#it just turns out i have no time but i'm trying!!

[artficlly]

his girls [one-shot]

marvel au bucky x reader alpine barely tolerates anyone but bucky, so when she curls up in your lap without a second thought, the team is left reeling—especially when it leads to the not-so-subtle revelation that you and bucky have been sneaking around for months.

Warnings: fluff, so much fluff, alpine is a troublemaker, secret dating, swearing, kissing, alcohol, tony knows all, natasha too, no use of y/n, lmk if i've missed anything

Word Count: 2.2k

A/N: hello! once again a fic no one asked for lol. i'm supposed to be on hiatus buuut i took some time this afternoon to write this because i'm procrastinating a uni assignment. i'm sure this concept has been done before, but i was thinking about that scene in rivals with the dog (iykyk) and yeah! step away from the usual angst and heartbreak i normally provide you all with. sorry for any typos - not proof read.

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You were careful.

Or at least, you thought you were careful.

For months, you and Bucky had kept your relationship under wraps. It wasn’t that you wanted to keep secrets from the team, but there was something thrilling about stolen moments and hushed conversations. About Bucky��s hand on the small of your back as he guided you through a crowded room, or the way he’d brush a kiss against your temple before disappearing down the hall.

You figured no one had noticed.

Until today.

It all started with one of many white hairs stuck to your t-shirt.

Natasha plucked it off you mid-conversation one morning in the kitchen while you were praying—desperately—to whatever all-seeing god might finally make the coffee machine work faster. Between the groaning, spluttering sounds and the blinking lights, it felt like the damn thing was possessed. With flawlessly manicured nails, Natasha held the hair up to the morning light filtering through the floor-to-ceiling windows of the compound.

“Is this Alpine’s fur?” she mused aloud, twirling the long, pale strand between her fingers.

“Probably.” you replied absently, more concerned with the coffee machine’s latest refusal to cooperate. You jabbed the buttons harder, ignoring the way Natasha’s eyes flickered with something dangerously close to amusement. 

“For all of Tony’s money, you’d think we’d have a coffee machine that actually works,” you grumbled.

“Turn around?” Natasha asked. There was a particular lilt to her voice, that barely concealed intrigue she tried—and failed—to mask whenever she was onto something. It set you on edge instantly, the tone that meant she was clicking a mystery into place, giddy with excitement beneath a thin veil of indifference. You didn’t trust it for a second.

“No, just—” You smacked the machine in frustration. It whined pathetically before the lights blinked off entirely. You let out a long, exasperated groan. “Why won’t this stupid fucking thing ever work—”

“Jesus, you’re covered in it—”

You froze mid-motion as Natasha yanked at your shirt, effectively grooming you like a monkey. Her sharp lips had turned up into a wicked smirk, the type of smirk that made dread pool in your gut. 

“Everything is covered in her fur,” you said quickly, still trying for casual. You reached for the plug, praying Natasha would drop it. “She sheds everywhere, especially on the couch.”

“Mm.” Natasha tilted her head, her smirk deepening. “And yet, I thought Tony hired cleaners for that? Especially with Kate always bringing Lucky around?”

You yanked the plug from the socket a little too forcefully. “Honestly, Nat, I don’t know. I just want this damn machine to work.”

Right on cue, a familiar voice rumbled behind you.

“Machine giving you trouble again?”

Your heart stuttered in your chest before resuming its normal rhythm—though maybe a little faster. You turned just as Bucky strolled in, looking frustratingly good despite the early hour. His hair was a little dishevelled, sleep still clinging to him in a way that made him look too soft for someone who could snap a man’s spine in half.

“There’s a trick to it, remember?” He stepped in close beside you, skin brushing yours as he reached for the machine. The scent of his aftershave lingered, warm and familiar. You tried—and failed—not to watch the way the muscles in his forearm tensed, veins shifting beneath his skin as he pressed a series of buttons.

“Barnes, you’ve got cat hair all over you,” Natasha noted, not even bothering to be subtle. You didn’t dare look at her. Instead, you busied yourself wringing your hands, pretending you weren’t hyper-aware of Bucky standing so damn close.

“Huh?” Bucky barely spared a glance at his shirt, where Alpine’s fur was unmistakably clinging to the fabric. “Oh. Yeah, guess I do. She always wants attention in the morning.”

Then, with one final smack, the machine roared to life. The rich aroma of coffee filled the air as liquid finally poured into your mug. You sighed in sheer relief.

“There you go,” Bucky said, looking down at you with a small smile, a few strands of dark hair falling across his forehead.

Your stomach did a stupid little flip. You smiled back, warmth creeping into your face. “Thanks.”

The machine beeped again, snapping you back to reality. You quickly grabbed the mug with both hands, muttered another thanks, and let Natasha tug you away.

