. you were a biology major for fucks sake, this is what you were going to need for the rest of your life.
you were looking forward to this class too but your gpa was starting to suffer. the 4.0 you had worked so hard maintain was slipping because of this class, this professor.
you stared at your textbook and fragmented notes, trying to make things stick to walls of your brain. if someone looked inside your head the walls would probably be covered in stick notes that were all biology related. you knew no matter how hard you studied, it seemed, your professor would find a way to still give you a D. no one in the class seemed to get higher than a C on his tests.
if you didn't do well on this test there would be no coming back from it. your grade would inevitably be a some sort of B and your gpa would start it's downfall earlier than you anticipated. the anxiety was starting to eat you alive and you couldn't help but to start to cry.
as you were balling your eyes out in your room you heard a knock at your front door. you debated on attempting to hide your tears but when you cried it took a while for your eyes to not show it. they got puffy and red, your nose doing the same. your lashes looked like you had had a pool day. there was no use in trying to hide it.
you made your way over to the door to reveal harry in his suit, obviously coming from work. his face immediately turned into one of concern as he comforted you.
"baby, what's wrong?" you could hear the worry in his voice which only sent you into another fit of tears as he embraced you. you two stood in the doorway as you cried and he held you in his arms.
"i'm gonna fail" you sobbed into his chest.
"what? why are you saying that, you've never failed a class." he questioned.
"well i probably will now." you sniffled, pulling away to look at him.
he looked so concerned. harry wasn't really one to care about grades but he knew how important they were to you. if it was important to you, it was important to him.
he motioned you inside, locking the front door behind you before following you to your room. you sat at the edge of your bed, rubbing your eyes. harry stood in front of you as he waited for you to explain.
"the professor i have for biology this semester, he's a total dick. he's constantly picking on me in class. he's given me a D on every test, harry. on one test, sure. i could've blamed it on myself and said i didn't try hard enough or something but every test?" tears threatened to fall again.
"he's gonna tank my gpa and i don't know what else to do, harry. i've tried to talk to him and he just makes these rude comments about me. i've tried to study harder, for as long as i can. nothing's working. at this point, i feel like he's just targeting me and i don't know what i did wrong to make him hate me so much." you sobbed.
harry felt himself crumble seeing you cry.
he was quick to be at your side, holding you again as you cried into his chest. he kissed your forehead and reassured you that you didn't do anything wrong, that this guy was just miserable. that was true, the guy probably was just miserable. but not as miserable as he was going to be after harry was done with him.
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indelen · 2 months ago
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Alright. Let do this right 

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This is my reread of the Lockwood and Co. Books, organized by @blue-boxes-magic-and-tea, I'll make a general summary of several chapters and then post bits and pieces that jumped out at me.
Part I, Chapters 1-2:
I really love the start to this series; the reader is trusted with so much information in such a short time and it’s all well communicated. There’s a Problem - ghosts are real and dangerous. There’s a curfew. Adults are seemingly useless. Kids are thrown into danger via Agencies. Agencies can be small and independent or large corporations with ties to government. There are ghost types. There are talent categories. The capitalism and bureaucracy of it all is very interestingly presented. The narrator is both a child and someone with near noir levels of damage and world weariness. The dialogue is fun and snappy but it's not ever just there for the sake of being there, it reveals bits and pieces of the universe and on re-read you can tell Stroud had all five books laid out somewhat solidly in his mind as he went because from the beginning there’s little dropped details dropped in conversation about, say, Kent being the origin of The Problem - an innocuous bit of lore until it becomes important four books later. Within the first two chapters the trio of main characters are introduced, Lucy and Lockwood's talents are described, their relationship is established. So much done in so little time. I love how concise and evocative it all is.
Bits and pieces:
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Obsessed with the idea that the culture in this version of the UK is so lowkey conservative that this poor woman is possibly being haunted by a ghost because her hemline is too short. Can and probably will write a whole thesis about how I think post war Britain conservatism probably never left in this universe and that's why there's a chipper KEEP CALM AND CARRY ON mentality while fucking kids are sent to almost certain death.
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Lucy Carlyle, Junior Field Operative only six months with the agency and hired without full agent accreditation, lecturing her boss who’s also her landlord on what not to do and calling him an idiot is so funny to me like, get his ass! Don’t take shit from anyone!
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This is only my pet theory, but I think both the fact that Lockwood sees death glows so intensely that he needs sunglasses, and the fact that he can see ones of small mammals, not just humans, is an indication that his Talent is unusually strong. George probably has what is an average amount of Sight for an agent, that is enough to see apparitions and some death glows but not so much as to be overwhelming.  
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This is such a wonderfully grim evocative visual of what these children do. Deadly difficult and psychologically damaging labor. Every house could be their coffin. Every assignment could be their last. Their country, their government, in many cases their parents, have already given up on them, the powers that run the country no longer invest in the future of children because children are seen as disposable. Young potential is sacrificed to protect adults comfortably scared in their own protected homes. And this produces a grim, defeatist kind of existence in everyone. If the older generation is not working toward a better future for a new generation of humanity, what are we doing? There's something borderline “Children of Men” depressing about this reality.
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When I was first reading this series this was the point when i realized these books are going to be aggressively British.
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Murder, Lockwood. She's contemplating your actual murder. You're lucky you're cute.
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Ok I’m starting an official Lucy describes Lockwood’s smile counter: 2
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hyunverse · 2 years ago
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Bad boy hyunjin x enemies to lovers 😌
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a series of cusses left your lips as soon as you saw his name beside yours. you cursed the universe for teaming you up with the hwang hyunjin for a group project that’s worth 60% of your grade.
“good luck, y/n,” seungmin said— you sighed, knowing full well that you’ll be needing a shit ton of luck.
if hyunjin wasn’t stupidly hot, no one would remember who he is considering the fact that he almost never shows up to his lectures. the few times he actually does, he’d lazily sport a pair of sweatpants, a cap to hide his probably horrendous hair and he’d sleep at the back of the lectures. he never speaks up in lectures, only ever whispers idiotic remarks. rumour has it, people have only properly conversed with him at the parties his fraternity would hold — though most of the things he’d say are drunken thoughts. so it’s safe to say that hwang hyunjin, the renowned campus bad boy is almost entirely unreachable.
which is why it counted as a miracle that you were able to reach him. it took a lot of effort, of course — knocked on the fraternity house door like a gazillion times, had to see multiple of the frat members half naked just to get hyunjin’s stupid number. you got the number from changbin, who was sporting merely a pair of tommy hilfilger boxers when he opened the door. he gave the number to you after you practically threatened to dismember his you-know-what. alas, after a series of missed calls and angry texts, hyunjin finally agreed to meet up at the library.
he was half asleep when you saw him at the library. it’s quite a surprise that he showed up at all — you already had felix on speed dial in case hyunjin didn’t show up, so that you’d have a pair of ears to nag at. hyunjin's hair was. . . surprisingly neat. you for sure didn't expect to see his hair be so beautiful considering how he never takes his stupid cap off. both the blonde’s elbows were propped on the wooden table, chin on hands and eyes threatening to fall asleep. you rolled your eyes. the boy who never shows up in class isn’t used to having group discussions at 10 a.m, what a shocker.
frankly, you don’t remember much about your first meet up with him. there were a lot of nagging, protests and low grumbles — that’s as far as you could recall. hyunjin stormed out of the library, mumbling something along the lines of stop-telling-me-what-to-do. it didn't go very well. he didn't bother showing up after that, didn't even do his work — you know because there was no progress in the google docs you shared. you had to practically beg him to cooperate, even promised him that you won't force him to do as you say if he at least does his part. he started showing up again after that, which made you glad despite the poker face he'd uphold the whole time. he would show up two hours late, and excuse himself before you're done discussing. he was amazing at getting to your nerves, no doubt about it.
what got to your last straw, however, was when he stopped showing up, again. every text from you was left on seen — even your angry texts. you despised how you seemed to have no effect on him. you've told him that you hate him about a billion times, yet he'd just leave you on read. you've showed up at his fraternity, knocked on his bedroom door but to no avail, he showed no interest in talking to you. at one point you ended up kicking his door and bursting into tears — mumbling things like, "you don't care about your grades but i do," "i fucking hate you, hwang hyunjin," "you're a dick and i hope you rot in hell."
something in hyunjin ticked upon hearing your breakdown. he started going to your discussions again. you wouldn't converse much, completely focused on getting your work done. hyunjin mirrored your energy, stopped making annoying remarks. somewhere along the way he ended up growing a soft spot for you, though he tried his best to not let it show. on the last day of your discussion, the day you'd submit your analysis together, hyunjin brought you coffee.
"did you poison this, hwang?"
hyunjin's eyebrows knitted in confusion, "no? why would i?"
"because you're annoying like that," you curtly replied, moving your focus back to the work.
the blonde bit the inside of his cheek. how was he going to ask you out if you wouldn't even trust him with bringing you coffee? his fingers tapped against the table, earning a glare from you.
"will you quit that noise?"
"you're so bloody uptight, y/n."
you rolled your eyes. a few minutes after, you managed to turn in your assignment. it was a relief — it meant that you wouldn't have to be around hyunjin again, you were free from his bullshit. you were overjoyed.
"y/n," hyunjin uttered.
"what?"
"will you go out on a date with me?" his question had you choking on your coffee.
"are you playing with me, hyunjin?"
"i'm not!" hyunjin replied, offended, "i'm serious. will you?"
you sighed as you picked on your nails. out of all people, the last person you'd expect to ask you out would be none other than hwang hyunjin. sure, his face was stupidly handsome, you were sure god took extra time with his face, but to be with him was something you weren't prepared for. if working with him as a project partner would be hell, imagine a relationship? you shuddered at that thought.
"sorry hyunjin, i just. . . don't think we'd work out. you're not exactly my type."
if your reply shattered his heart, he didn't let it show on his face.
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hyunjin had been. . . surprisingly disciplined since you last saw him.
he had been attending lectures, stopped sleeping in the hall as well. it was a change which shocked many. some of your classmates — one of them being seungmin even joked that it meant he was going to die soon.
you stopped contacting him ever since you rejected him. you'd shoot daggers at him everytime he made eye contact. for some odd reason, the hatred you had for him wouldn't subside. it's like the hell you went through just to reach him stuck.
on the last day of the semester, he approached you again.
