#i tried to make this as fact based as possible

[fclsebnnyodair]

. ۫ ꣑ৎ . loser stiles and his out-of-his-league pretty girlfriend.

pairing: stiles stilinski x fem!reader.

summary: when stiles finally asks you to be his girlfriend and you say yes, he can’t believe it —and he’s not the only one. you two come in very different fonts. but, you’re so quick to prove him and his self-deprecation that you like him, fully and shamelessly.

warnings: used of y/n… im sorry. a little fluff? reader being a menace and the end of stiles life (in a good way).

a/n: i tried my best to be funny and make it a little longer. a mother needs to feed her kids. based on this req <3

stiles stilinski had spent a solid seven-teen years being a complete and utter dork. a nerd. a disaster in human form. the kind of guy who could tell you, unprompted, that the fear of long words is called hippopotomonstrosesquipedaliophobia but somehow still couldn’t spell “necessary” on the first try.

he was the guy who tripped over air, made obscure pop culture references no one asked for, and had a deeply unhealthy relationship with sarcasm.

so, naturally, when you—actual goddess, the prettiest face in beacon hills, social butterfly extraordinaire—agreed to date him, stiles was convinced he was being pranked.

“she said yes,” he had told scott the night it happened, voice shaking, hands gripping his best friend’s shoulders like he was trying to transfer the shock through sheer physical contact. “she said yes. to me. like, willingly. no coercion. no hostage situation. just… yes.”

scott, ever the supportive best friend, blinked at him. “huh.”

“what do you mean huh?”

“I just—” he rubbed the back of his neck, looking way too amused. “I mean, don’t take this the wrong way, but… dude, that’s y/n.”

exactly.

you weren’t just popular. you are the cool kind of popular. the kind that made people want to be around you instead of just tolerating your presence because of high school hierarchy rules.

you had this effortless confidence, this ability to make everyone feel like they belonged—even stiles, who had spent most of his life on the outskirts of social normalcy.

you are the type of person who could go from hanging out with the lacrosse team and his girlfriends to sitting with the theater kids in the same day, and everyone would be happy to have you there. people gravitated towards you.

meanwhile, stiles had spent most of freshman year trying to convince people that his name was, in fact, not short for “stilton” like the cheese.

It didn’t make sense. and yet, somehow, here they were.

dating you was like winning the lottery, except instead of money, stiles got the incomprehensible love and affection of a literal angel.

which was great.

except for the fact that he had no idea how to be cool enough to keep up with you.

“you’re overthinking it,” you told him one day as you sat in your car, legs propped up on the dashboard.

“I always overthink it,” stiles replied. “It’s literally my defining trait.”

you laughed, and god, that laugh. It was the kind of sound that made people pause, made them turn their heads just to see what could possibly be so funny.

“okay, fine,” you said. “then tell me. what’s running through that giant brain of yours right now?”

stiles exhaled dramatically. “alright, let’s start with the obvious. I am a disaster. you are not a disaster. explain.”

you tilted your head, amused. “you really don’t see it, do you?”

“see what?”

you smirked, leaning in a little closer. “you’re kind of amazing, stiles.”

he blinked. “I’m sorry, what?”

“you make me laugh,” you continued, like you hadn’t just dropped a bomb on his entire worldview. “like, really laugh. you make things interesting. and you care so much about the people around you. I like that.”

stiles stared at you, brain officially malfunctioning. “uh. are you… are you sure you’re not under some kind of supernatural influence?”

you rolled your eyes, shoving his shoulder playfully. “just shut up?”

and just like that, he realized something insane. you actually liked him.

not just in a “haha, he’s fun to have around” way. not in a “pity date” way. not even in a “this is a temporary thing before I move on to someone more worthy” way.

you liked him. dorkiness, sarcasm, ADHD-riddled brain and all.

maybe he wasn’t as out of your league as he thought.

still, he spent the next few weeks in a state of perpetual disbelief.

he kept waiting for the moment where you would realize you had made a grave mistake and move on to someone who, well… had the ability to walk in a straight line without tripping over absolutely nothing.

but you didn’t.

In fact, you made it very clear that you were, for some ungodly reason, into him.

like, full-on, public displays of affection into him.

which was insane.

because now, not only did stiles have to deal with his own confusion, but also the confusion of literally everyone else at beacon hills high.

It started with a completely normal lunch. stiles, scott, lydia, and you were all sitting together, as usual, while he rattled off some extremely important information about why the original ‘star wars’ trilogy was superior to the prequels.

“you just have to accept that Jar Jar Binks was a crime against cinema,” stiles was saying, mid-rant, when he felt a hand casually slip into his.

he froze.

the table went silent.

you, completely unbothered, just kept eating your fries, fingers lazily intertwined with his.

scott immediately stopped chewing. lydia raised an eyebrow. somewhere behind them, he was pretty sure he heard jackson choke on his drink.

stiles, being the mature and composed individual that he was, blurted out, “are you—did you—was that on purpose?”

you gave him a deadpan look. “no, stiles, my hand just accidentally fell into yours.”

scott made a choked sound that was very unhelpful.

“I just—” stiles floundered. “you’re—you want to hold my hand? In front of people?”

you smirked. “what, do you want me to sign a permission slip first?”

lydia rolled her eyes. “stiles, stop acting like you just won the lottery.”

“but I did,” he said, eyes still wide. “this is like if someone found bigfoot, but instead of running away, bigfoot started dating them.”

you snorted and leaned closer, whispering, “you’re an idiot.”

and then—just to completely obliterate stiles’s ability to function—you kissed his cheek.

the cafeteria erupted.

all right, maybe “erupted” was an exaggeration. but scott definitely lost all ability to contain himself, because he burst into uncontrollable laughter, clapping stiles on the back so hard he nearly faceplanted into his lunch tray.

jackson muttered something about how the world was officially broken.

and lydia? lydia just sipped her drink and said, “honestly, this might be the funniest thing I’ve ever witnessed.”

stiles, meanwhile, was still sitting there, trying to process the fact that you had just kissed him in front of the entire student body.

“okay,” he breathed. “alright. cool. totally fine.”

you squeezed his hand. “you’re so lucky I can keep up with you.”

“I strongly agree.”

scott shook his head, grinning. “dude. just take the win.”

yeah.

maybe he should.

now stiles had zero business being on the lacrosse team. he was only there because coach finstock occasionally needed a warm body to throw onto the field, and also because scott insisted that he “needed to be included in the team dynamic.”

that was stupid, because stiles was about as useful on the field as a drunk giraffe.

still, here he was, suited up, trying his best to not die.

you were sitting in the stands, chatting with some of the other girls on the cheer squad, but every so often, he caught you watching him.

why on earth would you be looking at him when there were actual athletes running around?

at some point, coach finstock (in a moment of pure insanity) decided to sub stiles in.

naturally, it went horribly.

he got knocked over in under a minute.

hard.

like, wind knocked out of him, stars in his vision hard.

by the time he sat up, still gasping for breath, he vaguely registered that someone was calling his name.

then, suddenly, you were there, pushing past some of the other students on the sidelines, crouching next to him.

“oh my god, are you okay?” you asked, eyes scanning him for any visible injuries.

“you,” stiles wheezed. “just—taking a quick—dirt nap.”

you sighed, shaking your head. “you really shouldn’t be allowed to play this sport.”

“tell that to coach crazy over there,” he muttered.

you rolled your eyes, then—without warning—cupped his face and kissed him.

right there.

on the field.

In front of everyone.

stiles was pretty sure his soul left his body.

by the time you pulled away, he was definitely malfunctioning.

“god,” he managed.

you smirked, brushing some dirt off his jersey. “maybe if I keep doing that, you’ll actually start scoring points.”

scott, who had jogged over at some point, burst out laughing, —again.

“please don’t encourage him,” he told you.

you just shrugged, standing up. “what can I say? I like an underdog.”

stiles, still staring into the middle distance, finally processed what had just happened.

then, very calmly, he said:

“I have no idea what’s going on, but I’m definitely not complaining.”

stiles finally gets it. he gets you. 

It took three months of dating before stiles finally stopped expecting you to give up on him.

because the truth was, you could.

but for some ridiculous, unexplainable reason—

you didn’t want to.

and maybe, just maybe, that was the best part of all.

stiles stilinski had exactly one defense mechanism when faced with overwhelming emotional stimuli:

panic.

pure, unfiltered, high-octane panic.

and you?

you loved it.

you lived for it.

In fact, stiles was about 80% sure that her actual favorite hobby—above reading, music, and being generally awesome—was finding new and creative ways to make him short-circuit.

your weapon of choice?

kissing him.

at random.

without warning.

In the most inconvenient and socially inappropriate moments possible.

stiles was already having a rough day.

coach had made him run extra laps for “being a distraction” (which was not fair, because technically speaking, it was danny who had laughed first).

so there he was, post-practice, dripping in sweat, hair a mess, brain still recovering from almost getting hit in the face with a lacrosse ball, when you materialized out of nowhere.

“hey, loser,” you greeted, leaning against the locker next to his.

stiles jumped about a foot in the air. “jesus—you can’t just sneak up on a guy like that!”

you, completely ignoring him, hummed thoughtfully. “you look cute when you’re sweaty.”

stiles immediately turned red. “I—what—who?”

and before his brain could fully reboot, you leaned in and kissed him.

right there.

In the locker room.

With scott and half the team still standing right there.

stiles froze.

his brain immediately short-circuited.

somewhere in the background, he could hear the distinct sounds of his teammates reacting.

jackson made a disgusted noise.

“seriously? right here?”

danny, ever the neutral observer, just snorted. “I mean, props to her, I do love watching stilinski suffer.”

scott, instead of helping, just shook his head fondly. “dude. just accept it.”

you, for your part, just smirked against stiles’s lips, completely unbothered, and pulled away with a satisfied little hum.

stiles, meanwhile, was still frozen in place.

mouth slightly open.

face burning red.

brain? completely fried.

“did I break you?” you teased, poking his cheek.

stiles let out a strangled sound.

jackson groaned. “oh god, get a room.”

you turned to him, smirking. “jealous?”

jackson scoffed. “not even remotely.”

you shrugged, looping your arm through stiles’s. “good. because I’m not sharing.”

and then you walked off, dragging stiles with you—leaving the entire locker room howling in laughter.

stiles had one sacred rule in life:

the library is a safe space.

the library was for quiet and learning and pretending to do your homework while actually texting scott about supernatural nonsense.

the library was not for being publicly humiliated by your ridiculously hot girlfriend.

unfortunately, you did not respect the sanctity of anything.

stiles was sitting at his usual spot—textbook open, pen in hand, pretending to study—when you slid into the chair next to him.

“hey,” you greeted, voice suspiciously sweet.

stiles narrowed his eyes. “you’re up to something.”

you smiled, all innocent. “me? never.”

he squinted harder. “what do you want?”

you tilted your head. “can’t I just want to spend time with my adorable boyfriend?”

stiles immediately turned red. “I—you—stop that.”

“stop what?”

“being cute,” he hissed, glancing around to make sure no one was listening.

you grinned. “make me.”

before stiles could formulate a response, you very casually leaned forward and kissed him.

and not just a quick kiss.

oh, no.

this was a calculated attack.

a slow, lingering kiss, tongue and all—just long enough to completely fry his brain, but not long enough for him to actually do anything about it.

by the time you pulled away, stiles was bright red, gripping the edge of the table like his life depended on it.

“why?” he gasped out.

you shrugged. “felt like it.”

stiles gaped. “we are in library.”

you smiled sweetly. “uh-huh.”

“In a library.”

“yup.”

“where people can see us.”

she leaned in, lips brushing his ear. “I know.”

stiles let out an undignified squeak.

and that was the exact moment lydia martin—who had apparently been sitting three tables away—very loudly shut her book and said, “I’m going home. this is disgusting.”

you just laughed.

stiles, meanwhile, buried his face in his hands.

—

now, there were rules when it came to dating in front of parents.

rule #1: no PDA.

rule #2: seriously, no PDA.

rule #3: do not test sheriff stilinski’s patience.

you had no regard for any of these rules.

stiles had just walked you to the door, ready to say a very normal, appropriate, and respectful goodbye, when you suddenly grabbed his hoodie, pulled him way too close, and kissed him stupid.

right there.

In his driveway.

where his father could definitely see.

and as if that wasn’t bad enough—

the front door creaked open.

sheriff stilinski cleared his throat.

you pulled away completely unbothered, turned to the sheriff, and grinned.