“What was that?” She hissed, voice low as she turned to you with narrowed eyes.

“Huh?” You weren’t entirely listening to her words. You found yourself glancing over your shoulder, a ghost of a smile tugging at your lips. You could still see Bucky standing in the kitchen, both hands braced on the counter as he waited for his own coffee. His back was turned, but even through the thin material of his fur-covered t-shirt, you could see the way his muscles shifted beneath it—

Natasha didn’t even humour your innocence. She crossed her arms. “You and Barnes?” 

“What about him?” You mumbled, pulling your gaze away as the elevator dinged, doors sliding open.

Her lips twitched, amusement clear. “Are you two—?”

You made a face at her. “What are you on about?” 

Natasha didn’t look convinced, but she let it go.

For now.

As the elevator hummed and Bucky was cut from your view as the doors shut, you took a sip of coffee, the liquid a few degrees between too hot and burning. It scalded your tongue, and with the phantom smell of Bucky’s aftershave no longer haunting you, you felt your mind snap back into action.

Right. Focus.

“We’re going to be late for the meeting,” you declared, shaking your head. “And that damn machine is the reason. You know what? Let’s take a detour to Stark’s lab and demand a better one.”

Natasha chuckled, pressing the button for a different floor.

“I like the way you think.”

—

You knew Alpine would be your downfall.

The little white menace was notoriously selective. If you weren’t Bucky, she wanted nothing to do with you. Everyone at the compound had suffered her wrath at least once—Sam even had the scars to prove it. Alpine liked to play dangerous games that usually ended in blood or a yowl of pain. You swore the Avengers bled more dealing with the feline than fighting aliens, wizards, or whatever else tried to obliterate Earth every other week. She was a cunning little creature, lurking around corners, hiding under tables, prowling along bookshelves. And just when you least expected it—bam. Teeth and claws bared, she would pounce, latching on like a tiny, vengeful spectre. This was her idea of fun. The Avengers had learned to tread carefully, tip-toeing around the compound whenever they knew she wasn’t safely curled up in Bucky’s room, where she ruled with an iron paw.

So, when you sat down on the couch one evening, and Alpine immediately hopped onto your lap, you knew you were fucked.

She didn’t hesitate, didn’t so much as sniff at you in consideration before curling right up, purring loud enough to be heard over the football game droning on in the background—which you were only half paying attention to. 

You stiffened, caught between awe at the rare privilege and sheer dread at the witnesses currently gaping at you.

Bucky, for his part, had been sitting at the other end of the couch, flirting with danger in his usual way—stolen glances, conveniently placed touches as he shifted in place. Alpine, just as obsessed with him as you were (Bucky had taken to calling you both ‘his girls’ in private, which always managed to make you swoon.), had immediately perched in his lap when he sat down. Only when he carefully pried her off to grab another round of beers did the little white she-beast decide you were a worthy substitute, strutting over with lazy, languid confidence before settling down, blissfully unaware of what she had just unleashed.

The room fell into stunned silence. Several pairs of eyes locked onto you, breath collectively held. They were waiting for the yowl, for the inevitable attack, for you to tense up and leap to your feet in pain. But to your horror, the little sadist simply settled in. Cosy, unbothered, as if this had been the plan all along.

“Okay, what the hell is this?” Sam finally demanded, pointing an accusing finger.

You blinked down at Alpine, then up at Sam, stroking the soft fur like nothing was amiss. “Uh… a cat?” 

You were foolish and desperate enough to pretend this was completely normal, to gaslight the others into believing Alpine was a perfectly gentle and affectionate cat. A sweet, loving companion. Not a tiny, vengeful menace who had terrorised them all—and definitely not a creature who had only warmed up to you in recent months because you spent more time in Bucky’s bed than your own.

“The same cat that tried to claw out my eyeball for getting too close? And now she’s just—” He gestured wildly at Alpine, who flicked her tail with the smugness of a queen on her throne. “—cuddling with you like you’re her best buddy?”

“She likes me, I guess.” You blinked innocently, turning back to the TV, hoping he would drop it, but Sam, ever the dramatic, was not satisfied.

“Are you kidding me? That cat has tried to kill me.”

Natasha snorted into her drink. 

Alpine smugly licked her paw before resting her head upon your thigh and blinking her wide blue eyes at Sam, who shook his head with an exaggerated shudder.  “This is bullshit, and you know it—”

“Maybe she just doesn’t like you, Sam.” You huffed, scratching Alpine behind her ears. “She’s always been fine with me.”

“That is not true!” 

“She took a chunk out of my arm once,” Natasha added, ever the instigator.

“Remember when I gave her a treat and she bit me?” Steve piped up.

Bucky returned at that moment, frowning as he saw the conversation unfolding before him. You turned to him with wide, desperate eyes, silently pleading for help. Alpine, the little traitor, merely pressed her pink nose to your hand, rubbing her face against you with a contented sigh.