"what is it that you want, hwang?"
"are you dating kim seungmin?"
you furrowed your eyebrows, "no?"
"will you date me?" he asked, again.
you sighed. you were about to open your mouth to speak until hyunjin shoved his transcript in your face.
"what is this for?" you questioned, looking down at the piece of paper to see a perfect 4.0 gpa.
"i attended classes, did my assignments. . . am i your type now?"
the atmosphere fell silent as you blinked. he had been paying attention just to get your approval?
hyunjin looked desperate, "please say something, y/n."
you were nodding before you could even process your thoughts, "fine. i'll go out with you if you quit being an asshole."
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belmottetower · 1 year ago
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fic rec fun
So wanted to get some hiatus rec lists going and encourage some self promo in my friends so how about sharing your top fics no matter how big or small - give us the links to your wonderful words with the Most hits/Most kudos/Most comments/Most bookmarks /Most words/Least words Tagged by @valonia47 Most hits:
and i'm known for giving love away The first fic in my main ot3 series, and probably the fic of mine that has been most popular since season 3. I'm not surprised really, if you left that season a fan of ot3 this might be the one for you. 26,302 hits. Summary:
Apparently this isn’t some fantasy scenario Keeley has dreamed up, and Roy is on board with the whole threesome thing. Jamie doesn’t need any more encouragement before saying yes to sex with two of the hottest people he knows. How the fuck do you cope with the beard. It’s so scratchy. Hate to think how raw you are down there. Keeley doesn’t take long to reply to his text. Shut up! Heard the second conversation went better than the first?Â đŸ˜đŸ‘šâ€ïžđŸ’‹đŸ‘š ------- In the first week back of pre-season training, Jamie’s misstep at the funeral finally comes back to bite him. Or does it? When Keeley and Roy approach him with a very unexpected offer — an invite into their bed — Jamie isn't one to look a gift horse in the mouth, even if he wishes it was more than just sex.
Most kudos
This is the same as above and has 1,649 kudos so I'm going to cheat and plug my second most kudosed fic too.
I Get By With A Little Help
This is the first in a Roy/Jamie, canon divergent season 2 AU that follows the events of the season fairly closely, but with one change at the start affecting Jamie's relationships and actions. 1,030 kudos. Summary:
He can’t hang out with the boys, but he hates going home too. He hates being alone in his new flat, terrified that his dad will find out where he lives now and send them after him again. He’s taken to hanging round the club after training. He’ll find a quiet place to sit, pull out his book, and settle in for as long as he can before the stadium locks up for the night and he's forced to leave. He’s onto the 34th book to read before you die — Emma — and is surprised by how much he likes it. In comparison to his own drama, gentle scandals and gossip are a nice escape. Today’s reading location is the boot room. The new kitman has some magic way of making it smell of lavender instead of sweaty feet, and if Jamie puts a couple of towels on the bench, it makes a nice pillow to sit on. Mr Knightley is in the middle of yet another stern lecture — in his head, Knightley looks a lot like Roy, but he's not sure Keeley quite fits as Emma — when the door bangs open. Jamie jumps and is surprised to see Keeley standing there instead of Will, a guilty look on her face. — After a traumatic event Jamie falls apart, then puts himself back together again. He does the hard work, but he has a little help. Most comments
Most bookmarks
Okay the first here was and i'm known for giving love away with 564 bookmarks. The second was I Get By With A Little Help with 387 bookmarks. I won't do a full summary of number three, but I'll cheat again and link to it. It's in a language that you can't read just yet, another ot3 fic with 229 bookmarks.
Most words
A Little Better, All The Time The Roy POV sequel to I Get By With A Little Help, so you'd probably want to read that first! 46,825 words. I'll be honest I think a couple of my other WIPs either are already longer, or will definitely end up longer, but not in terms of published words. Summary:
He’d known Tartt could do it, but knowing it and fucking watching that masterpiece of a goal happen with his own eyes are two very different things. And best of all, he got to feel responsible for it. He had gotten to set that in motion for Richmond, for his player. Ted grabs him in celebration, and Roy’s still roaring and oh, fuck. Careful what you wish for, Kent. Jamie’s seeking out his gaze, flipping him off from the middle of the pitch and smirking before accepting praise and hugs from the rest of the team, and Roy had wanted Jamie to spark some emotion in him, but this? This is electric, this is overwhelming. Roy wants to fucking run out there, grab him in a bear hug of his own, and not let go. This might become a new problem. ___ Roy wasn't about to admit it, but he'd been sort of excited to see Tartt again. Except when he returns to Richmond, Jamie is... different. On the pitch and off it, he’s quieter, more reserved, a shadow of the person Roy remembers from last season. He’s determined to get to the bottom of the change.
Least words
funnier than step brothers
Okay this is one of my AUgust fills, for a prompt where I was otherwise I bit stuck as to what I wanted to write. A rogue pairing for me - Colin/Isaac and very silly, but I will stick to the rules and link to it anyway. Word count 374. Summary:
“This is your fucking fault,” Isaac hisses at Colin from their place on the front pew. Colin’s not paying him any attention though, too busy wiping away his tears as he watches his dad marry Isaac’s mum. — Ted Lasso AU-gust Challenge Prompt #8: Adoptive Family
This was a lot of fun! I tag @goldiegaytime and @liesmyth to do it should you fancy it, no pressure though!
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knotwerk · 6 months ago
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holy shit i fucking love editing. (remind me i said that in two weeks.) 
i’m working on the proper hydration series finale aka PH6. i finished writing the first draft on 4/6/24, clocking in at 85k words. and then i sat on it for a few days before rereading it, did an extremely cursory once-over edit, and sent it off to my first reader & og beta @demolitionwoman-blog (CHEERS!!!). she started working on the beta, and by the time she hit chapter 3, she made the observation that the next step in the editing process for this might not be a typical beta read, but a structure/development read, and maybe a reverse outline would be a good next step. 
and i was like, i have never heard of a reverse outline. like, i have never heard of most things, really; i just started writing fiction in fucking august 2022 and am having a FUCKING BALL learning by doing. so i googled reverse outline, read the top three hits lol, and was like OH FUCK YES. 
because i do not Outline-outline when i write. all respect to those who do!!!!!, but i just Can Not. i have tried, and i get both daunted and bored, and that combo is like fucking kryptonite to my brain. for a longer piece (or a piece that doesn’t just burst out of my fingertips in response to a gifset or bts drop or tweet or gc comment 😅), i do make a sort of vibes outline. like, i open a fresh doc and splort down all the themey ideas i’m able to put words to at that point, and i make notes on whatever beats have already formed in my head, but it’s loose and sketchy at best. and then i write and see what happens as the story unfolds, and i go back to that notes doc to sort of talk to myself about it, to update the vibe outline as i get further in my draft, etc. 
but PH6 is the longest & most complex thing i’ve written yet, so by the time i got to the end of the first draft—by the time i’d put the whole story into words—i was like, oh my god, what is this. like, has this done the thing i wanted to do, per my vibe outline, and also, what did it actually do, and is it legible (whatever that means; like far be it from me to tell the reader what they should get out of something, but, generally speaking, is it cohesive.). now that i have told the story, like
 what the fuck is the story about please, and does it "work." 
so i “finished” my reverse outline yesterday and omfg it’s helping so much and it’s SO EXCITING!!!! LIKE, THIS IS HELPING ME WRAP MY MIND AROUND THE THING I DID, SO I AM BETTER ABLE TO SEE WHAT I AM TRYING TO DO!!!! AND I CAN WORK WITH THAT!!!!!
it’s like i had a bunch of kittens scrambling around in my brain and while i was writing i was like 'oh i love these kittens so much, and i really hope this story herds these kittens effectively so they slow down just enough that people can really see their cute little faces (including me, i am people)' and then i finished the first draft and was like 'ahhh did the story herd the kittens??? i can't tell, they're still moving too fast in my brain' and then the reverse outline showed up and was like I COME BEARING TUNA AND FIFTEEN CARDBOARD BOXES and now i can see the kittens better. 
and then! i slept on it last night, and this morning my brain was like, “oh, here, why don’t i just efficiently articulate the vibes and arrange them in a tidy visual diagram that reveals how they all flow through the story for you?” WHEE!!
and then i got so excited that i had to put it down and write all this instead of working on it further 
(this, which could probably use its own reverse outline lmao)
like, i’m reading Mary Ruefle’s Madness, Rack, and Honey, which is a book of collected lectures that i cannot stop screaming about and that slaps so hard i keep having to throw it across the room, and just the other day i read, in the chapter “On Secrets,” 
I used to think I wrote because there was something I wanted to say. Then I thought, “I will continue to write because I have not yet said what I wanted to say”; but I know now I continue to write because I have not yet heard what I have been listening to.
and i think the reverse outline is helping me hear it a little better, and that is fucking exciting.
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delicatesoundofthunderr · 8 months ago
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Roger Waters x Reader
i wrote this because there is a lack of pf fanfics, especially roger x reader 😞
ALSO FOR MY CHARLES LECLERC GIRLIES I DID NOT FORGET YALL!!! life’s been busy but i genuinely want to continue the series. so sorry for the wait! ❀
ps it gets a bit heated but no smut! *injuries mentioned*
‱‱‱
It was the end of another successful gig, and the spirit in the pub couldn’t be more agitated. Drinks were drunk and dances were danced, and you found yourself near the stage with some friends.
“Loved your performance, Y/N! Although,
I couldn’t fail to notice someone had a keen eye on you for the whole show...” your friend recalled, raising her brows.
“What? Who?” you question with excitement.
“Roger! He was eyeing you every second he had the chance!” your other friend beamed.
You didn’t believe a word of it. You guys had grown slightly closer over the past weeks, but his on-stage persona was something totally different.
“You’re joking
 I’ll probably get a lecture soon then, he was probably annoyed by something I did.” you grunted.
“I swear I saw him smiling at you though.” your friend mumbled.
Your cheeks flushed ever so slightly.
“Right, well I’m gonna go get some fresh air.” you declared. The constant buzzing of chatter and music gave you a slight headache.
You snake through the mass of tipsy people, and see a familiar face just before reaching the exit.
Roger is interacting and laughing with a girl who doesn’t seem to fit in the friendly category. You only catch his eye when you cross the door.