“good afternoon, mr. stilinski.”

stiles, meanwhile, had stopped breathing.

the sheriff raised an eyebrow. “you trying to kill my son?”

you smirked. “not today.”

and then she smiled—like a menace—patted stiles on the chest, and walked off, leaving him to deal with the aftermath.

the sheriff stared at him.

stiles stared back.

after a long, painful silence, his dad just shook his head and muttered, “unbelievable.”

then, he walked inside—chuckling to himself.

stiles, still standing frozen on the porch, groaned.

you were going to be the death of him.

and, honestly?

he wouldn’t have it any other way.

[callipraxia]

Note: haven’t tasted any of these yet (though I did say “the heck with good sense” and order some samples; check back in about a week for proper reviews) and am just musing about what some of the components are and how they link to GF characters, at least in my mind. That established, here are Some Preliminary Notes, Just Based On General Knowledge Of Tea:

Mabel: I have no idea what a mix of spearmint, strawberry, and watermelon would taste like (I really like spearmint, but dislike strawberry and am indifferent to watermelon), but somehow, yep, I still feel comfortable saying this one just sounds right.

The Author: If that Assam is a good Assam, then I want this. I will note that I have drunk roasted mate before, but don’t know what it tastes like exactly; Stash used to have this salted caramel mate/black tea mix that was my daily favorite for my lidded work mug, back when we worked in an office. It’s also caffeinated, though I’m not sure that matters as much when it is blended with a black tea and particularly with Assam. Strong stuff, usually, Assam; I drink it a lot in the springtime because it’s one of the few substances that really helps with my awful spring allergies.

Dipper: I…don’t know that I’ve had passionfruit tea before, actually. The ‘passion’ bit certainly fits Dipper’s personality, anyway. Lemongrass is very nice. Sour apple is less my style, I like apples that are very firm and very sweet, but this also suits Dipper’s personality just on name alone, bless him.

Stan: On one hand, Lapsang Souchong is the famous “smoked” tea, and people who dislike it have been known to describe it as like walking into a casino with a mouth full of water. Personally, as someone who likes LS, I don’t think it’s much like that at all - but then, I grew up eating a lot of smoked meat (my father liked mixing in hickory with the charcoal for the fire in his grill), I still like a bite of smoked cheese, and my infernal sinus sensitivity has it where I can immediately differentiate wood smoke versus cigarette smoke (and occasionally, between brands of cigarette - I curse the day my grandmother switched from Salem Lights to Marlboros) vs cigar smoke. I set foot in the lobby of a casino precisely once in my life, then had to flee because of the overwhelming stink of cigarette smoke was making me sick even from a room’s width away….

Oh, wait, we weren’t here for my personal anecdotes and oddly specific knowledge bases, were we? I get sentimental sometimes, which ironically fits Stan as well as an association with a casino does, if that’s how you experience Lapsang. There are a lot of different experiences you can have with Lapsang, from smooth to very ‘prickly’ feeling, sour or sweet, the base can taste woody (which isn’t a bad thing in tea) or overpoweringly naturally fruity, in a dark forest fruits kind of way…complicated stuff, so also appropriate for Stan in that way. Caramel is a lovely sweet flavor, close enough to toffee that Lapsang and caramel could bring to mind both bacon and toffee, two of Stan’s favorite food items. It occurs to me that peanut isn’t really a note I’ve seen in tea…possibly adding a bit of some other nut might give a little nod in that direction, along with moving the caramel more toward toffee? I’d love to tinker with blending myself to see what I could end up with. Which I may actually be able to do - this looks like Adagio Teas, who at least used to have the ‘make your own blend’ option. I never tried it myself - or, in fact, any Adagio teas - but wow, this brings back memories, I can’t even recall when I last thought of Adagio, and had in fact had the vague impression that they weren’t open anymore, though good for them if they are.

I don’t know what a mambo is outside of a song about “mambo Italiano” that everybody sang like three lines of all the time when I was in elementary school (despite none of us speaking a word of Italian, unless you count ‘macaroni,’ and probably none of us even being able to find Italy on a map), but I suspect it’s here to prevent us from ending up with too darkly elegant of a cup - the base blend might hit multiple things Stan likes, but comes off a little more dark academia than any flavor of chaotic or animated. “Mambo” also may be Spanish, which would be a nice nod to Stan’s adventures in central and South America. Other ways one might accomplish that could be a touch of mate, or, if one really must, some coffee-flavor.

Ford: If I were to assign Ford a Lapsang souchong, it would be one of those raw-dark-fruits one I mentioned in Stan’s bit, ones where the smoke plays only a minor role. I think Ford would really like to be something like, say, Smoky Earl Grey from Fortnum’s, but I spent the past two years of my life writing a monograph on the subject of how this is a veneer, not his actual personality - there aren’t really any Fortnum’s people in Gravity Falls except perhaps Pacifica, and I think of her as more of one of those very…frilly-feeling French teas. But we’re discussing Ford…really, really good pu’erh can give you a sort of brain-sparkly feeling I can see working for Ford. Inadequate memory of what hazelberry tastes like to comment on that. Assam -

Assam, really, is plenty complicated on its own. Indian teas are especially characterized by whether they are first flush (the first round of leaves harvested) or second flush (the ones that grow in later). A nice Assam can have a lovely honey note, though the word most people use for Assams is “malty.” I don’t know what malt tastes like, though, so I don’t know about that. I can say that I can usually tell if I’m going to love or hate a given Assam at practically first sip, which, along with how Lapsang is very much a matter of taste, does reflect on how divisive the character is said to be in corners of the Internet that aren’t mine.

Stan W/O Lapsang: can’t see the description in the image, can’t comment on that one.

Bill Cipher: I can’t really imagine these tastes together, but I automatically want to revolt at lavender being included - I like lavender, you see. If I was going to make a Bill tea myself, I’d get a really lousy pu’erh - I vividly remember one I had one time that tasted like fish fried in over-used grease and which made me sick to my stomach if I drank too much of it even if I somehow drowned out the fish with enough of Harney’s Vanilla Black - and then throw all the tropical fruits in it, and then throw a red berry mix into it (I don’t like red berry blends, unless you count teas with cranberry flavor in, which your standard Four Red Fruits type of tea doesn’t usually have). This would probably taste bizarre, foul, and utterly confused, but it would be in character. Though really, if I was going to sum up Bill as a liquid, I’d probably go with a cocktail of antifreeze and bleach.

The Mystery Shack: I can’t remember off the top of my head if Pu’erh Dante is flavored or not, or if there’s anything extra to account for the ‘moonlight’ aspect of Earl Grey Moonlight, so I really can’t say much here, except that pu’erh and key lime could capture something of the sense of the place - bright and summery colliding with all this tangled mess of messy adult lives just beneath the surface. Can’t really imagine what that would actually taste like, though.

Mabel (Alt W/O Strawberry): “berry blast” is too vague for me to say anything without knowing what the berries in question are. I probably wouldn’t like it (see comments on Four Red Fruits blends), but it does match the idea of Mabel.

Ford W/O Lapsang: Fun fact: the tea typically called gunpowder green isn’t actually smoky at all. It’s named that because of the unique shape of its preparation, which make the leaves into little pellets that apparently resemble stuff you put into really old-fashioned guns. The best gunpowder I ever had tasted strongly of honey; the worst was a bitter mess that I couldn’t dump enough honey into to salvage it. Which is also kinda Ford-appropriate, in a way….

This tea’s primary interest lies in how it’s a blend of three out of the four/five most common tea ‘categories’ - no oolong or white tea, but green tea, black tea, and pu’erh? That’s an interesting combination. I’ve seen green and black blends before (Murchie’s of Canada particularly has a thing about mixing a little green tea into their black teas; results vary for me), though since you don’t make black and green tea at the same temperature, I must admit the idea has always kind of confused me. Never seen one with pu’erh in it before, though, so points for originality if nothing else.

@sovonight has Gravity Falls inspired tea!

Complete with their beautiful artwork on the packaging.

Get the tea here!

[pedripics]

hi! may i ask you something about this Super League? im confused because im new here. and what about that 1 billion euros for? thank you

Hi, of course 🫶🏻

The Super League is a rather complex topic, so I'm gonna give you a short summary and a longer version with the history and stuff under the cut.

In short, the Super League is a proposed football competition for football clubs in Europe that is aimed to rival the UEFA competitions, such as the Champions League, Europa League, and Conference League.

Format (this is the new version they just released):

It would include 64 men’s (spread across three leagues) and 32 women’s teams (spread across two leagues) playing midweek games in a league system across Europe. All clubs would play in groups of 8 – home and away – resulting in a guaranteed minimum of 14 matches per year. At the end of the season, a knockout stage of 8 clubs will be played in each league to determine the league champions. There would also be annual promotion and relegation between the three/ two leagues. The idea is that it would not interfere with domestic leagues.

History:

Proposals of Super Leagues in European football have been around for decades with the earliest ideas dating back to 1968. There were attempts to create a 'Super League' in 1987 and 1990 but they were abandoned after UEFA and FIFA threatened to sanction all involved clubs. In 2009, Florentino Pérez (president of Real Madrid) began planning a 'Super League' because the Champions League, in his words, was too "obsolete and problematic for the quality of the sport and an obstacle preventing clubs from growing their businesses and developing infrastructure." That idea resurfaced in 2020 when big clubs started suffering financially from the Covid-19 pandemic and ongoing debts. That got American investors interested who pledged US $5 billion towards its formation. In January 2021, FIFA and all six football's continental confederations (AFC, CAF, CONCACAF, CONMEBOL, OFC, and UEFA) issued a statement that rejected the formation of any breakaway European Super League and that they would ban any club or player involved from any competitions organised by FIFA and its six confederations.

Current 'European Super League':

In April 2021, Pérez announced the formation of the 'European Super League' (ESL) via a press release signed by twelve clubs that signed up to be involved (Arsenal, Chelsea, Liverpool, Manchester City, Manchester United, Tottenham Hotspurs, Inter Milan, Juventus, AC Milan, Atlético Madrid, FC Barcelona, and Real Madrid). The aim was a new competition that "provides higher-quality matches and additional financial resources for the overall football pyramid, provides significantly greater economic growth and support for European football via a long-term commitment to uncapped solidarity payments, which will grow in line with league revenues, would appeal to a new younger generation of football fans, and also would improve VAR and refereeing." Real Madrid, FC Barcelona, and Juventus were the three leading clubs. There is much more to the financial aspect of it (like solidarity payments, welcome bonuses, participation payments, commercial revenue, etc.), but that's rather complicated and depends on what newspaper you wanna believe.

Reception:

The announcement led to a joint statement from the governing bodies of the Premier League, La Liga and Serie A condemning the formation, with all governing bodies declaring to prevent the ESL from proceeding any further. Football governing bodies from Germany, France and Russia released similar statements. UEFA reiterated their statements made in January 2021, warning that any clubs involved in the Super League would be banned from all other domestic, European and world football competitions and that players from the clubs involved would also be banned from representing their national teams in international matches. (The Premier League and their governing body FA ruled out barring the six clubs from domestic competitions and preferred to not take legal action.) Numerous politicians expressed their opposition to the proposal of the ESL. Amongst commentators, footballers and managers, the ESL sparked contrasting opinions. Media companies were mostly opposed to the idea (which does not come as a surprise as ESL promises free viewing of all live matches). Many football fans, including the fans of the involved clubs, were not in support of the idea of the ESL. The backlash led to nine clubs (all clubs, except FC Barcelona, Real Madrid, and Juventus) announcing their intention to withdraw from the project in April 2023. However, eight of these nine clubs remained involved as stakeholders. In June 2023, Juventus announced their decision to leave the Super League project after facing a rumoured 5-year ban from all European competitions if they went through with the project. (That only leaves FC Barcelona and Real Madrid)

Legal issues:

In May 2021, the Super League filed a complaint to the Court of Justice of the European Union against UEFA and FIFA for their proposals to stop the competition. UEFA had opened disciplinary proceedings against FC Barcelona, Juventus, and Real Madrid, which were threatened to be excluded from all UEFA competitions, in order to sanction them but these measures were stayed until further notice as a result of the rulings from the Spanish commercial court and Swiss authorities. In June 2021, the Swiss Department of Justice and Police and the Spanish Commercial Court referred the issue to the Court of Justice of the European Union to question whether UEFA and FIFA have violated two articles of the Treaty of the Functioning of the European Union. Article 101 prohibits cartels and other agreements that could disrupt free competition in the EEA and Article 102 aims to prevent businesses in an industry from abusing their position or taking action to prevent new businesses from gaining a foothold in the industry. On 21 December 2023, the European Court of Justice (ECJ) ruled that FIFA and UEFA's rules, which banned clubs from joining rival competitions, such as the Super League, are contrary to EU law. UEFA's and FIFA's rules making new football projects subject to their prior approval are also unlawful.