“She only likes people she’s comfortable with,” Bucky offered, setting the beers down with a clink, but his pitiful attempt to be helpful only added fuel to the fire.

The room exploded into a series of overlapping voices.

“I didn’t realise you spent so much time with Alpine?” Natasha’s sharp gaze flicked between you and Bucky, her smirk primed to taunt you both. 

“Buck, doesn’t she spend all her time in your room—?” Steve leaned forward, forearms braced against his thighs, invested now.

Sam jolted upright like he’d just solved a murder case. “Now, hold on a second—”

“You have been covered in cat fur a lot lately,” Natasha mused. “And you two have been suspiciously close—”

As you glanced over at Bucky, you couldn’t tell if his repeated blunders were intentional or borne out of genuine panic. He cleared his throat, his brows raising as he casually popped off the cap of one of the beers with his vibranium thumb in faux nonchalance.

“Coincidence.” He muttered with a shrug, tipping back a mouthful of the brew. 

Alpine, completely oblivious (or entirely aware of the chaos she’d caused), didn’t budge as Bucky sat back down beside you, levelling you with a look that screamed we are so screwed.

“You two aren’t even going to try to lie?” Natasha pressed.

“Lie about what?” You feigned innocence, but the act was flimsy at best. The jig was well and truly up.

Bucky, clearly done with this little charade, let out a long-suffering sigh that might’ve sounded exasperated if not for the telltale smirk tugging at his lips. Without another word, he slung an arm around your shoulders, pulling you effortlessly against his chest, Alpine still coiled contentedly in your lap. The smug little she-beast didn’t even stir. She just purred loudly—too loudly, like she was taking credit for the entire thing.

“Wait a second!” Sam pointed a dramatic finger between the two of you. “How long has this been happening?”

“How long has what been happening?” Tony strolled into the room, a glass of amber liquid that looked suspiciously like whiskey in hand.

“Her,” Steve announced, gesturing between the both of you. “And Barnes.”

Tony didn’t even blink. “Oh, I already knew that. You didn’t know that?”

Bucky turned so fast you were surprised he didn’t give himself whiplash.  “You what?”

“Oh, come on,” Tony drawled, making himself comfortable on the armrest of the couch like this was all just another day at the office. “You really thought I wouldn’t notice her sneaking out of your room at ungodly hours for the past six months? F.R.I.D.A.Y. kept flagging intruders, and, shocker—it was just you two, utterly failing at stealth.”

Sam threw up his hands. “Did you say six months?!”

Bucky rolled his eyes, but instead of answering, he just turned to you and, without hesitation, kissed you.

It was sudden but warm, his lips soft against yours like he’d been waiting for an excuse. The room erupted into even more noise, Sam shouting something unintelligible, Natasha making a sound of smug satisfaction, and Steve groaning like he should’ve known, but it all faded into the background.

You laughed against Bucky’s lips, breathless but entirely unbothered. “This is definitely her fault.”

Alpine, still purring in your lap like the devious little mastermind she was, flicked her tail.

Bucky just hummed, brushing his nose against yours. “Yeah,” he muttered. “Not complaining, though.”

And, truthfully, neither were you.

[brawberryz]

⎯⎯ Blind Love

⎯⎯ Jason Todd × Blind! Reader

Note: English is not my first language/ inspired by the manga Veil

TW / None,i just a little drabble

Snow fell in torrents through the city streets.

The snow painted the streets a white color, giving life to this dead city.

Your footsteps echoed through the cold city streets like a small tinkling sound.

You stood out among all the citizens, having such a charming yet simple style.

Your cane tapped the ground as you walked slowly down the street.

You were supposed to get to your new apartment, but you were lost, and being blind wasn't much help either.

Maybe you should have asked for a guide, but you wanted to be independent.

You grew up your whole life in a very overprotective family because of your disability, which bothered you.

They treated you like you were made of glass, as if you were going to break at some point.

You were tired of so much overprotection, so you decided to move to a new place.

But apparently you overreacted and ended up moving not only to another city but also to another country.

You were so confident in yourself. You didn't even notice you were lost, and someone like you on the streets of Gotham wasn't the best idea.

You were so distracted by your thoughts that your cane collided with someone's foot, causing you to stop dead in your tracks when you heard a small sound of pain as your cane hit the stranger.

"Ah! Excuse me..."

You said embarrassedly, apparently you ended up colliding with a stranger who was sitting on a bench.

It was only your first day here and you'd already messed up. You apologized several times without letting the stranger speak.

"I'm really sorry, I didn't hurt you, right?"

A small, awkward silence formed between the two of you until the stranger deigned to speak first.

"Don't worry, I've taken worse hits."