You stay outside for some time, breathing in the crisp air. A recurring thought kept disturbing your calm. What could you have possibly done so wrong in your performance for Roger to look at you all night long?
Or
 was it something else?
You shake your head and head back for the pub after a few minutes.
When you push the door to get back in, a newfound tension has submerged the pub.
Two men were fighting, one stubby blonde, and another tall brunette which you realized- to your great surprise- was Roger.
The moment didn’t feel real. Roger, always one to use his words and wits, now with a split lip and balled fists.
“Roger!” you yell through the crowd.
He doesn’t seem to register your voice at all with the commotion. Roger was about to throw a final punch in the man’s direction when you took him by the back of his shirt.
“Roger! You can stop now, he’s done.” you yell in anger. Roger’s eyes locked with yours, and he slowly let go of the poor lad in his hands.
Roger’s face was intact but for a split brow bone and lip. Something pulled at you to help him, and with a frustrated sigh you take his wrist and lead him through the buzzing crowd and out the pub.
“I never thought
” you fume. “We’ll go to the studio okay? It’s the nearest place.” you order with little space for arguing.
Roger simply nods, a faraway look in his eyes. You didn’t notice how tight you were holding his wrist and let go. You look back to make sure he’s still following, and much to your dismay he’s clutching his stomach.
“What is it now?” you complain.
“My ribs
 They really fucking hurt.” he groans, eyes filled with fear.
You immediately walk over to him with a newfound concern, but he stops you.
“I’m fine, I don’t need help.” he states, no trace of malice in his voice.
Your heart aches more and more at his disheveled form, and as you get to the studio, you make sure to open every door for him.
He crashes down on the couch, chest rising up and down at a fast pace.
You go get the small aid kit in the bathroom alongside warm towels full of water.
Roger has one hand over his eyes and he’s muttering something under his breath.
“Remove your shirt. We’re gonna check for broken ribs first.” you command.
Roger removes his hand from his face and looks directly at you with those piercing eyes of his. He slowly rises to remove his shirt, and you can’t do anything else than look up at him from your seat, admiring his lean, sun-kissed abs. He stifles a groan as he passes his shirt over his head and throws it in the corner of the room.
You sit there for a bit, struck by his appearance. He falls back down to the couch and you follow after him.
“I’ll- I have to- I’m gonna touch your ribs.” you blurt out.
He nods through half-lidded eyes and leans back.
There’s a prominent bruise that paints his chest a purple colour, and you gently brush your fingers on it. His whole body tenses up and he sucks in a breath.
“What the hell were you thinking?” you whisper, searching for an answer in his eyes.
He looks away and ignores your question.
“Are you drunk?” you tempt, laying a cold towel on his bruise.
“No. I’ve had like half a beer.” he sighs.
You hold your hands up in confusion.
“Then I don’t get it! You never fight Roger, you never have!” you complain, shaking your head.
“I know
 He just
” he trails off, playing with the hot towel on his chest.
“He just what, Roger? He made fun of the band? You? Your reputation, maybe?” you furiously dig for bandages in the kit.
Before putting the bandages on his face, you decide it’s best to clean it. You bring the towel to his brow and dab away, eyes narrowing out of concentration.
“He said something about you.” Roger mutters out, looking up at you.
Your hand drops.
“And what exactly did he say?” you ask, feeling very small all of a sudden.
“Doesn’t matter.” he mumbles, holding himself up with his hand and settling back down into a more comfortable position. He was using his elbows to prop himself up to not completely lie down on his back.
His new position forces you to almost straddle him to reach his face and dab the cloth on his bottom lip.
“I have the right to know.” you mutter, voice filled with insecurity. He gazes up at you and sighs through parted lips.
“He- Christ
” he sighs and rubs his eyes. “He called you an attention-seeking whore.” Roger mumbles, looking away from your pained expression guiltily.
You have a feeling the man might’ve said more and Roger was protecting your self-esteem, but you can’t say this is exactly new to you. Something that was new though, was someone sticking up for you.
“Still
 You shouldn’t have. You don’t deserve this.” you whisper after a moment, dabbing the cloth on his bottom lip.
And you truly believed that. You didn’t think Roger should go through all that trouble just for you.
“You don’t deserve this either, and I don’t regret it. You’re worth every punch I received.” his head turns back to face you, eyes sparkling with determination.
How could he say something like this and not expect you to crumble under his gaze?
“No, you don’t mean that.” you state, eyes pleading him to tell you the truth.
Roger shuffles under you, and his eyes darken.
“I do, and I’d do it again! That prick is lucky he wasn’t-“ but you cut his words off by taking his face with your hands and kissing him.
Roger’s mouth goes slack, and it takes him a second to register everything. Then, his lips are responsive.
He uses one elbow to prop himself up, whilst his other hand has found your face. Your position was already favourable, half straddling him already.
He pulls on the back of your thigh to get you completely pressed against him, and your hands are now exploring the muscles of his arms, gripping on them tighter as Roger’s fingers find the surface of your back.
He carelessly draws patterns with his slim fingers, earning shivers from you. His thumb is carefully caressing your cheek in a soothing way.
The kiss is intense, a downpour of all past tension condensed.
His tongue is firm but doesn’t let you get overwhelmed. He lets you set the pace, which is a slow and needy one.
Your hands hesitate towards his chest, laying them gently on his bruised abs. You earn a stifled moan from his part and arch your back as you continue to gently caress his chest up and down.
Both his hands take possession of your hips, squeezing them gently. You feel him move his hips almost involuntarily under you, his member pressing up against you.
You stifle a noise at the contact and press yourself harder against him.
You finally break the kiss. You look down at his star struck grin and slightly swollen lips with a shy smile.
“You’re slightly drunk aren’t you?” Roger asks doubtfully.
“I only had a shot.” you answer truthfully.
He chuckles and lays you down, hovering over you. His eyes travel along your face, taking you all in.
“You’re so pretty,” he blurts out with a stroke of your cheek.
You look away shyly, but he makes sure to bring your face back to him with the tip of your chin.
He smiles at you like an idiot in love and plants a soft kiss on your lips.
Images of him and that girl flash through your mind and you stop him.
“Who was that girl at the pub?” you question, brows furrowing in worry.
Roger’s eyes narrow as he seems to recall his night. His brows go up at the memory.
“Who, my cousin? I don’t have any interest in her, no.” he chuckles.
You bite your lip and smile, feeling rather stupid.
“Besides, someone’s already caught my eye.” he murmured.
You grin and hold the back of his neck to bring his face down and kiss him hard.
You softly bite into his split lower lip, gaining a low groan from him. You wrap your legs around his torso and his bare chest presses softly against yours, the barrier of clothes infuriating.
The kiss is slow and passionate, but gets broken by Roger.
“My head hurts.” he mutters over your lips with closed eyes.
You immediately sit up and lay him back down on the couch. You kiss his forehead only to realize he’s a bit too warm.
You rush to the bathroom to get a cold towel and come back to Roger breathing low with closed eyes.
“Roger, he hit your head repeatedly
 You might have a concussion,” you realize, brushing away the hair from his forehead to place the towel on it.
Your fingers leave his face but he’s quick to take them back in his hands.
“Can you
 stay here for a bit?” he asks, the question leaving his lips like a plea.
Your eyes soften and you nod quickly.
“I think it’s best we sleep here. I don’t think walking is a good idea for you.” you ponder.
You go get him pills and a glass of water, and he drinks it slowly before placing it back down on the ground.
“I’ll just- use the couch in the other room.” you smile and make your way to it.
“Y/n.” Roger speaks.
You already know what he’s implying, but refuse to succumb to such request.
“Roger. Your ribs are bruised and your head hurts. I don’t want to bother you, so if you need me, I’ll be right there.” you state, pointing to the door.
You turn on your heels but he stops you with his words.
“I don’t think I can sleep without you in my arms after knowing how you feel against me.” he declares behind your back.
You slowly turn around, lips parted in surprise. You crack a smile, walking over to Roger and obliging to his request, settling down beside him.
He scoots over so you have space, and you lay your head on his shoulder, careful not to touch his chest.
“I’m sorry for getting mad at you.” you confess, cringing at your reaction from earlier.
He moves a lone piece of hair from your forehead and tucks it behind your ear.
“S’okay. I’m sorry for beating the shit out of that guy.” he says in return.
You fail to keep your straight face and smile.
“You should get some sleep now, if you don’t feel well just wake me up or push me off the couch, I don’t mind.” you tell him.
He smiles and shakes his head, leaning in to catch your lips in one last lingering kiss.
He wakes you up only once in the whole night, though it is involuntarily.
His arm finds your chest and he snakes it around, pulling you closer while he mutters something tired.
You sleepily smile and trace the edges of his face with gentle hands. Your fingers brush over his nose, his cheekbones, and all the way down to his soft lips.
Roger sighs and the tension in his face relaxes, whilst his breathing slows down.
You nuzzle your face in his neck and fall back asleep tight in his arms.
~
“Did anyone stay after the gig?” whispers David, looking down at you and Roger entwined and sleeping on the couch.
“I didn’t. I heard Roger fought someone though.” Rick murmurs, walking over to David. David’s eyebrows go up in a shocked expression.
“Roger
 Really?” he questions.
“Jesus christ did Y/N beat up Roger and then sleep with him afterwards cause she felt bad?” adds Nick, just now entering the studio.
They all have a laugh and head over to their instruments.
‱‱‱
hope this fed you guys a little 😊
ps. the only reason he didnt take her right then and there is because in my head it was supposed to be a mini series and i made another one where they actually do it. will prolly post the rest not in chronological order but oh well.
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manchurian-barnes · 2 years ago
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Coffee Shop Blues and Reds Part One (Peter Parker X F! Reader)
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Post NWH - Collage Peter!
Busy nights filled with college course work, leads to late nights in a crappy coffee shop, the only perk? Friendly neighbourhood company.
To keep updated heres the Series Masterlist and for my other works, you can find My Masterlist Here!
The longer you stared at the screen the more the words on it started to dance around. Holy fuck. You thought, rubbing your eyes with the palms of your hands harder than you probably should have been until you saw multicoloured stars. You looked at the clock ticking on the wall. Half past midnight. Honestly it was your preferred time to crunch essays out, you knew it was unhealthy, but the habit had formed between the ungodly hours you worked in this shitty diner and the ungodly amount of work your lecturer deemed necessary. Standing up you hobbled to the counter. Ignoring the ding of the door swinging open. "Uhm, can you just give me...enough coffee to stay up for like...the rest of the semester?" You yawned and let out a semi-fake laugh. It was a joke. Kind of. A chuckle behind you shook you out of your half-asleep state. "I felt that." A male voice chirped.