What does the ECJ's ruling mean:

The ECJ's ruling is binding and not subject to appeal. The ECJ's decision on UEFA's rules does however not rule on whether the Super League should (or is allowed) to exist. UEFA needs to change and clarify its rules now to comply with EU law. Once the regulations are updated, the Super League will still need to acquire authorisation to set the competition up. The ruling basically gives companies like A22 the right to pitch a new football competition and for their application to be judged on criteria which are "transparent, objective, non-discriminatory and proportionate".

Revival of the project:

In December 2023, A22 announced a new, updated proposal (which I already explained under format). However, many clubs have issued statements opposing the idea (including clubs, who were once involved in the ESL). As of right now, Real Madrid, FC Barcelona and SSC Napoli have issued statements in support of the ESL. There are reports about various clubs from Italy, the Netherlands, Portugal and other European leagues who are keen on joining (but no official statements from the clubs).

Why could Barça and Real Madrid receive €1 billion?

I believe this has not been confirmed by A22, but it has been reported by various newspapers. They would receive €1 billion as a reward for their loyalty, as they are the only two clubs who remained firm on their decision to take part in the Super League. That would obviously only happen if they find enough teams to set up the ESL.

[cent-scratchnsniff]

More sketchy employee profile images. Mostly made to be able to replace the picrew I had in the template I made since I can draw. I did end up just putting it as back and white though but the color is just nice to have. I'm STILL trying to tweak the template since it is very finicky and there is an example of what it looks down below if you're interested. It is a lot. It will happen. I am just not the quickest

There are typos and inconsistencies I missed but in general it should be fine...

[dimiclaudeblaigan]

If there is at least one thing I can credit FE for doing better than Tales in localization, it's not trying to actively go out of their way for an entire game to avoid subtext or direct text between two men that is romantic or implied romantic. Funny when it's so present that the attempt doesn't even work; infuriating that it was attempted to begin with.

So as much as I often have issues with some of FE's localizations, at least they have a leg up on loc Tales for that.

[webism]

Virgin!Nanami is hesitant the first time you go down on him, because as he's nearing his (blinding, world shattering) orgasm, you aren't pulling off of him.

He's played the scene a million times in his head before, late at night as he palmed his cock through his boxers and tried to will his mind away from such lewd thoughts of you. In every fantasy he had of you on your knees like you are now, you serve him with your mouth until he's close, and then pull off to stroke him through his orgasm.

But your lips are still wrapped around him. His ragged breath, the gentle buck of his hips up into your mouth... is it not indication enough that he's about to unravel? Kento has to lick his lips to try and save his dry mouth before he speaks, though it comes out as more of a broken moan. "Sweetheart, I'm... so close."

And you hum around his cock, send a vibration up his spine that has his eyes rolling back. You hollow out your cheeks and increase your pace, desperate for a taste.

It's too much, he's never felt so boneless. His vision is already going, he's right on the edge of the strongest orgasm he's had in his life when he gently tugs back on your hair. "Stop, stop."

Of course, you're off of him instantly, wiping your spit-sheened lips dry and watching Kento wide eyes. "Are you okay? Too much?"

Kento is breathless, his cresting orgasm quickly fading out of reach. "You didn't pull away. I was going to..."

"I know," you nod, a gentle hand on his knee something soothing. "What, you don't want to cum?"

He blinks. "No, I... not in your mouth. I respect you, and I don't want you to sacrifice your comfort for me."

And you can't help but grin at the serious look strewn across his face. You lean down and press a kiss to his knee, and then higher up on his thigh, and another just above the patch of hair that bases his leaky cock.

"Kento Nanami," you look up at him, and press a feather-light kiss to his tip. "If you don't cum in my mouth, I will cry. I wanna taste more of you."

Your words alone are enough to relight that fire licking at his insides. He watches you for a moment, tries to discern whether or not you're speaking only to please him, but ultimately nods.

When you take him back into your mouth, all the way down to the base, Kento swears he must've been a saint in his previous life to deserve such pleasure in this one. You trace the vein that runs under his length with your tongue, and then suck on his cock as if you're trying to milk him dry.

When he cums, it's with a loud and uncharacteristically whiney moan that makes you wonder how he sounds begging. You taste his cum on your tongue, feel as he shoots it into your mouth, his dick throbbing and balls tightening in the same regard.

He's already overstimulated, panicking a little at the new subtle pain of more, and although he thinks he likes it, you know it'll be too much for his first time. You pull off of him, careful to spill as little of his release as possible, and sit back on your heels.

And Kento is a mess, lips parted as he watches your pull into a greedy smile. He's eager to watch you spit him out, perhaps a testament to the fact he was inside of you. But you meet his eyes, let him sit on your tongue a moment longer, and then swallow.

He's hard all over again, he wonders how he'll ever lead a normal life again after a sight like that. His mouth is dry, cock still wet with your spit, heart beating near out of his chest.

Still, he manages to stop you when you move to get up and start on his aftercare. "Wait," his voice is small, he's nervous.

You raise your eyebrows, "yes, Ken?"

"I want to taste you, too."

hi @angxlsatvrn

[hoardlikegoldenirises]

*leans casually on wall* hey,

i will take ANY excuse to design an outfit, especially wedding outfits, idk why— I just think they're fun.

there were originally two tuxedos involved in this (on the hair timeline drawing), with Flash's white and Peter's blue, but as I was editing my notes I ended up moving some stuff around and shunted Flash's transition forward by about a year and a half because it made more sense to happen around the time they get married instead of nearly 2 years later...

So like any reasonable person, I thought to myself, "oh boy! time to spend four days on a wedding dress!" (the drawing didn't take four days, i just spent a lot of time looking stuff up)

💐

edited to add peter's glasses, which i could have sworn i already did but w/e

closeups and thoughts under the cut:

in my head the top part of the dress is at least partially some kind of soft, flexible fabric, like a stretch satinet or whatever, or one of those really soft matte stretchy fabrics, but i honestly wasn't sure how exactly to handle that considering I'm not a tailor myself... like there should probably be a waist seam where the top meets the skirt, though probably hidden by the embroidery at least a little bit... though i guess it could also be that there is a layer of already-embroidered georgette over the top of a slip...

i did not hand draw this embroidery by the way. i almost tried. and then after .5 seconds i said, "oh this doesn't look good and i don't know what i'm doing." so then i used some brushes in clip studio paint and colored in colors i liked and added some beads that are basically not visible at 100% zoom (lmao)

they're there, i swear. i just think it would be cute if there were some very small beads adding a bit of sparkle...

Anyway, I just thought the flowers and colors would be nice. And I know you're probably thinking "huh, where'd they get sheer fabric that's only embroidered on part of it?" considering all those pre-made fabrics w/ the flowers all over... or "where did they get that dress custom-made? did one of their friends pay for it?" to which normally I would say "yeah lol they know at least a half a dozen rich people" but in this case... Well, this is a wedding that involves Peter. and Peter is nothing if not extra, impulsive, romantic, and a masochist—

Peter hand-sewed the entire dress, including the embroidery.

I figure, if he can embroider spider webs onto his suit then surely he can handle this ,as long as he has something to go off of. the dress itself isn't exactly the most complex, except maybe the skirt part falling in a specific way, so this is just another idk how many hours for him to spend futzing around with a needle and thread and insisting he can finish it in time. point in favor, because he does, but only because they have to postpone the wedding from March to May for other, unrelated reasons LMAO

also i just think it's romantic... and i like the idea of him making things with his hands all the time... he takes up woodworking a year or two before this iirc lol (the reasons for that are more morbid though... 😅)

anyway, i wanted the skirt to look nice in a wheelchair without getting in the way of things like the brake grips or the push-rims, so Flash can still move herself around (esp since she doesn't have handles on the back of her wheelchair lol) so that was another thing i was looking at pictures of. I really like georgette so I think it's probably layers of georgette, but drawing that is... hard.

probably looks a little more like this?

but plain ivory obviously, not plaid. drapey with a soft hand, not too fluffy or stiff. probably a satin slip or something underneath.

elegant... backless... I mean if Peter is the one designing it (though presumably Flash has SOME input, I mean, she's the one wearing it) how could he possibly resist the opportunity? (i just think backless dresses look nice) (also it shows off her back muscles, probably)

lmao

as it says in the pic, i figured this should be designed so it's comfortable to sit in and doesn't get tugged around a bunch but I will be honest. i did not have a lot of luck trying to research that so I gave up. I'm sure there's a way to do it but I have no idea how to draw it so I'm handwaving it along with the mysterious missing waist seam LOL

but also it's a wedding dress and most wedding dresses are wildly inconvenient even if you have absolutely no disabilities whatsoever.

at least she doesn't have to go commando...

though i'm sure going to the bathroom is a real nightmare lol

the bouquet and the veil are both on the back of the wheelchair—this was already true even before I decided Flash was gonna use this as an opportunity to be way more girly than usual, but it's still true here too. Though I did end up changing the flowers cause I realized I didn't like what I had, so the final bouquet is a mix of peonies, flowering dogwood, and some kind of wildflower that would be in season in May. Plus the red ribbon to match Peter's accessories.

oh and there's Flash's makeup too. Simple, not too dramatic. I don't imagine her ever being a red lipstick and dramatic eyeshadow kind of person, whether at a wedding with colorful dress or not, but some lip gloss and a little bit of shimmery eyeshadow that you can barely see sounds nice... maybe copper mascara or whatever but nothing dark.

her hair is also not super complicated or fancy, and she has no jewelry or anything like that, aside from the engagement ring... just a nice low bun with some pretty wisps 💞 Courtesy of MJ almost definitely!!

And the yarmulke is for a multitude of reasons. "Technically" Flash is not "legally" a woman at this point, isn't even out to her family yet (lol. lmao.) and hasn't legally changed her name yet either (she's going to after they get married), and I don't even know what the rabbi would think (i mean, i'm sure they've discussed by the time the wedding happens lol) but women wear yarmulkes these days too (these days is... 2014... btw), and Flash will have converted like 4 years before the wedding already (for reasons unrelated to Peter) so it's important to her... so, ultimately, regardless of requirements or level of reformness, I think she just wants to wear one.

Peter gets one too.

isn't he handsome?

lbr he probably wouldn't have even thought about it if Flash didn't bring it up. too busy thinking about what color of tiny beads to sew onto her dress XD

I DID loosely base some elements of Peter's tuxedo on the one from the iconic PeterMJ wedding cover—

—but mostly in ways I probably would have done anyway (dark blue tux... red cummerbund... etc.) (actually now that i think about it, the comic tux is probably meant to be black, huh) and I didn't want to make it actually the same so I gave him a pleated shirt and I didn't use a carnation for his boutonniere. Instead, dogwood (to match the bouquet obviously)—all the flowers I picked I'm PRETTY sure are in-season in May in NYC. as if they couldn't just go to any random garden and get some damn roses but I wanted to be more specific.

Peter doesn't make his tuxedo XD He also doesn't buy or rent it—Johnny Storm is the one in charge here because he insists, Peter. It's a special occasion!! He'd never let his best friend who he's totally not a little bit in love with wear a rental tuxedo to his own wedding! God Forbid. Peter eventually allows him to do so under the stipulation that Johnny keeps it tasteful and classy and "not too expensive."

Which to Johnny means "expensive silks and wools."

he's probably wearing suspenders. i didn't bother drawing that.

also these fucking shoes

NO idea if Peter keeps these. I only came up with them today. He was just gonna wear normal shoes before... but again, this is tasteful a la Johnny Storm. But Peter doesn't usually have occasions to dress fancy so having weird pseudo-spat dress boots is like. "What do I even do with these?" ("Wear them!!!")

I almost made the top part white (thus, pseudo-spats) but I think that kind of requires more of a white tie look... it looks nicer black. and hides his spidey-tighties (except he's not wearing his costume under this). Snaps, too! easy on, easy off!