You didn't turn around, god knows you didn't need some weirdo talking to you at this time of night. taking the little paper cup and just sitting back down, staring out the window instead of at your laptop. You could basically feel the eyes on you, turning to look at the guy. He couldn’t of been much older than you, if he was older at all, his face was gentle, he looked kind and his eyes (much like yours) were tired and semi-hollow. He was cute, seemingly harmless, and he sat down at the table behind you. "Start of a shift or the end?" You dared to ask him. "Ha, end of a shift." he moved in his chair, shifting his whole body to look at you, his eyebrow quirked up a bit as he caught site of your laptop. "Are you writing an essay?" He seemed to be in a bit of disbelief, "At this hour?" He followed up quickly. Peter hadn’t really talked to anyone for...a while. He bit his lip and looked at his cup, sipping as he waited for a response. "Yeah, my lecturer is an absolute asshole, who finds it appropriate to throw pretty much everything he possibly can at me." Your voice was soft, cheeky in nature, making him share the grin you gave him.
"Sooooo...do you have a name?" you asked him. That smile, his smile, it was a sight of sore eyes. "P-Peter-" he stammered as he barely finished a sip. He cringed at himself. "I'm Peter, Parker-" His hand shot up, ready for a handshake. Which you gave him, holding his hand tight. Before letting go. "Y/n. Y/l/n." You told him gently. Shifting in your seat as he stood up and then sat down at your table. "Sorry-am I being presumptuous? I just thought, easier to have a conversation when you're not craning your neck." He chuckled a bit. He was awkward, but, he honestly made it work for himself. "So
 How was your night?" You gave him another smile; it filled him up with a warmth. "Uh...crazy, crazy night actually." He couldn't tell you the truth but, he had a run in with a guy in a mechanised rhino costume and had been flung from the side of the building. His whole body ached but getting to share a coffee with a pretty girl was sort of taking his mind off all that. "...Crazy huh?" You eyed the camera he had hanging at his side. He flipped into cover-up mode, "Oh this-yeah I’m a photographer, a crime photographer-" "crime photographer, as in, you follow the cops around all night?" You were quick, interested in what he was telling you. His job sounded full of danger, even if he was just taking photos, "No wonder you're so tired." "I don't follow the cops, I uh, actually I follow Spider-Man." He explained, it was easier to be...semi-truthful, it saved on slip ups.
You smiled a bit more at the mention of the masked hero. He'd been around in the city for so long, had a big reputation and you were a fan of his. Your hands cupped your coffee a bit tighter, and you hummed at the warmth. "He's so freaking cool..." You let out quietly. He smiled wider at that, it was always nice to hear someone saying nice things about him...especially when his boss was the biggest spreader of horrible and false information. "He's alright I guess." Peter hid the grin with another sip of coffee, he felt more awake.
"He uh...He saved my mom's life." You told him. His eyes went wide, no matter how hard he tried to deny, NCY was small - at least to the guy who could swing around it in a few hours. "Really?!" He asked you. You shrugged just a bit, "It was a long time ago...she was on that ferry-" "Spider-Man didn't save anyone-" "Are you kidding me? Have you seen the news footage of it all? If he hadn't been there to slow it down, Iron Man couldn't have gotten there in enough time to help!" You argued right back at him, you felt kind of passionate about the webslingers good nature. "Don't tell me you believe all the shit that Jameson guy says-" I-I actually work for-" He started, and he laughed as you groaned. "No Peter! I was just starting to like you!" You raised your hands. Covering up your face. He laughed and placed a hand on his chest, "I'm sorry! Money is money, even if I disagree with his messages." He laughed as he spoke.
"How do I get you to like me again?" he asked gently. Your cheeks flushed into a deep red. "...maybe if you gave your number." You said, biting your lip a little. "So, you can harass me about my employer?" He chuckled again, eyes a lot brighter, a hell of a lot brighter than when you'd first seen them. "Exactly." You whispered. He downed the rest of his cup, and then wrote his number on the side of it, after flattening it. He passed it across the table to you as he stood. "Use it whenever you want to." He told you. Moving to go, with a wave as he passed by you in the window.
He barely got down the street before his phone pinged.
You seriously work for the spider-man basher?
He grinned. This was the start of something.
End Of Part One - Part Two!
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honey-on-your-tongue · 1 year ago
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All That Could Be
Series masterlist
Part one
Word count: 1.1k
A/N: I don't even know what to say. I've been watching House MD lately and just đŸ˜©đŸ˜©đŸ˜© can't help myself. I'm as delulu as it gets.
“I'm getting a divorce.”
That's how Wilson greets you one morning, storming into your office.
You pause, blinking at him. “Why?” you finally ask, the shock still present but slowly wearing off. You can almost hear House saying something about Wilson cheating. “Did you cheat on her?”
Wilson frowns, looking confused and almost offended. “No. Of course I didn't.” He pauses for a moment, almost hesitating before adding, “She did.”
You bite your tongue then. You're not going to lie, Wilson has the bad habit of trying to fix people who are unfixable. His past three wives and House—among thousands of others—are clear proof of that. Still, you don't understand how someone could do that to him. He's as sweet, kind, thoughtful as they come. How do you hurt someone so devoted to helping you in any way he can?
“That...sucks,” you say stupidly.
“Understatement,” he replies, walking past you, towards the couch in your office and plopping down on it, defeated.
“Alright,” you allow, turning to him. “It's a horrible fucking thing that she did to you. But—” You cut yourself off, recognizing this is no time for a lecture, but knowing that making him realize that he falls into the same pattern again and again would probably be easier now that the wound is raw and vulnerable.
“But what?” he asks, glancing up at you.
You sigh softly, sitting beside him. “But maybe...you should ask yourself why this is your third divorce.”
He blinks at you, his brown eyes staring into yours. “Where is this conversation going?”
“Wilson. Three divorces,” you emphasize. “Three wives. What did they all have in common?”
He frowns and asks, “Me?”
You shake your head. “No. All three of them were...well, broken. All three of them had no interest in fixing themselves.” You bite the inside of your cheek, hesitating for a second before finishing your sentence, “And you desperately tried to fix all three of them. Do you see the issue?”
He places his elbows on his knees, pinching the bridge of his nose. He sighs, and your office is suddenly extraordinarily quiet. Like a black hole has sucked all the life from it, and there's nothing else but you and this silent, hurt man beside you.
Finally, he speaks, “Okay.”
You pause. “Okay?” you echo, confused.
He nods. “Yeah, okay. I'm too involved in helping other people even though they don't want to fix themselves and then I'm disappointed when they do exactly what I knew they would.”
You try to help it, you truly do, but by now, psychoanalizing people is almost instinct. You just can't hold back.
“Can you think of a reason as to why you do that?” you ask softly in that soothing, therapist voice.
He glances away from you, staring at the far wall. He's avoiding answering the question by pretending to think of an answer, but you don't call him out on that. You let him take his time.
Eventually, he sighs. “Maybe?”
You nod. “So you've realized that this whole 'fixing other people' thing is a behavior that rises from an issue you may have with yourself?”
He swallows, his Adam's apple bobbing, and he flickers his eyes to yours before looking away again. “Yeah,” he says, his voice strained with emotion.
You nod slowly. “James.” You speak his name softly, carefully, and he finally meets your gaze. “I think that maybe you try to fix other people because you feel that if you can fix them, you'll somehow fix yourself. Do you think I might be right?”
He exhales thickly before rubbing at his eyes with one hand. “You know, uh...can we—can we not do this? Today? Like. I just...” He frowns, chewing on his bottom lip, his eyes glancing around as if looking for the words to appear in your office.
You place a hand on his shoulder. You've known him for years, and you can read him like an open book. “You want friend me, not psychologist me,” you guess, tilting your head a little.
His brown eyes find yours. “Yeah,” he breathes, a soft sound of relief that seems to wash over the room like a tsunami, breaking the tension and leaving the atmosphere feeling lighter. “Yeah.”
You nod. “Alright. She fucking sucks,” you state. “That was absolutely an asshole move. Like—what the fuck?”
He grins slightly. “Thank you.”
You shake your head. “No, no. Don't thank me. Come on, get it off your chest. She's a fucking bitch. How did you find out?”
He sighs. “I didn't. She told me. I mean, shit's been weird at home lately. We were constantly avoiding each other, we'd fight over everything, she was never home and neither was I.” He shrugs. “What else should I have expected?”
“I'm sorry, Wilson,” you tell him honestly. “You deserve so much better.”
He scoffs softly.
You raise your eyebrows. “You don't agree?”
He shakes his head. “No—I mean, yes, I agree, but I don't think I'm gonna find someone different. I seem to keep attracting people who are unfixable.”
You nod, placing a hand on his shoulder. “Take a brake from dating. Just don't let it even cross your mind. Forget about romantic relationships. Focus on yourself. Try and fix yourself and you'll see everything falls into place.”
“Okay,” he says. “Alright.”
You smile gently. “You know I'm here if you want to talk. Or break things. Or get drunk and high or whatever.”
He laughs softly. “I don't really plan on doing those last two but, uh, I appreciate it.”
You nod again. He gets up, walking towards the door. He swings it open and just before he leaves, he turns back to you.
“Just...out of curiosity,” he says. “Um. How would I recognize if I were falling into another unfixable relationship?”
You think on it for a moment. “Well. You'd have to see how you're feeling around that person. And you'd need to recognize that you're desperately trying to help them with things they're not interested in. Also, you have to keep in mind that a relationship goes both ways. You give and give and give, but does the other person do that too? Or is it only you?”
He nods, still not leaving. “And how would I know if I find someone I can have a healthy relationship with?”
“Um. I'm guessing you're not going to feel that eagerness to please them with everything and you'll realize that you're not the only one who gives. And when problems arise, you won't have to solve everything on your own.”
He stands there, still eyeing you, his gaze locked on yours. You get the feeling he wants to say something else, but he doesn't. After a while, he tells you, “Thank you.” And he walks out of your office.