(vaguely based on (these shoes) btw but not 100%)

wedding rings 💍

i already drew the rings a while ago (though i did slightly modify the coloring) so that's still the same. the engagement ring is essentially Flash's very first step into admitting who she wants to be... Peter doesn't even have a proposal planned, he just asks one day over breakfast lmfao but Flash has to think about it a lot so by the time Peter gets a yes (after a serious conversation with Flash about it) Flash is also like... can I have a ring??? and Peter is like OF COURSE (and actually he did have some money saved for this but he didn't know what to do...)

he'd probably make the ring himself if she asked—he doesn't though, they get it from a jeweler. it's... not cheap but it's less than $1000 at least? benefits of being very small and discreet.

Peter probably also offers to get himself one so they're equals here esp since power dynamics is part of the serious conversation and why Flash has to think about his proposal, but it's just not practical for Science Teacher Spider-Man to have an engagement ring and also they do not have money for that many rings.

in my notes Peter is wearing his uncle's wedding ring btw 🥹 i don't think they have Richard and Mary's rings so that's probably not an option. so, resizing Uncle Ben's ring instead.

anyway...

that's everything

here's Flash again, look how pretty she is

normally she just wears comfy athletic clothes and no makeup lol

[atrwriting]

terrible company — logan howlett x reader

secret time i never used to like wolverine because i thought i was cool and then i saw deadpool 3 and my jaw dropped and i watched most of the x men movies in like three days and now here we are

side note the tiktok edits went absolutely crazy with this scene

back at school needed to write something to keep me sane enjoy

barely edited we die like overworked students men

minors fuck off plz n thnx

as always, warnings: smut smut smuttt, enemies to lovers, fingering, p in v sex, dirty talk, light face slapping (trust me!), logan's a dick

—

“what, sweetheart? — afraid you might like it?”

you rolled your eyes at the man before you: logan howlett, the most obnoxious and formidable man you had ever met. his eyes twinkled with mischief, but his smirk hinted at so much more. this was the fifth or sixth time or so that he had flirted with you outright since you had first met him, and you had still found yourself being caught off guard from his honesty and lack of embarrassment.

he was an enigma to you — such terrible company, always brooding over something. then, randomly, he would see you and his eyes would get that look — as if he forgot what made him so miserable — and flirt with you so inappropriately that you didn’t know what to do, nor feel.

you sighed, staring at him. “can always count on you for shock value, can’t it?”

he smirked then, and you rolled your eyes. continuing, you spoke, “i’ll never get you. you are so mean to everyone — besides the people you want to fuck, of course.”

you turned away then, shaking your head. you didn’t hear him follow you. you grew angry after that realization, causing another sharp breath of air to leave your nostrils in a huff. you weren’t sure if you were angry at the fact that he didn’t follow you and immediately apologize even though he would never do that, or if you were just angry at how you were upset he didn’t follow you.

you tried not to think about it. you had work to do.

your next mission would be based out in the north somewhere — cold, dark, barely any service or electricity, and horrific weather. all of that would’ve made anyone groan, but none of that was the worst part.

not even close.

the worst part was that logan was your partner.

it made bile rise in your throat at the thought.

you generally didn’t mind him — he was grumpy, sure, but someone like old yeller would be grumpy after how many years he’s been alive and after what he’s been through. what pissed you off and what you couldn’t forgive — is how he treated different groups of people. he picked on a lot of people, and even if it was just “harmless hazing” — you didn’t care. it wasn’t cool and it definitely wasn’t hot. it was hurtful and you didn’t like it. he made fun of your friends, and that was where the hate began — and there was no end in sight.

but the best part? oh — the fucking cherry on top? his endless flirtation. he flirted with you shamelessly as if he wasn’t ruthless with your friends moments prior. did he think you void of loyalty? did he think you would sleep with him after he roasted your friends just because he threw a few sleazy comments your way? how little respect did he have for you? or, worse — how little respect did he think you had for yourself?

made your fucking blood boil.

that no good, rotten, fucking —

“hey, sweetheart —“

when you were within fifteen feet of him, it felt like all you did was roll your fucking eyes and bite back a quip. all you wanted to do was put him in his fucking place, or stay as far away from him as possible. however, with a mission so important — so dire — you couldn’t ask for a reassignment and make the team succumb to immature whims. you put up with logan because neither you, the team, nor the government had more options or time.

“what, logan?” you spat, pursing your lips as you turned around to face him.

fuck, he was so goddamn handsome. his skin was tanned from constantly being outside, looking perfectly aged. his facial hair and hairstyle were out of the ordinary as well, but it only kept your attention on him longer. he was strong — so strong. his muscles could kill in mere seconds, and you realized you hated yourself for thinking this way. for falling into the trap of a man so annoying — so undeserving of your attraction — your only response was to clench your jaw and fucking glare at him.

he raised his eyebrow at your attitude. “others already took the cars and helicopter. looks like we’re takin’ in my chopper.”

he didn’t wait for you to disagree. in fact, as you were winding up your “aaaabsolutely not” he immediately turned around and left towards the front — where his motorcycle was parked outside.

you stared at him as he walked towards the bike — broad shoulders clad in the leather jacket he always wore. his legs, even covered in jeans, were so trim and muscular that you could see the power behind each stride. when he swung one leg over the seat, and two hands gripped the handle bars — you would’ve said he was attractive if it wasn’t for how horrendous he was. you would’ve bit your hand at how broad his shoulders were and the strength behind them. you should’ve torn your gaze away from him — because at that moment, the moment where you were contemplating your attraction towards him and how it worked with your hatred for him — he caught you staring.

he caught you staring — and the fucking bastard smirked.

you cursed then, and then started towards his bike. like he once did, you swung your leg over and wrapped your arms around his midsection.

“hold on tight, sweetheart,” he spoke, the vibrations of his deep voice felt against your chest. “can’t say i’d let anything bad happen to you, though.”

“just drive, logan,” you spat through gritted teeth.

he chuckled darkly then, revving his engine. “yes ma’am.”

with his back to you, unable to see his reaction — it was the one moment, the one fucking time that you didn’t roll your eyes at him. your reaction to his words — yes ma’am — was raw and surprising, unsettling almost. you shifted in your seat and adjusted your grip on him as a warmth settled in your stomach, and on the apples of your cheeks. your breaths turned shallow, too, as your whole body succumbed to the blush that overtook.

no, you thought. you think he’s hot. that’s fine. assholes can be hot — we just can’t act on how hot they are. that’s fine. it’s fine. everything is fine —

but the way he smelled? oh god, the way he fucking smelled? logan was what bath and body works modeled those mahogany or whisky or leather or whatever-the-fuck candles after. part of you wanted to curse him out, making up something to be mad at him for — but the other parts wanted to wrap your arms around him tighter and stick your nose in the back of his neck like a depraved lunatic.

but you couldn’t. you wouldn’t let yourself. you sat up straighter then — trying to put as much space as possible between you and him on a vehicle that was not meant for a rivalry between driver and passenger.

you were disgusted with yourself. so, so disgusted with yourself.

fuck, you thought. this is going to be a long night.

when you reached camp, you immediately began setting up. you set up shelter and got your supplies in order, and logan went out looking for food. that was logan’s one quality that not even you could take away from him — he was an excellent hunter. you tried to busy yourself as best as you could — setting up the tent, starting the fire, the works. the sun would almost be down before logan came back.

when you heard his footsteps, your head immediately flicked up towards him. there he was — dinner thrown over his shoulder, clad in a white tank top, and cigar in his mouth. a cloud of smoke followed behind him as he walked towards where you had set up camp.

“showing off?” you cast your gaze down, putting another log on the fire.

“…is it working?”

you couldn’t help it. you let out a small laugh.

fuck.

you cleared your throat immediately, hoping he didn’t hear it. unfortunately, there was no use in that. fear struck you when you saw the tiniest smirk on his face. you brushed it off, leaving him to go get a sweatshirt as he dressed and cleaned the animal.

“scared of a little blood, sweetheart?”

you couldn’t help but roll your eyes at his comment. “it’s an animal, logan. not our enemy.”

“…fuckin’ vegans.”

“okay, old yeller —“ you quipped, poking at the fire. “you don’t feel a drop of sadness when you go after bambi?”

“it’s meat,” that was all he said on the subject, and you didn’t feel like poking the bear.

you ate in silence and went to bed in silence. actually — you went to bed. logan stayed out by the fire until you retreated to your tent. you left him with a bottle of jameson on his right, and a cigar in his left hand. his eyes were trained on the fire.

you didn’t like the look on his face. it was either an expression of zoning out, sadness, or a mixture of both — you couldn’t be sure. any time someone had asked logan what was on his mind, it was usually met with some rude or mean insult from logan. old yeller didn’t like feelings, and that worked out well for you — because you didn’t want to hear about his feelings.

you thought he would stay out all night if he could, never sleeping. however, he did end up going to bed — but you only knew that because he woke up screaming from a nightmare.

him yelling was extremely inconvenient and frankly dangerous — it could blow your cover. in your exhausted state, you sprung up and out of your tent and dashed over to where logan was curled on the ground. he was thrashing at the air — knocking over his bottle of whisky and kicking at the fire.

“logan!” you hissed, trying to force yourself out of your discombobulated state. the thrashing continued, and in a moment of desperation — you got on top of him.

straddled him, to be more exact.

in a moment, his eyes snapped open. your back was on the ground and he was above you — one of his claws at your jugular. logan’s instincts woke up before he did as he laid on top of you and over you, breathing heavily as he kept his blade drawn at your neck with his eyes blown wide.

“you were having a nightmare,” you choked out. “you’re okay —“

he was still staring at you and breathing heavily. it was like he was in a trance — unaware of how to navigate the feeling of peace and a fight or flight response. his pupils, blown wide, showed no sign of calming down.

you reached both hands to grasp at his cheeks, feeling the tickle of his beard on your palms. “you’re safe — it’s alright.”

he dropped his head then — on your collarbone. it hung in shame, guilt, and exhaustion. the unholy trinity that followed logan howlett around for his entire life. one of your hands slid to the back of his neck, cupping the base of his head as his thumb stroked his skin.

“i’m sorry,” was all he said, head still in the crook of your neck.

“you’re good — i get them, too.”

“i’m not looking for a pity party, alright?” he snapped, pushing himself up.

that was it. the final straw.

you reached forward them, yanking him by the shirt so you were nose to nose — tongue on fire, throat hoarse with anger and tight with sadness. “you’re such an ass, you know that? all you do is insult my friends, expect me to sleep with you, and then the moment — the one fucking moment — you show any sign of humanity, i extend a fucking olive branch, and you snap at me? — the fuck is your problem, logan?”

he raised his brows then, almost in a beckoning fashion. “you think i need a shoulder to cry on, huh, sweetheart? — that’s the thing with you young people, why your friends annoy me so much — there’s no fucking time to spend whining when there’s a fucking job to do.”

“jealous, logan?” you spat, still gripping his shirt. “can’t stand the fact that i would rather console the people you insult rather than let you fuck me?”

“what you do in your spare time is yours, sweetheart —“ he scoffed. “if you want to spend it with people who don’t respect you, fine by me.”

“don’t respect me?!” you spat. your face was red and hot now, burning with rage. every word that left your mouth was coated in venom hoping to strike him like his words struck you. “you’d fuck me, leave, and then probably treat me with as much disdain as you treat everyone else — how the fuck is that better?!”

oh — you shouldn’t have.

you really, really shouldn’t have.

you felt the regret as soon the word “better” left your mouth — only a moment before you saw something switch in logan’s eyes. the switch was followed by a twitch in his jaw, the movement he makes before he basically uses someone’s spine as a tooth pick. you knew he wouldn’t hurt you — he couldn’t, he wouldn’t — but damn, the realization of how much weight your statement held in his chest concerned you.

you watched his nose crinkle in anger.

he let out a frustrated, slow breath.

another.

and another.

and then another. he was still on top of you then — staring down his nose at you. you were cocky, cocking your chin up at him — trying to feign looking him in the eyes despite your lack of height. you didn’t want to be a sexual object, there for his free use. you didn’t want to be something he could discard, worthless. you didn’t want logan to give you the same treatment he gave your friends — because that would mean you were no longer worth anything to him.

you braced yourself for his words — what you always thought would come, sooner or later. the end of flirting, and the beginning of rejection and hatred.