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homicidal-slvt · 1 year ago
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"Strangers Are Especially Strange Here"
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Part 2
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OCs x F!Reader
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You are a young woman who also happens to be a witch- ending up with you in a college of mythical beings... {This story is gonna be silly chaos and will be aimed at my fellow bisexuals.}
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Warnings: None- just silliness.
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You unintentionally discovered you aren't entirely human a bit late in life, which resulted in where you're at now. Learning how to control your abilities should be fun though, right?
Right???
You've so far spent the whole day running around getting lectures on what you shouldn't do as a witch. Yes, it's very very important that you learn that stuff- blah blah.
But it's boringgggg... And you have every right to be complaining in your head, waddling down the hall books in hand like a depressed penguin.
At least the long corridors of the old building are beautiful, an intricate lacy gold pattern that imitates the look of vines lines the wallpaper, the floor beneath your feet a shiny black marble with gold streaks through it- feeling as though the place has a strong energy and power of it's own.
Though without warning you are harshly dragged from your thoughts to the sudden appearance of a young guy's head popping out of the wall...
"Sup!"
"WHAT THE FUCK?!?"
You let out quite the shriek but miraculously don't fall or drop your books. The dude has thick fluffy medium length creamy blonde hair that is wavy in a very unruly way, his eyes are more rounded in shape and the picture perfect example of the color baby blue, his skin tone closest to that of pale ivory and you could describe his face shape as being more heart shaped. He quickly came fully out of the wall and stood in front of you, he's probably somewhere around 5'11 in height, from what you can tell his body type falls more into the category of 'inverted triangle'. He's wearing an extremely baggy but comfy looking ice blue sweater, a pair of simple jeans and some scuffed up white tennis shoes. Despite the fact the guy just scared you shitless- he still has a bright smile on his face.
"Oops. You must be new here."
Oops??? Not an apology??? Just- oops???
You do not have time to deal with this, you're already tired and bored and annoyed- so you just make your way around him and keep walking. The guy pauses for a second before calling out to you.
"Hey- wait! Sorry! I really didn't mean to scare you!"
Too little too late- you rounded the corner and kept on going.
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You know- you failed to realize just how big this place is. The separate building that you get to stay in is huge, you have your own bedroom in it. Granted- there's set times for breakfast, lunch, dinner... Yeah, not like a normal college at all. You have decently cooked food and you just have to show up to eat it.
However of course- you still had to pay to be here. Well, more like your aunt paid for you to be here- you didn't even know you had an aunt for a long ass time... You know what- that's not important right now.
You open your laptop and start typing away, you do have normal assignments to get done on top of the extra classes to do with your powers.
Pros and cons...
You're also surrounded by so many different kinds of people, you swore you saw a guy with cat ears earlier.... However he didn't stick around very long and seemed to want nothing to do with any of the socializing happening around him.
Totally understandable.
This place is giving a whole new meaning to the word 'strangers' but hey- that isn't necessarily a bad thing, is it?
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{Is this bad? I don't know. It's October and I had a silly idea for a series and decided- fuck it. You only live once.}
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{@sofasoap @shadofireshinobi @scar-crossedlvrs sorry if you guys don't wanna be tagged. Just let me know.}
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{More Content}
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apocalypticavolition · 1 year ago
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Let's (re)Read The Eye of the World! Chapter 38: Rescue
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Listen and listen well: people who complain about this post being full of spoilers for the whole of The Wheel of Time series will be tortured like in the above image. This is your chance to get the hell away from my madness while you have a chance and I have no patience for anyone who is going to waste that opportunity. Block the tags, read the books, have a happy life!
This chapter has the Flame of Tar Valon as its icon, a reflection both of Moiraine's leading the rescue effort and of Lan's discussion of the factions within the White Tower.
Usually he collapsed like a wrung-out rag as soon as the Whitecloaks let him stop, but tonight his mind was racing. His skin crawled with dread that had been building for days.
Another favorable coincidence for our heroes. Frankly, Perrin and Egwene deserve to pass right out whenever they can after these hideous death marches they're being put through.
Light, how do I make them believe we aren’t Darkfriends when they’re already convinced we are? His stomach twisted sickeningly. In the end, he would probably confess to anything just to make the Questioners stop.
On the one hand, it's not very smart of Perrin to think that he can reason with these people when they've already established themselves to be very unreasonable. Also, killing two of someone's buddies is really no way to make friends.
On the other hand, it's very smart of Perrin to understand that the point of torture is to make the victims say whatever you want them to say. Unless he calls Egwene a whore or something I'm going to let him coast on this victory for the rest of this chapter.
Perrin tensed. Sometimes such a denial brought a lecture delivered in a grating near monotone, on confession and repentance, leading into a description of the Questioners’ methods of obtaining them. Sometimes it brought the lecture and a kick. To his surprise, this time Byar ignored it.
I have to wonder if it's Egwene getting kicked for having a smart mouth or if it's Perrin getting kicked for Egwene having a smart mouth. Both seem plausible with these fucks.
If Byar wanted them to escape? Byar, who was convinced to his marrow that they were Darkfriends. Byar, who hated Darkfriends worse than he did the Dark One himself. Byar, who looked for any excuse to cause him pain because he had killed two Whitecloaks. Byar wanted them to escape?
Oh wow, Perrin's actually thinking things through effectively this chapter! You go, Perrin. You don't even have to coast! Also, this accurately reflects your characterization as someone who seems slow because you think things through. I'm so happy.
Byar watched his changes of expression, and for the first time the Whitecloak’s eyes went to the rock he had tossed on the ground.
So, Byar doesn't know that Perrin's a wolfepath. I think what's going through his head is the realization that Perrin is a violent killer and the follow-up assumption that he might well take a rock meant to free him from his bonds and use it just effectively enough to bash someone else's skull in. Hence why he decides to kill Perrin now, because he's a dangerous man in multiple ways now that Byar miscalculated.
“Is it really . . . ?” Egwene gave a stifled sob. “We thought you were dead. We thought you were all dead.”
Speaking of people who's interiority we don't get to see right now, what has been going on in her head all this time anyway? Did she really think they were dead the whole time and was doing the dancing stuff as a "having survived a traumatic experience I'm going to throw myself into living as hard as I can"? Did she only give up hope when Perrin was so shitty about telling her they were alive or even later during the death march? I really don't know and every answer is fascinating in its own right.
He felt a prickle as it settled around his shoulders, a stab of worry between his shoulder blades. Was it Byar’s cloak he had ended up with? He almost thought he could smell the gaunt man on it.
There's something deeply symbolic about Perrin's terror that in reclaiming his axe and donning a disguise he's picked up something else, something worse, from the man he had to steal from.
A shadow stirred, and Moiraine’s voice came, weighted with irritation. “Nynaeve has not returned. I fear that young woman has done something foolish.”
What Moiraine's not saying is that Nynaeve preempted her signal here and that her fears are entirely justified since the gal just let off a thunderstorm. It wouldn't help her seem omniscient and inscrutable if she were forced to admit that the gang could so easily throw her off her schemes. Best to just roll with it.
Lan spun on his heel as if to return the way they had come, but a single whip-crack word from Moiraine halted him. “No!” He stood looking at her sideways, only his face and hands truly visible, and they but dimly shadowed blurs. She went on in a gentler tone; gentler but no less firm. “Some things are more important than others. You know that.” The Warder did not move, and her voice hardened again. “Remember your oaths, al’Lan Mandragoran, Lord of the Seven Towers! What of the oath of a Diademed Battle Lord of the Malkieri?”
Lan: Fuck my bond to you, fuck saving the world, fuck the Pattern, I'm saving Nynaeve!
Readers: Lan/Nynaeve comes out of nowhere.
Literally the only reason Lan doesn't ignore Moiraine right now is that Nynaeve comes back anyway.
“Elsewhere,” Moiraine replied, and Nynaeve muttered something in a sharp tone that made Egwene gasp. Perrin blinked; he had caught the edge of a wagoneer’s oath, and a coarse one.
Meaningless contest: Give me *your* ideas as to what Nynaeve said here. Bonus points to anyone who works in a nine horse hitch.
He still carried the white cloak, now rolled up and tied to his belt. The Warder said they must leave no more traces for the Children to find than they could help. He still thought he could smell Byar on it.
And there's gotta be more symbolism in the taint of Byar moving from something that covers Perrin directly to a mere tool on his belt.
“I believe they are in Caemlyn,” Moiraine said carefully, “or on their way there.” Nynaeve gave a loud, disparaging grunt, but the Aes Sedai went on as if she had not been interrupted. “If they are not, I will yet find them. That I promise.”
Nynaeve has a different approach to Aes Sedai bullshit than Lan's "You're dodging the question": make rude noises until they become specific enough for her liking. Their mutual contempt for the First Oath is just one of the many ways they're perfect for each other.
“You look surprised,” Nynaeve said. She looked a little surprised herself, and strangely frightened. “Next time, you can go to her.”
"Fuck you Perrin if you don't like the goop you can get Aes Sedaied! Respect me or be thrown to the witches!"
Nynaeve is always so delightfully extra.
“There was no foretelling this.” Moiraine spoke as if to herself. Her eyes seemed to look at something beyond him. “Something ordained to be woven, or a change in the Pattern? If a change, by what hand? The Wheel weaves as the Wheel wills. It must be that.”
You could try asking him, you know. Reassuring yourself that everything is fine, the situation is totally under control, most of the party is already back together and you totally know where the other dipshits are is all well and good when you are lucky enough to be on the right track, but what if you weren't?
“And most of what you’ve heard is wrong, no doubt. You must understand, there are . . . factions within Tar Valon. Some would fight the Dark One one way, some another. The goal is the same, but the differences . . . the differences can mean lives changed, or ended. The lives of men or nations. He is well, Elyas?”
You can tell that Lan does not remotely give a fuck about Perrin or his well-being except to the degree Moiraine tells him to by the way that he's so brutally misleading Perrin. The Red Ajah's reputation is pretty accurate even in empty farm country and the largest united faction in Tar Valon wouldn't fight the Dark One at all. Lan knows both of these things and if it were Rand in this sticky spot he'd be getting a full rundown of all Black Ajah activity that Lan and Moiraine had personally foiled.
“The Dark One can’t touch us unless we name him.” Immediately Perrin thought of the dreams of Ba’alzamon, the dreams that were more than dreams. He scrubbed the sweat off his face. “He can’t.”
Oh hey Perrin, you really are on a roll this chapter. Like, you're not right on this statement in particular, but the thrust of what you're saying - that the Shadow (or for that matter, the Light) can't choose you to serve it, only you can make that choice (bar being transformed so utterly as to effectively be dead) - is an important theme in these books.
“The walls of the Dark One’s prison. This may be the end of an Age. We may see a new Age born before we die. Or perhaps it is the end of Ages, the end of time itself. The end of the world.” Suddenly he grinned, but his grin was as dark as a scowl; his eyes sparkled merrily, laughing at the foot of the gallows.
Frankly Lan is talking so much here that I can only conclude that he's been pulled into Perrin's ta'veren effect. That said, this is perhaps the first clear indicator that Lan is deeply unwell in his own way, so effortlessly casual about the end of the world because he assumes he's going to die in the next few years anyway. His own worldview is deeply nihilistic and he really does think that at any point any of them could be turned to the Shadow. Part of that must be some personal experience with the 13x13 arrangement and/or men like Ingtar, but I think that in general he's so internalized the doomed war his childhood prepared him for that now that the stakes are changed he can't help but assume it's all doomed anyway.
But we're at the end of this chapter, so I can stop trying to figure out the psyche of everyone around Perrin and relax. Next time, we return to Rand and get our first view of the most poorly constructed palace walls of all time!
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eriexplosion · 2 years ago
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1, 2, 8, 9, and 10 for Athelstan (and also Ragnar if you want to do that much? ) I'm fucking in love with your headcanons as always
AHHH THANK YOU FOR THE ASK I have done Ragnar and Athelstan for all the questions because I am An Overachiever when it comes to never shutting the fuck up.
1.Their physical weak spots
Athelstan of course has his hands and feet - even once he finally is able to walk and hold a weapon again, they're never going to be the same as they were, and it will always be a weak point. His stamina is also lower than most of the Vikings, even after training - he just can't make up for a whole lifetime of training for battle. He keeps up well enough, but it's just harder for him than the others.
After his massive wound from Haraldson's raid on his village, Ragnar is always going to be a little weak on that side of his body. The majority of the wound was in his abdomen but the effects spread elsewhere too. Floki's work on him was very good, but it's still a miracle that he lived let alone was able to fight again, so a little bit of aftereffects in muscle strength are probably not unexpected.
2. Their emotional/moral weak spots
Athelstan is stronger emotionally than he really realizes I think, but he will always be easily frozen up by the fear of not being Good enough or not deserving the things that he has. Survivors guilt especially is always going to hang over him, after all of the death that surrounded him getting here. He's actually thrived here in ways that he never could at the monastery, so not only is he not dead he's. Actually doing very well for himself, which to him is MUCH WORSE.
Ragnar isn't upfront in the least, with almost anyone, and that holds him back, especially early on with Athelstan who is just trying to get answers or any sort of leg to stand on at all and Ragnar is just kind of 'lol why do you NEED to know if you're still a slave?' so really it's no wonder that Athelstan takes so long to acclimate. (This is admittedly why I like balancing him out with Floki who is surprisingly upfront about his thoughts given that people seem to take him for a liar, he just doesn't phrase them how others might expect.)
8. Bad memories/experiences
Athelstan's life has been a series of bad experiences, just, he is a SUPREMELY unlucky boy. But to expand on something I mentioned in my last batch of headcanons for him - he grew very close to another monk at the monastery, they were very close friends for several years as they grew up. Athelstan had a crush that he never mentioned, but he did very much worry he was going against god by Coveting The Company of someone, ESPECIALLY another monk (that's tempting another monk to sin! twice the sin!!!) and he never really got to resolve these feelings before his friend died of illness. He wasn't even able to be there when he passed, he found out after the fact. He blamed himself for a long time, and kind of still does on his worst days.
With how difficult of a time Lagertha seems to have getting pregnant and carrying to term, I wouldn't be surprised if her labors for both of their children were EXTREMELY difficult, so I imagine at with at least one of them there was a strong possibility of her dying in childbirth and Ragnar still remembers sitting up for the full length of an insanely long labor praying to the gods that his wife and child both make it through this.
9. Humiliating memories
One of my Athelstan headcanons is that he used to verbally stim quite a bit (think tongue clicking while he reads, humming, things like that) and it didn't go over well with the older monks as he was growing up. Getting him to stop meant long lectures, which escalated into having all discipline in front of the other young monks for some good old Public Shame until he forced himself to stay quiet like they wanted.
Ragnar has a habit of turning losses into wins, so there's actually not many memories he has that are completely humiliating. He tends to look for what he can Use in a loss, how he can turn it to his advantage. Probably one of the memories he finds both personally devastating and humiliating in a way is Rollo's betrayal - not because he didn't see it coming but because he DID see it coming and stayed in active denial until he couldn't anymore. And because of that, Arne died, Floki almost died, and the only reason Rollo wasn't executed was because of Ragnar's string pulling. It was a loss that had no gain AND it came right before his wife fucking divorced him for getting another woman pregnant. Bad series of events for Ragnar Lothbrok!
10. Fears/phobias
As mentioned above, Athelstan fears not being good enough and, once he's fully integrated into Viking culture this actually gets worse. After everything that's been done to support him he is very fucked up by the thought of somehow after everything NOT BEING GOOD ENOUGH TO DESERVE IT.
Ragnar of course has that devastating fear of loss, which controls him more than he likes to think. Failure is something that's supposed to happen to OTHER people thanks and all loss is a failure on his part to prevent it. He has Issues he just thinks that he doesn't.
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abigailspinach · 21 days ago
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I am here today to advocate for a certain amount of chaos. A certain kind of chaos. I have been reading, accidentally, some rather stodgy post-apocalyptic books, and they are making me crave one thing and one thing only: genre fuckery.
In modern times, with our plethora of genres and subgenres, there is a lot of fun, a lot of wire-crossing and bridge-building among bookstore sections. There is so very much of what I think of as “1 + 1 = 4,” which is to say mashups in which two genres (inasmuch as any genre is solidified or certain) make a very pretty Venn diagram with one another and find that the overlap in the middle is, as the man says, bigger on the inside. 
SF and cozy mysteries. SF and horror. Fantasy and procedurals. And, of course, the biggest of them all: fantasy and romance. It would be absurd for me to ask, at this moment in time, that the world cough up more genre mash-ups for me; what is romantasy if not the juggernaut of mash-ups? It may not be my personal cup of tea, but I am genuinely quite delighted for everyone standing in front of the monster-fucking display at their local bookstore in a state of absolute bliss. 
I love a mashup. I love Malka Older’s cozy, tea-drenched, sharp-as-a-tack space mysteries. I love Catherynne Valente putting Douglas Adams and Eurovision in a blender with a whole Michael’s worth of glitter and satin. 
But I can love something and still want more. 
I have a loosely sketched out periodic table of messing about with genre, and it has four categories. (There are more. You could probably come up with five more off the top of your head. These are just mine, in this moment.) There are the mash-ups, as discussed. There is genre indifference, when writers—often those shelved in the literature section, sometimes not—are unconcerned with what genre is or does or believes in. There is genre playfulness, a sort of “what if?” kind of messing around. Can an orc run a coffee shop? Turns out the answer is yes! 
And then there’s fuckery. I am using this word—fully aware someone will turn up their nose at my coarse language—for all that it implies: Intention. Irreverence. Maybe even a hint of aggression. Not hatred, not scorn; that veers off into its own category, and one in which I’m not as interested. (There is a special place on shelves I don’t visit for authors who think they can reinvent a genre without reading any of the books in it.) But a sort of gonzo appreciation that turns into its own series of questions: Why does this genre tend toward this sort of behavior? What does X trope say about the genre as a whole? What if you turn it all on its head? What if you cut off its head? What can we find in the wreckage of all these ships (literal, not fandom) and carriages and planets?
It is hard to say exactly what I mean by genre fuckery because, like so many other things in this world, it’s a matter of knowing it when you see it. It’s a little bit brazen. Sometimes it’s something magical and powerful, and sometimes it’s a hot mess. (Genre creativity is by no means a perfect indicator of a great book.) It requires a big swing; sometimes the results are more admirable than enjoyable. 
I started thinking more about genre fuckery when I read Rakesfall, which resists any genre label you might try to put on it. I kept thinking about it when I read Olga Tokarczuk’s 2018 Nobel Prize lecture, which is about a lot of things, bigger and more grand than I can really get my head around. But she thinks there is more that books and stories can do—more ways to tell them, more ways to fit the whole world into them. She is not a fan of genres at all: “The division into genres is the result of the commercialization of literature as a whole and an effect of treating it as a product for sale with the whole philosophy of branding and targeting and other, similar inventions of contemporary capitalism.”
I think this is true, and I also think that some readers like genres the same way we like tags and other classifications: ease of finding. A genre label can help and harm, a fact well known to anyone who’s ever read about an author insisting that their book about robots is not science fiction. Genre is a tool, and tools can be misused.
But as Tokarczuk goes deeper into this space, in this artfully meandering discussion about narrative and story and books and the modern world, she nears a question: She wonders if there is another kind of narrator possible, one with “a point of view, a perspective from where everything can be seen.”
If you have read The Spear Cuts Through Water, you know where I’m going with this. In that book—an epic fantasy, full of battles and magical tortoises, and yet also the story of a family and a history, and also so much more—Simon Jimenez gives voice to an incredible panoply of characters, of creatures and things. Voices intrude on the main narrative in italics, butting in to say their pieces, short and to the point, heartbreaking and strange. It is a kind of genre fuckery, I think, to insist on the power and possibility of those voices. It is a kind of genre fuckery to say things that a genre does not often say. 
I love the tropes and trappings of SFF; I grew up on the most well-worn of stories, the low-born boys growing to save the world, to come into their power, to marry the princesses. And I love watching writers twist and turn those tropes and trappings, translating them, reshaping them, making them sing in new voices and registers. But I feel like we’re on the verge of a next step, maybe. Another shift in what this whole big, sprawling, multiversal kind of storytelling can be. I see it in Rakesfall; I see it, in ways I can’t explain, in Kerstin Hall’s Asunder; I see it in The Archive Undying and Out of the Drowning Deep and Radiance and Archangels of Funk and In Universes, and I think all the time about how I saw it in Midnight Robber and having been chasing that same reading experience ever since. I see it in every book that finds magic among the stars. (I feel like Clarke’s law should have given us a lot more space magic by now.)