“that’s it, huh?” he spoke low then, fighting back anger. “the princess thought i’d leave?” his lips were barely touching yours then, threatening the barrier and final boundary of air between you two. your chest was rising and falling with every word, unable to keep your cool. he continued, “maybe i should — since now you sound like your friends — bunch of fucking whiners.”

you slammed at his chest then, trying to push him off for his hurtful words. he didn’t budge — he was the fucking wolverine, what could you do that would get him to actually move?

“the problem is, doll —“ he took both of your hands and pressed them down next to your head. “i know you’re not like them — and i like you too much to leave.”

you scoffed, gritting your teeth. “stop fucking —“

he let go of one of your wrists and grabbed your chin in his strong hand, silencing you. he stared down at you then, and no words had the chance to leave your lips. anger sent daggers from your eyes to his, but something swirled within his irises. something worse than anger — darker. stronger. harder.

“are you going to stop fucking whining and let me kiss you?” he spat. “or are you going to crawl away with your tail between your legs and be forced to use that stashed vibrator you keep in your bag?”

you sucked in a sharp breath then — eyes going wide as your lips fell open in surprise. he smirked then, obviously pleased. your chest was still rising and falling, but now it was with shallow breaths as something else filled your lungs and abdomen.

heat. pure heat. warmth spread throughout your ribs, abdomen, and core once you absorbed logan’s words. he was so mean — so fucking rude and mean — but his “no bullshit” attitude forced you to keep out of your own way in a way you didn’t want to admit you liked. you were still then — and all you could do was stare up at logan with your big, dark eyes as a smirk crept onto his face.

“that’s it, baby,” was all he whispered before he kissed you.

the hand that once held your face slid around the back of your head, holding the base of your skull up and out for him. he planted his spread knees in between your thighs, cementing himself in place as his other arm held himself up.

logan kissed you with demand in every movement. his lips lead you in a fashion that so passionate and so dominant that your brain and body were fucking putty — his to mold in his hands as he deemed fit. you should’ve been disgusted, tormented by the fact that he would do such a thing — but you couldn’t keep up the act any longer. having logan so close, so warm — it was the ultimate act of comfort.

men had kissed you before — but no man from before could kiss you like this. this. no man had the power to claim you in the open, dangerous air while on top of you and still making you feel so safe and protected. you didn’t feel the need to go out of your way to show dominance — and it felt so fucking good to turn your brain off, even for just a moment.

and logan? fuck — logan? he had wanted nothing more for months than to be exactly where he was now; on top of you, tongue exploring the mouth that loved to insult him. he knew how on edge you were, how you were always caring about everyone but yourself — he just wanted to see what you were like when you could only think about one thing, and one thing only: your own pleasure.

it started with his fingers tightening on the back of your neck ever so slightly. your throat let out a quiet sort of mewl — like he had squeezed the last shred of focus out of you. he wanted you out of focus — not necessarily under his control, he just wanted you to lose control. crying, screaming, taking out your anger on him for all he cared — but he just wanted to be the one that made you forget about everything for a little while.

…so when he felt your hands running up and down the length of his upper body, curious as to the muscles of his shoulders — he knew what to do. he couldn’t help himself, should’ve asked —

he lowered his lower body down and ground against your clothed core.

instinctively, your legs tried to wrap around his — trying to bring him closer. you were struggling, it was so cute to him. he thought about how mean it would be to tease you, even if it was for a little bit — but would quick fun honedtly help you? the stick up your ass would probably never leave, he thought — he had to do this right.

and when he did it again — the smallest whine built in the back of your throat, sending vibrations throughout your body and senses. logan’s hyper sensitive hearing sent shivers — actual shivers — up and down his spine, and right to his cock as his strained against his zipper.

he felt you clam up then, tighten — insecure. he could sense it. smell it.

“don’t you dare —“ he breathed, demanding another kiss from you. he would swallow you whole if given the choice. “those whines you make? those sweet, little noises? — they’re mine, doll. mine. you don’t get to take what’s mine, do you?”

“no —“ you whimpered, shakily. “but — i — i thought —“

he let your neck go, much to your dismay, but that empty feeling was replaced by his large, flat palm pressing against your clothes core. you jumped for a moment, sinking your teeth into your bottom lip as you peered up at him through your lashes.

“thinkin’ i hate whiners?” he laughed, biting on the skin of your neck as he kept palming you. “not when they sound as pretty as you, doll. ‘m so hard for you — gotta know you want this as much as me.”

you almost let out a struggled gasp then, close to tears. he was so mean. the stress and pain of waiting could be felt all over. he was being so sweet — so generous with his touches — but you wanted more. needed more.

“wan’ it so bad, logan,” you gasped, almost hiccuping. “don’t fuck with me anymore, please — no more games.”

you felt his hand slide your zipper down its track, smirking. “no more games means you’re mine, doll. i don’t fucking share.”

you watched as his large hand — calloused from years of war, labor, and pain — found its way under your pretty, lacy thong. he wanted to rip it off you, free you from the tight clothing — but he needed you now. you needed him now, and he wouldn’t deny you any longer.

you were soaking wet when you felt two fingers slip in between your folds, sending a sharp breath to be sucked in between your lips. logan watched in awe as the flames of the fire caught the glistening wetness on his fingers, illuminating the reflection for both of you to see and witness.

it was obvious to him now — you wanted him so badly, for longer than you had ever let on.

he should’ve been slow, loving, maybe even tender — but that wasn’t him. never was, and never would be. your grip tightened on his as he slipped two fingers inside your pussy, sucking him in desperation.

you immediately tried to bite back a squeal when you felt his fingers finally slide all the way inside you, leaving no space undiscovered. the pads of his fingers were nudging at the roof of your pussy as the meat of his fleshy palm rubbed against your lonely clit — pink, puffy, and pathetic. so desperate. you were biting your lip now, screwing your eyes shut — trying to fight the urge to scream his name.

“oh, i don’t think so, doll,” he grunted. “look at me.”

you tried to look at him. you really did. when you couldn’t manage it, your eyes blurry — you couldn’t believe it: he lightly smacked your jaw.

it should’ve sent you reeling, absolutely fuming — but it only caught your attention. he was glaring down at you, fuming, with a pink hue on his cheeks. “what did i say, huh?”

you couldn’t respond. he had halted his movement, leaving you to buck into his hands.

“those moans are mine,” he spat. “you’re goin’ to be loud, and you’re goin’ to let me know exactly how it feels, alright?”

“okay,” you whimpered. “please just —“

“fucking christ —“ he spat exasperatedly. his movements were rougher now, more than ever — sending you closer and closer to the edge. “your wound so tight, you know that? so fucking concerned and always thinking — you’re goin’ to let go for me, doll, and i’m not taking my eyes off this pussy until it sings for me.”

“fuck, logan —“ you threw your head back, screwing your eyes shut.

“you wanna close your eyes, baby, huh?” he grunted with cockiness in his voice. “too much for you?” his voice was low and guttural, turning you on more and more. “need to see what it’s like when you break for me, baby. — lose it for me, yeah? come on — that’s it — that’s a girl —“

every muscle in your body was tightening with every word. you were straining against him — wanting to pull him close and push him far away at the same exact time. you wanted your orgasm, he wanted your orgasm — and you both fought the other for it. you were grinding your hips up to meet his hand — and he was pushing you back down to the ground so you’d sit-the-fuck-still and take whatever he gave you.

logan hovered over you, knees still planted between your thighs. he still worked at your pussy, still forcing it to consume everything he had to offer. his free hand grabbed at the hair at the top of your head, pulling it back so you were at his complete and total mercy, gasping and whimpering for him — and only him.

“yeah, baby — get lost in it. show daddy how much you needed this.”

you couldn’t take it anymore. you couldn’t. you just couldn’t. the relentless need to stay strong, to keep your cool, always remain calm — gone. all of it — gone. shockwaves went up and down your body, every muscle now taught. your neck stretched back and your back arched up into logan’s chest as your orgasm ran up, down, and through every vein. your throat was dry and cracked — as were any and all coherent words that left your mouth. gasps, cries, whimpers — they all went straight to logan’s cock the minute he smelled the sweet and tangy scent of your juice flowing onto his hands and palm. he wanted to lick you up and down, swallow you whole — but logan wasn’t a patient man, no — never.

and there he was. smirking, above you — not even slightly tired.

he kept up his torture — hand still working at your pussy.

“that’s it, baby — ride out that high,” he grunted in your ear, biting at your shoulder. “nice and easy. come down for me, sweetheart — daddy’s not done with you yet.”

you fell back against the dirt, gasping — wondering where the fuck you were and how logan got you there. everything about you — blurry. your eyesight, your hearing, your sense of smell — all of it: blurry. numb and tingling. you could feel everything and nothing all at once, all while trying to catch your breath.

the only thing you could do, the only thing — was reach for logan’s belt buckle, whining for more.

he smirked down at you then once more, taking his cock our for you to wrap your small, weak hand against its girthy base. you were still reeling from the orgasm, but he didn’t mind.

“greedy girl.” he kissed you, mouth hot and demanding. “pussy feels empty without me, huh? gotta change that.”

he threw one of your legs over his shoulder, your muscles stretching and conforming to his will. you pulled him close to you, whining into his kiss. he swallowed every feverish moan with everything he had, his mind now also buzzing with pleasure.

“bet your pussy feels so warm and wet —“ he breathed. “gonna let me use you, baby? hmm?”

you shook your head feverishly, tears coming to your eyes. “please, logan — please use me.”

that’s all he needed. he slid his long length inside you, and he felt every stretch. your pussy was so sweet — ready to mold to whatever he gave you. he heard your head fall back in pleasure, a loan erupting from your chest — but logan couldn’t care about that right now. all he could focus on was how your pussy opened wide for him, sucking him in like if needed him as much as he needed you. he felt himself grow longer and thicker inside of you, almost painfully.

“jesus fucking christ —“ he hissed, grabbing a fistful of your hair and shoving his face into the crook of your neck. his guttural, deep moans were sent straight through your ear and down every nerve in your body. he grunted, “gonna let me take what i need, baby? let daddy use you?”

“yes, please —“ you cried. “need it so bad.”

he bent your leg back to your chest now, and suddenly the head of his cock was hitting a spot you had never felt before. so deep, so hidden — hot tears sprung to your eyes when he found it. every part of you was sensitive, buzzing for his touch — and all you could think about how there was more and more to give to him, only his to take.

“right there —!” you sobbed.

“that’s your spot, huh?” he spat through gritted teeth. “no boy has found that, i can tell. i can fucking smell it. you want me to pound into you there, baby? gonna let a real man show you how he fucks his girl?”

you were sobbing at this point, pulling him closer and closer into you if there was any space. you couldn’t respond. you didn’t have the strength or the brain to do so. all you could do was bite down on logan’s shoulder as he fucked into that spot — that one fucking spot — as he let out animalistic groans in your ear.

“all mine.”

“my fucking pussy —“

“good fucking girl —“

“gonna cream in this pussy until you can’t take it.”

your second orgasm ripped through you then as tears leaked from your eyes. your teeth broke logan’s skin, blood flooding your mouth as he moaned. the pain coursed through him with the pleasure, mixing within his veins until everything else and around him was forgotten. the only thing that mattered was the greedy pussy sucking him in, and the sweet girl beneath him.

logan was a fucking animal with how he chased your high. he ripped and clawed at the dirt as he drank in your second orgasm, feeling you go limp beneath him. the adrenaline coursing through his veins had a mind of its own — he wrapped your arms around his neck as he took your hips in both of his hands. he held you both upright then — smashing your hips down to meet his as you hung on for dear life. deep, broken grunts were pushed through his gritted teeth as he fought tooth and nail for his orgasm. he dove head first into it, letting you both fall to the ground.

you felt logan’s body shake — fucking shake. you had never known him to succumb to something so peaceful and powerful — so demanding of him. his muscles strained against the control like they were chains and he needed to break free. he groaned into the crook of your neck and tresses of your hair as he fucked himself into your puffy pussy, your cries mixing with his groans. logan’s thrust were desperate as he fucked his cream inside you, part of it coming out and leaking onto his cock as it mixed with your juice. the sight of it ripped through him as the want to claim you again and again took him too. he found your lips once more, both of you gasping into a kiss as you both settled back into the dirt.

it was going to be a long, long night...

[princesssarisa]

In the past I've shared other people's musings about the different interpretations of the myth of Orpheus and Eurydice. Namely, why Orpheus looks back at Eurydice, even though he knows it means he'll lose her forever. So many people seem to think they've found the one true explanation of the myth. But to me, the beauty of myths is that they have many possible meanings.