There have always been writers fucking with genre. There have always been writers using genre to say things that its most successful books were not saying. Maybe what’s really happening is the doors to visibility, to bigger readerships, are finally cracking open. I hope we can shove them open wide.
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rubyvhs · 4 months ago
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part eight, maybe let’s not flip the dinner table [jensen ackles]
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eight,
Tuesday morning i make breakfast for me and Rachel then she heads out and I let out an exhale, thankful. i have too much going on to have someone around me right now.
The rest of the day I cover different chapters of the module, walking around my apartment with the flashcards in one hand and stickers in the other (my mum used to do it so it became a habit to add a silver star whenever I ace a flashcard). 
It doesn't take long until I'm done, and by 'long' I mean it only took the whole day. I'm not sure when the last time I ate was, but I finished over 12 hours of work and I've practiced and watched my lectures and am absolutely wasted. 
Rachel texts at the end of the day to make sure I'm okay and actually studying, to which I respond with a picture of my crossed off to do list. Everything I wanted done for the day is completed so I settle on relax with some takeout before my phone pings with a text.
   We on for tomorrow?
   Yeah, why, what's up?
Jensen never struck me as the type of guy to ask if we're 'still on' for plans. 
   Didn't know you had an exam
Fucking Rachel.
   Who told you?
   Does it matter? 
   Yes.
   Jared said you told Gen you were stressed
   for your exam this week. Is it after we meet
   up?
   Yeah but it's nothing, I've already studied,
   I don't mind going out. 
   You sure?
Now it feels like a father lecturing their child. Rachel was right, this age thing isn't easy. 
   Jensen if you don't want to go you can
   cancel.
Okay, maybe that was a little harsh, but it isn't fun being undermined. Although he's right, I probably wouldn't cancel unless my exam was the day after, still, no one wants to seem like a kid. 
   What?
   Are you trying to cancel?
   No, but I don't want to take up your time if you're busy. 
   I'm not, I'm looking forward to going out.
I can't believe I said that, not that taking it back is an option. 
   Me too. I'll see you tomorrow.
I bite the skin around my nails, tapping my foot on the floor to get some kind of release. Obviously that was rude and he was just trying to be the incredibly thoughtful person that he is but i don't like how he's implying that i'd just let him run all over me... whether that's the truth or not is irrelevant.
With that low blow, I decide to plan the rest of my day tomorrow, my outfit for Jensen's date, and the topics that need to be revised, I even planned out my two meals of the day. Maybe it won't go badly, maybe there'll be time tomorrow to finish everything.
+
My alarm decided to take a long vacation this morning so I woke up three hours later than decided. So at ten in the morning, which only gave me so much time to finish revising my module and get ready, the grind began.
I sat at my desk, determined to get everything I'd planned done in time even if I started late. I start with the notes I had to redo, more lectures, practice questions. I do it again and again then I start on the new module for next week's exam. I'm only a few chapters behind when it's lunch time and because I didn't have breakfast, I jump off my desk and heat up the rice and salmon I had prepared yesterday. 
After lunch I get a text from Jensen asking if he should come pick me up and I tell him it's fine, it's only two in the afternoon but he's already thinking of me and it's the sweetest frickin' thing. I’m probably blowing the text out of proportion but still, it’s charming.
I would love from him to drive me back and forth but it would make me feel guilty beyond belief, so i decided to it's better to walk for ten minutes, besides, I wanted to get there a few hours early so I could spend some time studying in the cafes next to the bar. 
"Gen," I whine into my phone, looking through my closet again. I had picked out my most flattering white jeans and a blue flow-y top to go with it but when I woke up, the jeans are soaked. I don't even want to know how (though my upstairs neighbor who’s over sixty and forgets that's she can't just throw her water over the balcony might have an idea).
"Lils, you need to calm down—"
"No! Don't say that. I had everything planned out, down to what I was going to eat today and then nothing went right. I didn't finish my revision, I don't have my outfit, I didn't have breakfast and didn't even get to finish my lunch! I'm frickin' panicking over here!"
I hear the soft laughter on the other side and i frown further, "Jared if that you I'm going to—"
"No, sweetheart, not Jared." That's great. That awesome. That's amazing. Spectacular even. Incredible. Why wouldn't Gen have me on speaker for Jensen Ross Ackles to hear? Why wouldn't she?
"Sorry, babe, I didn't know you'd rant before I even said hello."
"And stopping me halfway wasn't an option? Even mid sentence at any point?"
It's Jensen's voice that speakers up this time, "Then we couldn't find out what's bothering you and fix it. We can push the time back?" I hear some rustling and assume he took the phone from Gen as his voice comes closer to the microphone and becomes clearer. "Make it eight or nine so you could finish the work you wanted to get done. I already told you we can push it back—"
"Don't want to. Eight works."
"Okay, that's good. We'll get drinks at eight, and lunch now."
"What?"
"You said your favorite's sushi, right?"
"Yeah, ages ago, Jensen."
"'It change?"
"No but why?"
"DoorDash. Besides, sushi is easy to eat while you're studying and you don't have to waste time on cooking either." That's cute but also slightly inconsiderate because I am a med student with loans so high you couldn't look over them to see my future, that's the whole reason I walk everywhere, so him making me pay for my lunch when I could've easily made it doesn't sit right with me.
"You there?"
"Yeah. Thanks, Jens. You’re honestly amazing." I hear a chuckle before there's more shuffling that covers up his next words then "—take care of yourself." And the call ends. 
I get back to my desk only to notice that the whole reason I'd called Gen in the first place, my damn outfit crisis, hasn't even been resolved. 
   Don't worry, I got it covered. 
   Your clothes.
Is he really a man? Why would Danneel ever leave him. He's done nothing but be considerate, then sweet, then downright incredible. He's thought of everything when I couldn't because of how stressed I was but he still let me do it my way, by going on the date with him. I didn't want to let that part go, I want us to get the awkward first date out of the way.
Fourth minutes later i hear my doorbell ring so I grab some cash, hoping Jensen hadn't spend more than fifty dollars, and open it. A young man hands me a bag with the logo and writing, sushi bar, and then another white bag with nothing on it. I ask how much and he quickly tells me it's already payed for.
My first thought is, thank God, I'm too broke for this. My second thought is, holy shit Jensen just brought me lunch, to eat on my own. It's the most romantic thing anyone's ever done in the history of the world even if he intended for it to be totally platonic. 
I open the white bag to see my exact favorite pair white jeans, just a size smaller, probably to fit Genevieve, and a pink top that's not too similar to mine but at least it looks comfortable. It's not the outfit I wanted so desperately to wear but it's close enough. So I finish my food while doing my hair and makeup, then I get dressed and notice that this size is way better than mine (meaning I might never return it to Gen). 
I put on my boots, grab my book bag and head out. It's only six when I head out and by the time I arrive, order my coffee, and start studying again, it's seven. 
I get hardly any work done, between thinking of all the ways I'm going to embarrass myself, and how insanely attractive Jensen Ackles is, I've managed to cut my study time to three minutes, maximum. 
My phone rings and my heart immediately jumps, beating way faster that it should be at this point. I let it ring for a few seconds so I can calm myself down and not sound like a two year old before answering, "Hey, Jensen." God why do I sound like his secretary.
"Laila, you ready? I'm on my way."
"Yeah, I'm already here."
"You are? Didn't wanna waste your time, I could've drove you. 'Sides I'm still ten minutes away."
"Take your time, I'll save us a booth." He agrees and tells me to take care again, and then ends the call. I move from the café to the bar down the street where we agreed to meet. I get a table and usher someone over. I'm not exactly sure what Jensen drinks but since I order myself a cherry cola, I get him a beer. She asks if she should start a tab and i hand her my credit card, praying my parents are asleep right now and not getting any notifications. I know I'm an 'independent woman', but I'm also someone with serious money spending issues, if they didn't keep me in check all the time I think I'd actually go broke.
Speaking of, I go to text my mother before I see someone's hand on my shoulder, soft and inviting. I look up and see none other than Jensen, white jeans jacket, similar colored shirt underneath, and loosely fitted jeans. I stand up and smile, greeting him with a kiss on his cheek, though I never actually get close enough and he pulls me a little closer so we're almost touching.
"Hey, Jens."
"You looks great, Lils. I hope that means you liked it?" I feel the blood rush to my cheeks as I sit back in the booth, opposite to him.
"Loved it. Thank you for being so thoughtful, honestly, I mean I could've found anything other—"
"No, I'm glad it worked out the way it did. You eat?" I nod again taking out my phone to show him the multiple pictures I snapped of both myself and my sushi filled plate. 
"Honestly, best shit I've ever tasted. You should try it." He chuckles, nodding. 
"Yeah, used to go there all the time. Best place in California. Nothin' beats the Texas barbecue though."
I roll my eyes and pull my phone back from him, crossing my legs under the table, "You'd think barbecue is the best."
"It isn't?" He teases, almost amused. 
"Hello? Sushi exists! Texas doesn't stand a chance against sushi. And anyways, 'S not fair cause you're from Dallas. If you had to pick any other dish, what would it be?"
Only God knows why I am both speaking and asking questions right now but Jensen seems pleased, quick to fire back Mexican, to which I respond with Nah, too close. 
Our drinks arrive and i thank the waitress and shoo her off quickly before Jensen tries to take out his credit card. "Started the tab with mine," I explain when he looked at me confused, he nods and holds his glass, then examines mine. "You don't like beer? I'm sorry I just didn't know what to get you and I had ordered for myself."
"No, no this is great. I'm just curious, not a big drinker?" He nods at my coke and i shrug, sipping to avoid the topic.
"We used to stock up on cherry colas whenever you came so I'm guessing that's your drink of choice?"
"Always. I don't think I've ever passed a day without it." I take another sip and he looks at me in this... way. His green eyes, crinkles on the side giving him an old time look. And his hair. He really grew it out this past year, I could almost see Jared in him at this point, it's really distracting and... beautiful. Though I'm sure Bob will have him cut it any day now. I notice that I'm staring and quickly push my drink towards him, "try?"
He takes it from my hand, our fingers brushing, and sips from the same straw I was just using three seconds ago. His expression says it's good but I think mine says 'fuck me'. It wouldn’t be far off from what I really want.
"I can see why you like it. Too sweet though."
"So's your beer," i retort way too quickly, defending my comfort drink. But I didn't mean it in a mean way, I'm sure he knows it too cause his expression's all taunting now and I don't like it.
"You tried it?"
"Don't drink." I smile tightly for a second. I walked right into that one.
"How'd you know then?"
"Dan mentioned it, said she likes it cause it's sweet enough for her taste but not too sweet that you don't like it." I didn't even know beer could be sweet. In my defense, I don't know what beer tastes like.
"Yeah, her main focus was on making it sugary, told her we could make a sweet one that isn't our main product but she wouldn't have it." I laugh a little with him but i also notice the light in his eyes dim a bit and his shoulders slumping. I don't think we should talk about Danneel today.
"She knows what the public likes," I shrug but decide to move on quickly, "what do you like most about your beer?" 
The conversation doesn't end the whole night and it's honestly refreshing. Overthinking is my speciality so when we don't stop jumping from one topic to the other, I have less time to focus on that. He's also really sweet. He's asking about everything I wouldn't tell another person about me but in the most non invasive way possible.
Dan mentioned you moved from egypt. That must’ve been hard. Why’d you leave. Where’re your parents?
You never talked when we first met, can't believe how fast you got on with Jared. How are you, Jared and Gen so close? 
"Yeah. I don't know, Jared's always been so...open, I guess. I'm very closed off and to have someone that both accepts that and also tried to help me with it, it definitely made me like him the second we met." He nods, checking his phone for a second. Probably the time. "Is it late? Should we head out?"
"No, no, that's not—" I think he notices that the question wasn't for his sake, but for my shivering body's, and he smiles. "You cold?"
"Nah," I play it off, leaning back in my chair though I'm still hugging myself and have abandoned my second cherry cola for the night. "I'm good. Hot as a bee."
"As a bee?"
"I don't know, okay? I'm shivering!" He chuckles and tells me to stay put, that he'll be right back. Five minutes later he's walking up to our booth, telling me to get up so we could leave.
"But my—" he hands me my visa and I smile, placing it in my wallet. Right as we're at the door of the bar he shrugs off his jacket to places it on my shoulders. My pink sleeves are visible as i hug the jacket around me and i smile up at him, he's walking me to his car and i quickly notice, shaking my head. Not wanting to assume, I quickly say, "bye, Jens. Thanks for today."
"Hm?" He seems confused as he open the passengers door.
"Jensen..." he already opened the door and I don't wanna seem rude but—
"Laila? You comin' in?"
"You don't have to, Jensen."
"I know. I want to. C'mon." I sigh and enter the car, letting him close the door behind me. I decide putting the jacket on right quickly before he makes his way to the drivers seat of his white BMW, which by the way— frickin' gorgeous.
"You know the way?" He asks as he starts the car. I still feel really, really guilty.
"Yeah, sure, it's only down the street. I could've walked." He looks amused and starts driving.
"Wasn't gonna let you walk anyways." I feel the heat rush to my cheeks and I turn on my phone to distract myself. I see notifications from Gen, Rachel and Adri. Then my mum who I didn't talk to today. But... no message from my bank.
"That's weird," I mumble and Jensen makes a  sound that I took as him questioning me, “I don't see the charge from the bar. It should've sent a message."
"Didn't charge your card." I quickly leave my phone to look at him. "Gave 'em mine."
"Oh my God!" I roll my eyes but he only looks amused.
"What? Did you think I'd let you pay?"
"You should've." I sigh. "Jensen you're like paying for everything. You got me new clothes—"
"They're Gen's. I thought you'd know that." 
"Obviously I know that, but I mean you had them delivered to my house, that costs money. And the bar. Only thing I paid for today was the coffee."
"What coffee?"
"I was studying at a cafĂ© on the opposite street. I came a few hours early. Anyways, Jensen, please don't. You don't need to pay for every single thing. I know I'm not an actor— stop here, that's the house," he does park right in front of my apartment, "I know I'm not an actor, but I'm fully capable of—"
"Hey, what?" He puts the car into park and faces me. I start to take my seatbelt off.
"I know I'm not as good as the rest of you, like of course I'm not, I'm a student, but—"
"Laila, that isn't why I'm paying. I'd do it whether you were an actor or not— or if you had or don't have the money. It's cause we're going out."
Right. Like on a date? Instead of asking, though there's nothing more enticing, i let the silence take over. Then, "Yeah, I know. You're just nice like that."
"Is that a bad thing? I don't know if you'd rather pay next time—" next time? "But I don't think I'd let you."
"Yeah, it's fine. Still, thanks for tonight, you're honestly the most incredible guy I've ever met and I don't know why I really ignored you ever in the first place."
"We're all wonderin', sweetheart." We both laugh, the beer still clearly running through his system though he's only had two. I go to say my goodbye but notice how close we are. Way way way too close. Too too close. Maybe we should back up? 
"Laila," his voice's rough and slow and oh so seductive.
The car smells faintly of cigarette smoke and maybe that's what's Jens's scent smells slightly off too. Has he started smoking again? I'm not sure I can think logically like that right now because his hand is on my neck (how did it get there) and my breathing's erratic and his lips are moving closer to mine.
Not being able to take the tension and slow motion dance anymore, i lean in much closer to close the distance. "Jensen." I moan against his lips but I don't think it registers to him just how rough he's being because he's crashing our lips like it's our last time together, his tongue is exploring mine within seconds and I feel silly wanting to tell him that this is my first time now. 
Maybe he notices though, because only thirty seconds later our lips are disconnected and we're breathing heavily against the other though it wasn't that long, "Fuck, Laila, you're so good."
At kissing? That's a lie. "Really? 'Cause that was my first time, so..."
I see him straighten up, his hand slowly falling from the hold it has on my neck, "First what?" His hand is on my thigh now since I'm facing him by propping half my leg on the chair.
"Kiss."
"You're serious?" Nodding once, I notice how disheveled he looks. God, you'd think I told him he just took my virginity. Well, yeah, he would also be doing that.
"I'm sorry..." I whisper, hoping he'd hear me just enough, I stare at his hand on my thigh and feel stupid. God, this always happens. Anytime someone knows about me being a kissing-virgin they think I'm a prude or religious or something! 
I just haven't... I haven't had the chance. 
"Laila, no. Don't apologize." I almost do it again. "I'm not mad or anything just, should've told me. I mean, you kissed me."
"Yeah," I scoff. This is why I was so fucking scared. I know I kissed him first but he's saying it like he's accusing me. Like I'm a slut.
I've never even kissed anyone and the first time I do he's already looking at me like I kissed twenty men before him. My head's involuntarily shaking, saying no no no, and I try to open the car door. 
"Laila. What's wrong?"
"What's wrong?" I let out a huff of exasperation, "What’s wrong is that I'm sorry I did that, I can't believe I did that." I slam the door closed and walk into my apartment complex.
His car door opens then shuts back up with a loud smack as he walks over to me in a quicker pace. "Laila!" He sounds too serious for me to ignore him. Rachel was right again. I didn't stop because I care and I want to listen, I stopped because I was scared of him.
"I don't know what you think I meant by that— but all I mean is that I was surprised. Are you okay? Are you regretting it, is that it?"
"No, but you said it like I was stupid for letting you kiss me— or me kissing you or whatever. You make it sound like I gave you my virginity or something."
His eyes widen. "Lils, I didn't insult you if that's what you're getting at. And is giving your virginity up to me that bad?" He smirks a little and it eases my heartbeat.
"Not what I meant, you know that." I mutter but it's weak and he knows it. He nods and walks closer to me, one hand on each of my shoulders. "Sorry."
"Stop apologizing, please. I liked going out with you today, no matter how it ended. Do you want us to do it again?"
I nod. 
"Good, then we will. Stop thinking about everything. We had fun, you liked it. Stop torturing yourself, darlin'." 
"Yeah. Did you? Enjoy it, I mean."
He leans down to kiss my cheek, "'Course I did. Can't wait to do it again on Sunday." I smile so wide I can't even stop it if I tried.
"Me too." 
“Good.” He doesn’t let go and i look up at him through my eyelashes once before placing my hands on his face to force him to lean down and I kiss him again. I’m not sure what I’m doing— it’s only my first time, but I think I’m doing an okay job of moving against him. 
I’m sure he thinks the same way as his hands drop to my hips, pulling me closer. It’s only a few seconds but it felt like hours. When I let go of my grip on him and the kiss he smiles. 
“Sunday?” I nod, mirroring his expression. 
Our goodbye is so easy and quick it makes me forget that I still have his jacket on. 
And I only notice when I'm in my apartment, taking my (Gen's) clothes off, one or two hours later.
What I was doing in the time in between is irrelevant (since it consisted of texting Gen about every single detail except for the fact that I acted like a complete idiot at the end and getting her reaction then doing the same thing with Rachel and Adri).
It's almost two when I text him;
You get home okay?
You forgot your jacket.
Yeah, Lils, just fine.
And it's insurance that you'll come next time.
Pretty sure that'd mean you need to have something of mine. Not the other way around.
Nah, you're too nice to let my things stay at your place.
I laugh a little and send him a picture that I'm still wearing it over my pajamas (which are a green skin tight top and sweatpants).
Jeans and sweatpants?
Your jeans jacket is weirdly comfortable. I don't think it's jeans.
It isn't, much more comfortable, still looks good though.
Looks great on you.
Yeah?
Are we flirting right now? This hurts my head.
Well duh, I'm wearing it.
Not what I meant, sweetheart.
Maybe we are. I can't do this over text.
Okay and you're kind of hot in it too.
Kind of?
Didn't know you were so full of yourself, Jens.
Didn't know you liked my clothes so much that you're wearing them to bed.
I notice that I in-fact did send the picture with me in my bed. Whatever, no big deal.
Goodnight, Lils.
Night, Jensen.
part nine
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guys okay guess which word comes to mind when I think of Jensen
 omg, incredible you say? How’d you guess! Hahah I’m sure it was a lucky guess.
also incase you ever wondered I do have a face claim for Laila should I post it one time or does that ruin the way you see her? Let me know, maybe I can show her next chapter. Also, schools over, so hopefully many more series and more chapter of this one, to come!
@kr804573 @n-o-p-e-never
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