So I thought I would share a list of every interpretation I know, from every serious adaptation of the story and every analysis I've ever heard or read, of why Orpheus looks back.

One interpretation – advocated by Monteverdi's opera, for example – is that the backward glance represents excessive passion and a fatal lack of self-control. Orpheus loves Eurydice to such excess that he tries to defy the laws of nature by bringing her back from the dead, yet that very same passion dooms his quest fo fail, because he can't resist the temptation to look back at her.

He can also be seen as succumbing to that classic "tragic flaw" of hubris, excessive pride. Because his music and his love conquer the Underworld, it might be that he makes the mistake of thinking he's entirely above divine law, and fatally allows himself to break the one rule that Hades and Persephone set for him.

Then there are the versions where his flaw is his lack of faith, because he looks back out of doubt that Eurydice is really there. I think there are three possible interpretations of this scenario, which can each work alone or else co-exist with each other. From what I've read about Hadestown, it sounds as if it combines all three.

In one interpretation, he doubts Hades and Persephone's promise. Will they really give Eurydice back to him, or is it all a cruel trick? In this case, the message seems to be a warning to trust in the gods; if you doubt their blessings, you might lose them.

Another perspective is that he doubts Eurydice. Does she love him enough to follow him? In this case, the warning is that romantic love can't survive unless the lovers trust each other. I'm thinking of Moulin Rouge!, which is ostensibly based on the Orpheus myth, and which uses Christian's jealousy as its equivalent of Orpheus's fatal doubt and explicitly states "Where there is no trust, there is no love."

The third variation is that he doubts himself. Could his music really have the power to sway the Underworld? The message in this version would be that self-doubt can sabotage all our best efforts.

But all of the above interpretations revolve around the concept that Orpheus looks back because of a tragic flaw, which wasn't necessarily the view of Virgil, the earliest known recorder of the myth. Virgil wrote that Orpheus's backward glance was "A pardonable offense, if the spirits knew how to pardon."

In some versions, when the upper world comes into Orpheus's view, he thinks his journey is over. In this moment, he's so ecstatic and so eager to finally see Eurydice that he unthinkingly turns around an instant too soon, either just before he reaches the threshold or when he's already crossed it but Eurydice is still a few steps behind him. In this scenario, it isn't a personal flaw that makes him look back, but just a moment of passion-fueled carelessness, and the fact that it costs him Eurydice shows the pitilessness of the Underworld.

In other versions, concern for Eurydice makes him look back. Sometimes he looks back because the upward path is steep and rocky, and Eurydice is still limping from her snakebite, so he knows she must be struggling, in some versions he even hears her stumble, and he finally can't resist turning around to help her. Or more cruelly, in other versions – for example, in Gluck's opera – Eurydice doesn't know that Orpheus is forbidden to look back at her, and Orpheus is also forbidden to tell her. So she's distraught that her husband seems to be coldly ignoring her and begs him to look at her until he can't bear her anguish anymore.

These versions highlight the harshness of the Underworld's law, and Orpheus's failure to comply with it seems natural and even inevitable. The message here seems to be that death is pitiless and irreversible: a demigod hero might come close to conquering it, but through little or no fault of his own, he's bound to fail in the end.

Another interpretation I've read is that Orpheus's backward glance represents the nature of grief. We can't help but look back on our memories of our dead loved ones, even though it means feeling the pain of loss all over again.

Then there's the interpretation that Orpheus chooses his memory of Eurydice, represented by the backward glance, rather than a future with a living Eurydice. "The poet's choice," as Portrait of a Lady on Fire puts it. In this reading, Orpheus looks back because he realizes he would rather preserve his memory of their youthful, blissful love, just as it was when she died, than face a future of growing older, the difficulties of married life, and the possibility that their love will fade. That's the slightly more sympathetic version. In the version that makes Orpheus more egotistical, he prefers the idealized memory to the real woman because the memory is entirely his possession, in a way that a living wife with her own will could never be, and will never distract him from his music, but can only inspire it.

Then there are the modern feminist interpretations, also alluded to in Portrait of a Lady on Fire but seen in several female-authored adaptations of the myth too, where Eurydice provokes Orpheus into looking back because she wants to stay in the Underworld. The viewpoint kinder to Orpheus is that Eurydice also wants to preserve their love just as it was, youthful, passionate, and blissful, rather than subject it to the ravages of time and the hardships of life. The variation less sympathetic to Orpheus is that Euyridice was at peace in death, in some versions she drank from the river Lethe and doesn't even remember Orpheus, his attempt to take her back is selfish, and she prefers to be her own free woman than be bound to him forever and literally only live for his sake.

With that interpretation in mind, I'm surprised I've never read yet another variation. I can imagine a version where, as Orpheus walks up the path toward the living world, he realizes he's being selfish: Eurydice was happy and at peace in the Elysian Fields, she doesn't even remember him because she drank from Lethe, and she's only following him now because Hades and Persephone have forced her to do so. So he finally looks back out of selfless love, to let her go. Maybe I should write this retelling myself.

Are any of these interpretations – or any others – the "true" or "definitive" reason why Orpheus looks back? I don't think so at all. The fact that they all exist and can all ring true says something valuable about the nature of mythology.

[marzipanandminutiae]

no but genuinely I lose a little more patience for people who won't wear wool, leather, silk, or fur every day that I live in a world where plastic is increasingly the only damn kind of clothing you can find (or the only kind of fabric for sewing, even)

obviously, animal cruelty is horrible. I believe that even industries that rely on the deaths of animals should make their lives as good and their ends as humane as possible. and many of these industries need tighter environmental regulations on their production practices- some of the chemicals involved are highly toxic and ill-controlled at times

but at some point, you have to wake up to the fact that the only alternative we've found to date is destroying our planet

it's all plastic. and plastic is horrible for the world- the environment, humans, and especially animals. how cruelty-free is it to cause mass habitat loss? or climate change that disrupts food sources for those animals on a vast scale? how is that better than the deaths of a relatively small proportion of animals comparatively?

(and don't even start with "but pineapple leather! but cactus leather!" when those are still basically plastic due to heavy plastics use in their production processes. there is currently no non-plastic alternative to most animal-based textile products)

I've always tried to keep in mind that we all have to decide where our line is, that we all consume and there's no way of living in this world that doesn't take something from it. that for me, plastic clothing is to be avoided as much as possible, and for others, animal clothing products are to be avoided as much as possible. that the choice is equally valid

but I'm having a hard time seeing it as valid anymore when it just feels like trying to push the unpleasant part away from yourself so you can pretend your choice has no negative impacts. you're not wearing animal skin (or wool that an animal didn't even die to produce), so surely your way of doing things is better! no animals were harmed in the making of your outfit!

except. they were.

they and all the rest of us.

[prongsx]

we are not children anymore, honey.

warning: swearing, a bit insinuating, f!reader, fluff.

where jason needs to remind you that you're not kids anymore and teasing him isn't the same anymore.

1,8k words

You met Jason Todd when you were both innocent children, well, as innocent as the crime alley allowed. He was your best friend, most of the scars he had back then were from picking fights with anyone who raised their voice at you, anyone who tried to sell you drugs or tried to be aggressive with you.

You had an easy body language, both of you touched each other often and played the usual games that children do, physical touch was never a distant thing.

You secretly had a crush on that somewhat reckless and smiling boy who protected you, always holding your hand. Maybe in the back of your mind you thought that one day you would get married.

At the time, he was a little shorter than you, a fact that deeply irritated him but made you laugh. Then he was adopted by Bruce Wayne and you thought that would be the end of your friendship, but there seemed to be a thread that connected you, not even taking on the mantle of Robin could separate you.

Then Jason was taken from you in the most abrupt way possible, by the hands of death itself. But not even that which seemed inescapable separated you for long, the grief that consumed you could have destroyed you, but something in your mind repeated that Jason would never leave you alone.

When Jason appeared at your door, years later, his blue eyes looking haunted, you cried, something in your heart that was dead seemed to come out of the ground in the same way as your best friend.

At first, you simply didn't know what to do with this new Jason, he himself seemed a little lost, the well had affected his emotions. He took up more space, his arms and hands were bigger. Doubts consumed you, afraid of never rescuing the old bond, but then you bought your old favorite cookie and he smiled at you.

That dimpled smile, which lit up his blue eyes and seemed to bring a reckless air to him. And you decided right then and there that nothing would stop you from being his best friend again.

The thing was that your friendship was based on a time when you were both younger and more naive, feelings were simpler. Jason died before you could be friends during that strange time in your adolescence when touching your friend seemed strange, the only memory your body had of your friendship with Jason was a sticky friendship.

"Only you could make me go to the other side of town to get that damn donut that tasted like paper." Jason grumbles, closing the latch on your window as he moves his huge body into your living room. At that moment, you feel the room shrink, and it feels like any false move will betray your racing heart as you watch Jason remove his helmet, his black curls messy in a cute way.

"They're great." You hum, reaching out to take the package from Jason.

"Seriously, there are so many bakeries with better donuts." He retorts, crossing his arms, drawing your attention to the outline of his biceps in his skintight uniform.

"The best isn't always going to be the tastiest."

Jason rolls his eyes at your completely nonsensical choice of words, flopping his tired body on the couch next to you.

"Jason, did you just sit on my couch in your dirty patrol gear?"

"Sweetie, I just walked halfway through this shitty city looking for that donut. I have a right to dirty your precious couch."

You let out a grunt, knowing he's right. He has the right, but that doesn't stop you from lightly pinching the side of his hip, where his suit had a layer of fabric.

He doesn't even blink at your attitude, his hands holding your wrist, his long fingers holding it as delicately as was allowed.

"I thought you gave up trying to play fight with me," he whispers, his voice heavy with that accent that makes your legs a little weak.

You shrug, your body approaching him almost as a reflex, your knee touching his. It's kind of annoying how much bigger he's gotten than you, and stronger. Much stronger, you know he could flip you over with a single hand and honestly the thought is more exciting than you want to admit.

"Sweet thing?" He calls to you, still with that sly smile on his lips. You blink slowly, coming back to reality.

"Hmm?"

"Aren't you going to eat your delicious donut?"

"Yes. Yes." You say, nodding.

If before you thought Jason was cute, now you could write ridiculous poems about him, two stanzas just about his sapphire eyes.

He snuggled deeper into your couch, spreading his thighs and letting out a sigh of relief at the comfort.

"Tiring patrol?" He opened his eyes when he felt your hands lightly pinching his nose, trying to make him pay attention to you again. You would never admit it out loud, but having Jason's undivided attention was kind of addictive and intoxicating.

"You could say that."

You dropped the donuts on the living room table, suddenly feeling guilty. Even though it was just him teasing you, the store that sold your favorite donuts was really far away.

"I'm sorry I made you take my stupid donuts." He let out a breath when you rested your chin on his shoulder, staring at him from under your eyelashes.

"No. I don't forgive you." He teased, his hands going down to your waist and drawing circles there.

"Seriously, I was selfish." You repeat, looking down at the red bat symbol on his chest.

His blue eyes continued to stare at you, his hands coming up and lightly holding your chin, his eyebrows furrowed. Jason never accepted it when you seemed sad towards him, or when you made it seem like you were a hindrance in his life.

"Stop that shit."

A laugh escaped through your nostrils.

"You still have such a dirty mouth, Todd. My mother still blames you for the variety of curses I know."

He laughed, the sound going straight to your stomach. It should be forbidden for someone to have such a delightful laugh to hear. Jason wasn't as much of a laugh now as he used to be when he was a child, his innocence had been taken away from him years ago, so you drank every drop of his laughter you could.

"Well, I blame you every time I act stupid. We're even."

You reached your hands up to his hair and pulled lightly, like you used to do when you wanted to get back at him when you were kids. But this time, he didn't laugh you away or flick you in retaliation. His lips curved into a thin line and his eyes blinked so fast you thought you'd imagined it.

"Sweetie." Jason's voice was low, the nickname sending an electric shock through your body. "We're not kids anymore."

"You're still just as annoying." You joked, praying he wouldn't notice the slight crack in your voice.

"No, sweet thing, you didn't understand what I meant." He said, his blue eyes staring straight into your face. His hands moved down to your hips, pulling you closer to him, your legs almost resting on his thigh. "I'm saying we're not kids anymore." He repeated.

"Yes. I obviously know that."

He let out a long sigh, as if you were irritating him with your stupidity.

His slightly chapped lips parted as he said something that you were momentarily lost in, your hands resting on his muscular thigh. He gripped your chin tighter when he noticed your inattention and felt your hand on his thigh.

"See? That's what I'm saying." He let out a laugh that wasn't like before, it wasn't genuine and open-hearted, it was low and had a feeling you couldn't quite grasp. "You keep touching me and teasing me like we're children."

"I can stop." You stammered, very confused and feeling a little dizzy. This new Jason Todd, with more scars and less shyness, was making your throat suddenly close up.

"You're not supposed to stop." He whispered, his other hand coming back to grab the back of your neck and pull your faces so close you could feel his warm breath. "Just letting you know that now, when you lie on top of me and stare at me like that, my first thought isn't to play fight with you, darling." His hand squeezed your chin lightly as he added, his voice lower, "When you stare at me like that, all I think about is kissing you stupid."

Forming words seemed harder than ever.

"Ah."

"Ah," he mimicked you in a thin voice, a goofy smile on his face, his grip on your chin bringing your lips close to his. "I say I want to make you sigh my name and that's all you have to say?"

You clear your throat, your eyelashes fluttering slightly. The hand resting on his thigh makes an involuntary movement to lightly squeeze the muscle there. Jason's blue eyes darken, a noise close to a growl leaving his lips.

"You keep doing these things. Fuck, baby, every time you almost climb on my lap like it's nothing." He took a deep breath, as if he was losing his mind, closing his eyes so as not to get lost in his own thoughts. "You must know what you're doing to me."

"No. I. No." You repeated, still very overwhelmed by how close you were. Your best friend, staring at you like he was about to destroy you.

He smiled again at your mental confusion, brushing his lips against yours and letting out a low moan that made you gasp. "Let me kiss you, please?"

You nodded, crashing your lips against his before you had to beg for it. Jason's lips were rough against yours, as if he was punishing you for making him wait, for making him yearn for this.

Jason's ability to focus on multitasking was evident when he pulled you to sit fully on his lap, without separating your lips, his hands moving up and down your body, swallowing the small moans that came out of your mouth.

"I think I've already thought of a way for you to pay for your stupid donuts," he whispered, pulling your lips away for a few seconds to smile at you.

You laughed, feeling lighter than you had in years. Your hands cupped his face, caressing his cheek. There were so many questions and doubts swirling around your mind, but Jason pulled you into a hug, kissing your forehead.

"Honey, it took you a long time to realize that you're mine. Just relax."

You blinked away the tears, hiding your face in the crook of his neck, a genuine smile on your lips.

Your best friend was in love with you too, and everything would be okay.

I hope you liked it, sorry for the mistakes, I need to review all my works. My epub box is open, I just want to write more for Jason!! I'm stupid for him. And I'll be dying on the hill that Jason Todd has a dirty mouth. I'm trying to write for a gender-neutral reader but I've discovered that I have difficulty, I'm sorry, but I'll keep trying.

[mesetacadre]

107 years ago today an organized group of workers in the Russian Empire decided they had had enough of war, misery, the oppression of women, and of a corrupt democracy that had promised much and changed nothing, the Tsar still in his palaces, the workers still giving their life for a cause foreign to the working class of Europe and the world. Most bolsheviks were industrial workers, with an insufficient formal education, precarious salaries and conditions. The working class in the Russian Empire had tried liberal democracy, had seen its hipocrisy in the months following the election of the provisional government, and understood their historic goal of progressing further beyond the democracy of the landowner, businessman and aristocrat. It wasn't the first time the proletariat had attempted to take power, both worldwide and in the Russian Empire, but this time they were ready, educated, an organized enough.

The armies of 14 imperialist powers combined could not stop the will of a mass of workers that had realized their worth, their potential, and most importantly, their dignity. They no longer had to bow down to paternalism, electoralism, and the capitalists to whom they sold their labor, no armed intervention, no amount of propaganda, no adventurist distraction, could take away from that fact. This isn't a fantasy, it isn't idealistic, it's a historical fact, that revolutions are possible, have happened, succeeded, and that the opportunity presents itself sooner than most expect. The only task at hand is to organize towards it. Agitation, education, an actual dual power structure predicated on a unified will, not on voluntarism and horizontalism.

I understand the topic at hand for the last 2 days and many more to come will be the results of the US election. But the US is not the only liberal democracy that increasingly creates disappointment among the social majority. After all the posting about the various liberals that make up the US electoral environment, it is imperious that nobody falls into despair. Not in a self-care way, not in the way most left-liberals have been talking about, referring to an abstract sense of "preparing", but because of the simple necessity for this election to further erode any popular faith in reformism, whether it's Trump's reforms, Harris' reforms, Bernie's reforms, or Stein's reforms. Wallowing in despair is as useful as placing yet more stake into whoever is wheeled out next to promise even less, in what will most certainly be also called the most important elections of our lifetimes.

Return to the working class of the Russian Empire, of a fractured and hungry China, to the colony of Indochina, to the plantation island that was Cuba. And I urge you to exercise some perspective. These masses of people had suffered more than you for longer than you. Nobody's asking you to feel guilty about your economic position in the world, we're asking you to realize that, for as long as there have been modes of production predicated on the exploitation, division and discrimination of a producing class, there have always been options, better options than sinking into despondent depression. They have managed to cast off their yoke and build towards a society not based on exploitation. They're not utopias, and mistakes have been and will be committed, but they all realized and understood that it's better to commit our own mistakes, than to toil under the rational oppression by another class for any longer.

[honeydewandcake]

“Shrimpo, you’re pathetic”

This was based on the note found in Shrimpo’s room! I have so many theories and speculations on everything in his room it’s actually making me go crazy

Read more if you want to listen to my insane ramblings!! ↓

So I have so many things to talk about —

Firstly, the punching bags and holes in the walls. Shrimpo’s hatred towards everyone is always usually verbally, but in his room there’s proof that it’s physically too. This leads me to believe a lot of things:

— Shrimpo is somewhat strong, at least strong enough to break through the walls.

— Shrimpo tries to at least control his anger. He could easily beat someone but he limits himself by only being a verbal bully. He must relieve all his more aggressive emotions in private in his room.

— The wardrobe in his room is partially blocking holes he presumably made. This could either mean that he is embarrassed or he’s trying to hide it to avoid getting in trouble.

Overall, it’s clear that Shrimpo’s anger is a lot more than people might have expected

Secondly, the papers. There’s plenty of other toons that also have crumpled paper in their rooms but to me Shrimpo is the most interesting. Shrimpo is definitely not the type who writes, but the note and trash says otherwise. A few things I immediately think of is:

— Shrimpo can write, but everything he writes is always deemed “not good enough” by him and thrown away.

— Shrimpo is either willingly writing things or being forced to write by others (possibly as a required thing by directors and such).

— The note on his desk can tell a lot about him. The fact that he only writes about the things he hates is expected, but the way it continues is more interesting. He repeatedly writes “hate” over and over and it gets bigger. To me, this looks like Shrimpo having a mental breakdown. It’s not uncommon for someone who’s venting out their frustrations to repeat a phrase or word, but the fact that it gets bigger makes me think Shrimpo is writing it more desperately. He could have been writing to relieve stress but it only made him more frustrated, causing a slippery slope into a terrible episode. If this was in writing and not text, I expect his note to be sloppier than it seems.

— Shrimpo’s discarded paper can mean anything, but the thing I immediately think of is ideas or failed writing. Someone in a server I’m in brought up the idea that the reason why Shrimpo has only posters of himself in his room is because he’s reminding himself of all his flaws. Maybe his writing helps him cope with that or he’s trying to come up with ideas of how to be better.

Shrimpo’s room also has many knocked over furniture. He has multiple desks, traffic cones, trash cans, and a coat hanger.

— This supports my theory that Shrimpo is a lot more aggressive in private. He knocks over furniture out of frustration, imagine someone flipping a table because they got upset at something.

— Shrimpo’s room could have been a storage room. It seems to be more bland (could just be Shrimpo not liking decorating) and it has a lot of useless things. Really, the only thing that makes sense for a room is the desk, wardrobe, and bed.

— A confusing thing to me is the airhorns in his room. Shrimpo could be using these or they just came with the room. If he did use them, it would probably be on other toons as a “screw you” signal.

Sorry I talked so much, usually I don’t like doing this but I needed to yap for a good 5 minutes about my favorite toon. I love you Shrimpo!! No one could make me dislike you!! I will make many, many more theories for you. . . .

[cvnt4him]

think’n ab best friend!izu

this was supposed to be js hardcore smut but turned out to be js like reader finding izu weird.

best friend!izu and you laying in your bed scrolling through social media, you go from tiktok to insta to other apps. Eventually you make your way to twitter more commonly known as the new porn cornucopia, mindlessly scrolling you see some funny videos a bunch of unsettling things and even tons of cute cat videos! some things are still wholesome... Izuku was quite close to you, basically spooning you as if you were his girlfriend. Or..maybe it's all in your mind and hes not actually that close..I mean his pelvis is directly up against your ass..and he is constantly shifting his hips...but I'm sure that's nothing! you can feel his breath on your ear making you shiver at the feeling.

“ y’ alright?”

you nod with a squeak and a smile at his soft voiced question, his big wide eyes making it seem as if he had true concern. he grabbed the cover at both of your legs and pulled it over the both of you, scooting closer to you as he did so calling it 'making sure you were warm'. Hes just being a good guy...

You two find more funny videos laughing and playing jokes with one another before you scroll once more and see a video, quite an inappropriate one at that. there's a girl in her knees big happy smile and wide eyes not a single thought behind those tears filled mascara laced eyes, she had her tongue pulled out and a bunch of thick bulging cocks appeared muscley hands began stroking repeatedly some fast some slow before they all erupted, plastering different textured white substance into her face, splattering and spilling everywhere. It got all over her face in her tongue some even in her eye, you and izuku didn't say a word as you watched with wide open mouths.

“oh my god..”

Izuku couldn't even speak. His freckled face was burning and he couldn't help the lewd thoughts that began flooding his brain, the most common one;

‘ what would y/n look like with my cum all over their face....’

He gulped and shook his head trying to get those thoughts to exit his brain as quickly as possible, he shouldn't think of his best friend in such a way! It's disturbing and creepy and unprofessional!! however...as uncomfortable as you looked you had scooted back into him, the two of you were already quite close, the fact you tried to get even closer to him must mean something....right? his mind wasn't just trying to justify his nasty thoughts...no, that would be ridiculous.

Silence filled the room as you both just sat there, the video long ended and it was just left on the screen. You couldn't find the words to say, izuku must've thought you were a perv if something this disgusting pooped up on your feed..but it wasn't your fault, honest! People online just can't seem to keep their clothes on.. so many things had your mind racing and stressing thinking izuku hated you, while he was trying to keep his perverted thoughts in.

Eventually, the silence was broke with something neither of you expected to hear ...

“ I think you'd look good with cum all over your face..”

Izuku has gotten closer into your ear and spoke softly with a teasing tone laced through, a small chuckle ending off his sentence. Before he could even process the thoughts that already became words you whipped your head around feeling your cheeks warm. Your eyes looked up at his larger ones with no words at all just blinking as he began stammering to excuse himself.

“ ,,what....”

“ oh! I- well, uhm! I didnt- wait— ”

He couldn't even find his words, a blushing mess sitting up straight in your bed trying to find the right words to excuse his terrible outburst. You just sat there watching him, no words or even an inch of clue inside of you. You truly had nothing to say about this.

based on the video I accidentally scrolled onto, y'all need to go back to cornhub or something bc why can't i scroll on twitter n find people shit talking each other anymore.😞

[heavysighing-dreamyeyes]

A Glass City

Part Four of A Gilded Cage ~2k Words

You can't remember the last time you cried like this. The plush leather muffles your sobs, but it does nothing to loosen the tightness in your throat, to offer any relief from the reality of your situation.

You had been blind, entranced by the fact that Jason Todd was alive and filling your days with distractions that you had missed one simple truth. Jason Todd is the Arkham Knight, and you know nothing about what that's turned him into.

The cuff around your ankle weighs heavy, a cold, unyielding reminder to the fact that you're trapped. You've been trapped since he snatched you to that forsaken penthouse. It draws more tears from your eyes until you have none left to cry, leaving you a shaky, gasping mess of heartbreak and terror.

It's that very fear, the urge to get away, that drives you to mechanically push yourself up. Sobbing has left you feeling drained.

Your head hurts, every breath is a battle, and you have half a mind to blow your nose on the stupid throw pillow lying haphazardly on the couch. It's with shaky hands that you examine the golden chain securing you to the leg of the couch.

Despite its shiny, lavish appearance, it's well made. No amount of tugging seems to bend the metal, and the cuff latched around your ankle seems equally as sturdy. It's frustrating, and your fear starts to morph into anger with every pull of the chain.

It's humiliating. You doubt you could escape his base even if you had the opportunity to try, and the chain? It just feels like a twisted claim over you.

You rub hands down your face and towards your throat, exhaustion and fury warring in your mind as you try to calm yourself. The motion causes your nails to catch on the diamond choker. The collar.

Another way he tried to keep you. Disgust wells in your throat. How did it get this far? Where did you start to lose yourself? Start to lose him?

It's thoughtless, when you curl your fingers around the piece of jewelry and rip it from your throat, throwing it across the room and as far away from you as possible. You hope it's broken. Hope something in this room is more shattered than you.

You don't react to the knock on the door, but you do lift your head when it opens. There's a hiss, and you watch Bean dig his claws into Mack's arm before jumping to the ground and rushing to you.

Bean purrs as soon as he starts to nuzzle your ankles, and you almost want to cry all over again when you pick him up to clutch him to your chest.

"The boss wanted to make sure you got him," Mack grumbles, seemingly more interested in the diamonds scattered on the floor than the redness in your eyes.

"Where is he," You bite out, or try to bite out. Crying has made your voice raw and scratchy, but even if it hadn't, you doubt it would have threatened Mack anyway.

"Busy," he answers bluntly, "Need anything else?"

You stare him down sharply, Mack might not be your friend, but he has been guarding you for as long as you've been under Jason's thumb. If anything, he should at least show you some sympathy.

"The key for this," You huff out, lifting your leg to show off the chain, "And a phone." Bean meows, and you take it as agreement as you try to hide your jittery nerves. Mack finally meets your gaze, jaw clenching and unclenching as he studies your defiant gaze.

"I don't have the key," he says eventually, "and giving you a phone is asking for trouble."

You lift your chin, exuding confidence over the militia man you don't necessarily feel, "Aren't you supposed to give me what I want?"

Mack exhales softly, slowly, and you have a feeling being assigned to babysit you is not how he imagined taking over Gotham would be. He shoves his hand into his pocket, and tugs out what's clearly a cheap burner phone. He tosses it to you, doesn't even blink when you barely manage to catch it with one hand.

"Two minutes," he warns you as he steps out the door and nods towards the chain, "Just long enough for me to find something to pick that lock with, understand?"

You breathe out a thank you when he's already out the door. Huh. Maybe Mack does like you more than you thought. You file that away for later, putting Bean down in your lap as you carefully type out a number you've had memorized since the day Jason disappeared.

Nine digits. Your last lifeline. The clock tower. Babs.

The phone rings. And rings. You've nearly given up hope, your breathing getting shallower, more panicked, when the line finally connects.

"Oracle– don't hang up– please–" You start. You don't know what to say, you don't even know where you are, but she'll know what to do. She has to.

But it's not Oracle's familiar voice that comes over the phone. No. It's the sound of your name that cuts you off, said through the low, robotic modulator that lives in your dreams.

It makes your blood go cold. It's impossible. You dialed the right number– "How–" You choke out, defeat settling on your shoulders.

The Arkham Knight laughs, an easy, bored sound, "Oracle and I are having a reunion, sweet thing. I would have brought you if I thought you'd play nice."

"I wanna talk to her," you stumble out, eyes darting to Bean as he cuddles into your stomach, seemingly picking up on your anxiety.

"She's busy," he tells you lazily, and you hear the sound of something falling over in the background of the call, "Anything else?"

"I want to go outside–" You try instead, pulling whatever you can think of to hold his attention, to try and give Babs a chance. (If she's even still alive)

He hums like he has all the time in the world to draw the call out, "Mhm, now's a bad time to be out, doll. But you can walk around the base. Sound fair?"

"The chain," You force yourself to choke out instead, "I want it off. I can't– walk if it's on." Bean meows and licks your fingers, it almost steadies the beat of your heart.

He falls quiet for a moment, and the modulator sounds in your ear like he's letting out a sigh. "I shouldn't have– I wasn't trying to scare you earlier. You just needed to be safe."

Another crash sounds in the back of the call. "Someone will take it off," he says your name again, voice no longer the shadow of a laugh, "I need to go. Don't call this number again."

The line goes silent, and you realize you've accomplished nothing at all. Jason's either killed or kidnapped Barabra, and you're no closer to escaping than before.

It's almost terrifying. Jason– The Arkham Knight– is capable of winning whatever war he's waging. He is winning the battles he's picked. And you don't know where that'll leave Gotham, where it'll leave you.

You're still staring blankly at the phone when Mack returns. Neither of you says anything as he crouches at your side and works on the cuff around your ankle. It doesn't take long, but when the golden metal hits the ground, you don't feel any lighter. Jason can win, has planned to win, and everyone will suffer for it.

Mack straightens himself out, and carefully takes the phone from your hand, "C'mon. I'll give you the tour."

"Why," You ask quietly, and lift Bean to cuddle him close to your chest, "Why are you bothering?"

Mack shrugs like it's obvious, "It's part of the job." He doesn't elaborate, and you don't ask for the truth, as you push yourself to your feet to follow him out the door.

Mack leads you down a hall, and when it opens up to what seems to be a hanger, you're left in awe. Now that you're not lost in your own panic, you can see just how impressive the base is. Rows of drones, trucks and tanks, groups of soldiers, and helicopters take up the massive space.

It makes it clear how much of an operation this is, how much Jason has prepared for this night. It nearly takes your breath away. How can anyone go up against him? How could the city survive this? How could you even dream of getting away?

A couple of the men look your way, but they're quick to avert their gaze when Mack levels them with a look. Bean seems just as enthralled with the scenery, and he crawls his way up your arm to sit on your shoulder.

You settle on the sight of crates and crates of weapons, "Can I get a closer look?"

"At the guns," Mack asks, tilting his head at you. He gives you a look like he's picking apart your entire plan when you nod. (Which you find funny, because you don't exactly have a plan yet.)

"There's a range we can use," he relents, leading you away from the hanger and deeper into the base. You're not sure if he's doing this because he feels bad for you, or if you really can get away with whatever you want. But it's hardly the time to complain about his easy compliance.

The range he takes you to is nice. At least you think it is, it's not exactly your area of expertise. There's a skylight, some targets, and more weapons than you've ever seen in one place. You feel like maybe grenades shouldn't be among the choices, but Mack doesn't say anything as you look over each option.

Bean nuzzles your ear as you trace your fingers over what looks like a rocket launcher. You're scrambling a little. This could be your only chance to get away, and you don't have a clue what to do.

Grab a gun and threaten your way out with a kitten on your shoulder? Shoot out a window and hope for the best when you try to run? Try and knock out Mack and pray no one notices you when you try to sneak out?

You're so lost in your thoughts that you don't notice the shadow that falls over the skylight. But you do notice when glass shatters down a few feet from where you're standing. And you definitely notice Nightwing dropping down to hit Mack in the back of the head.

Nightwing smiles at you, a pleased, proud sort of thing, and you stumble towards him like he's your last lifeline.

"Orcale is–" You begin, needing to share what The Arkham Knight has done, even if you aren't sure what's happened.

Nightwings smile falls, and he nods, outstretching his hand to you, "I know. Let's get you out of here."

"You know," you ask, voice going weak as you tuck Bean against your chest. It makes sense that he does, but your nerves feel like they're on fire, and you half expect Jason to appear from nowhere to drag you back to that chain.

Nightwing nods, voice soothing, "I know," he tells you, carefully pulling you to his side to shoot a grappling hook through the broken skylight.

Your feet hit the rooftop, but even still, it feels like you're flying. The air is cold, and Gotham is silent and screaming all at once. But you're free.

There's no Jason charging at you, no glittering collar around your neck. Just you, Bean, and the vigilante leading you towards safety.

"Where are we going," You breathe out, disbelief clear in your voice.

"There's– somewhere safe," he murmurs, guiding you through the shadows, "Robin's going to look after you."

"Oh," You mumble, following him step for step until he's helping you onto a motorcycle.

Helicopter blades sound in the air, as you hook your arms around Nightwings back. There's gunshots somewhere in the distance and muffled shouts lost to the wind.

You don't look back, you don't dare to, but it doesn't stop the chills that run down your spine as the bikes engine rev. It doesn't stop the feeling that if you did look back, you'd see The Arkham Knight and his heavy gaze digging into your soul.

[toskarin]

sorry to ask, but can you explain your last post to someone who knows nothing about the musician community youre talking about... it sounds like a really really good post if i just understood it better

this is another one of those posts where I'm transcribing a stream of consciousness, so I'll throw in a courtesy readmore

the musician community, as a whole, is much more segmented than the visual artist community

this leads to good and bad things, but generally it allows for more awareness of one's position and an acknowledgement that the needs of an underground folk artist are going to be different than the needs of a composer who receives a name credit. this means there is always going to be heavy pushback when someone tries to impose ethics downward

one element of this is the inward acknowledgement that the monolithic musician community isn't actually real in a way that isn't really mirrored in the visual artist community. besides making music and navigating the financial (and legal) landscape of that, there is very little that intrinsically unites musicians

this acknowledgement allows discussions about concerns among poorer musicians to exist without being completely shut down by someone who has different concerns, because they're not seen as the subject of the discussion unless they are respectfully contributing to it

one big reason for this being possible is that musicians are less respected than visual artists in the professional world

that might sound absurd if you only know of one landscape, but think of how many game (and movie, and tv, and etc. etc. etc.) franchises with identity-defining composers go on to swap out the composer at the first sign of a labour dispute, to very little protest as long as the quality of music isn't seen as dropping

hell, if someone else can copy your style satisfactorily, there's often no fuss at all! this leads to a pretty violent disillusionment with your place in the creative world

even beyond that, there exists an entire industry based around creating a parasitic body of IP landlordism for anyone whose music isn't attached to another product. the musician is, in a way that is deeply and thoroughly beaten into them, a labourer

the visual artist community (until recently) didn't tend to have this disillusionment, so it often follows the sway of its most popular and established members

in fact, the modern visual artist community as a broad cultural body is carved almost entirely from social media discussions that treat the community as one entity. accordingly, becoming established basically requires participation in this online entity

to further poison the well, the position of a visual artist is regularly talked about in spiritual terms rather than labour terms. there is something special that makes you a visual artist. it's the exact mentality that people rightfully made fun of in those ordinary people vs creative people comics. it's the unspoken cultural assumption that natural talent exists, even if most people would deny believing in it if put into explicit terms

while this does feel very good, it means that acknowledging labour-originated conflicts of interest is a bit rude

when a community unites itself around a spiritual core, it can't properly assert "your experiences are not applicable to what is being discussed and you should not be imposing yourself" because, by all metrics, an artist is a fundamentally unique demographic that can speak in all conversations about art

it's a warped form of anti-gatekeeping, a one-way gate through which you can strike down at other poor artists, but not up, enforced from below and framed as a desire for openness

the visual artist community's relative homogenisation of popular consensus is, on the whole, very very very bad for what it does to its norms. it hashes out and legislates within itself with an unspoken assumption that its most prolific members are simply further along the artist lifecycle, and therefore the most trustworthy

discussions with direct parallels ("is it okay to be obviously influenced by someone else's style?") come to much hazier conclusions which lean towards the opinions held by people with the most followers

most egregiously, this manifested in how visual artists react to piracy

the past ten years (in large part because of patreon making viable the paywalling of material behind a regular subscription) have been consumed by arguments about piracy that all seem to terminate in the assumption that piracy is theft, with little stratification of opinion between the hobbyist and professional scenes on this matter

this assumed spiritual core of the community is felt strongly in every conversation. look at the difference in attitudes around the distribution of cracked VSTs and the distribution of brush packs. hell, even on the corporate level, look at the difference in attitudes around pirating DAWs vs visual art programs

even when people are implying an approval of piracy, they find ways to frame it from a position of revenge on a company for something wrong it did, because they still need to conform to the community understanding of piracy as theft

individual visual artists can be (and often are!) more conscious of this stuff, but even then, people react with shock when these visual artists aren't horribly concerned about the possibility of their paywalled work existing on a torrent site

in a word, if you can see the ways these conversation spaces are different and similar, it's all so exhausting