He said ironically. You just nodded, still embarrassed, but you could feel the man getting up and you could feel his imposing figure in front of you.

It's not that he's shorter, it's just that he was too tall.

"Wow, you're really tall!" You said without thinking about your words. You were someone who tended to say things without thinking, and that sometimes got you into trouble. "Sorry, I didn't mean it like that."

"No, calm down, it's okay."

Jason noticed from your nod. You weren't from this place. It was easy to spot someone new when they'd spent their entire life in this city.

"Hey, do you know this place?"

You asked suddenly, handing her a small piece of paper with all the information she needed written down, but they seemed to have forgotten that you were blind.

"Oh yeah, sure."

Jason took the paper as he read it, but all he could think about was how a person could stay with their eyes closed for so long.

Those doubts, though, were answered after seeing the cane and how you couldn't read something as simple as this paper.

Noticing that so late made him feel like an idiot.

"You should go straight and then turn left. On your right, you'll find your destination."

He said, trying to be as clear as possible. You just nodded happily and then took out your cane again.

"Thank you so much for the help!"

You said before returning with your slow steps. Something in him told him he should follow you and keep you safe.

You were new to Gotham, and your blindness made you easy prey for criminals.

Besides, he was a hero, or a good antihero, but he still had a desire for justice and to protect others, and he couldn't let someone like you walk the streets of Gotham.

"Careful, there's a staircase there!"

He yelled at you from afar when he saw you about to step on a step wrong. You just turned your head and nodded with a small laugh.

"I know, you shouldn't worry."

Your steps were slow but refined as you climbed the stairs. Something in Jason's chest burned every time he sensed something dangerous for you.

He had only met you a few minutes, but he already felt strange.

What the hell was happening to him?

"Are you sure? Is there no one to accompany you, or are you alone?"

He asked curiously, and you just nodded, not paying much attention.

You didn't need anyone's protection. You'd spent your whole life being overprotected, and you didn't need anyone else to worry about you.

"You shouldn't worry. Besides, let me warn you, following me won't get you to Wonderland."

Jason just arched at your sudden comment.

"Do I look like Alice to you?"

You could only let out a small laugh at the man's question.

"Well, maybe a little, but don't be offended, it's my favorite story!"

'She laughed...' That was the only thing Jason could think when he heard your laugh.

"Well, maybe you're right," he said as he approached you. "I almost fell into a hole today. It was an open sewer, and I almost fell in because I was too distracted."

"Ah..." You nodded, surprised but a little curious about the man's story. "Oh! Right, I haven't introduced myself. I'm (Name)!"

You felt like an idiot now. You'd spent a few minutes talking to the man, but you weren't even able to ask his name or introduce yourself properly, where were your manners!

"(Name)..." He said, repeating your name as if he were tasting it in his mouth. "You can call me Jason, Jason Todd."

"Nice name," you said, about to say something, but you were hesitant. You didn't know if you should ask him for help or not. But this was your only chance. "Sorry for asking, but do you know any places where we could get tea?"

After walking all over the city, your thirst and appetite had grown, and you thought a good cup of tea would solve everything.

"Uh, well, I know a place. But it's a bit far from here-"

"Really!"

You interrupted him before he could finish his sentence. He just nodded.

"I don't want to sound annoying, but..." You swallowed before continuing. "Could you take me to that place? I'm new around here, and you know...um."

Jason quickly understood the point. He knew you didn't want to seem useless, but he knew you needed help now.

"Yeah, sure. I hope you don't get bored with my company, though. I'm not one for words."

You shook your head in amusement.

"I don't think so. Your company can't be worse than walking down the street alone."

An inaudible laugh escaped Jason's lips. You were a very direct person.

But now that he had you closer, he noticed something. He felt like he'd seen your face somewhere.

And apparently he was right. You looked like one of those models. He saw your face for the first time when he was patrolling as usual.

Your presence was plastered all over that huge billboard that could easily light up an entire street.

Apparently, you were famous, since he'd seen your face on many posters and magazines, but he decided not to ask and kept his curiosity to himself.

"Could you give me your arm?"

"Uh-"

Before he could say anything, you answered.

"I wouldn't want to hit someone with my cane again, so you could be my guide and my eyes?"

"Oh, of course,"

He said, embarrassed, finally understanding what you meant.

You wrapped your hand around his arm and pressed against him. A small blush appeared on Jason's cheeks.

It was just the cold, right?

The blush didn't mean anything. He was just cold, or was that what he wanted to think?

Anyone who saw the two of you would think you were some kind of married couple.

"Now you'll check for any holes, right?"

You said with a small chuckle, reminding him of that incident he'd told you about.

"Of course, I'll try not to be so distracted this time."

You nodded at his comment.

Jason guided you through the snowy streets, slow steps following you as you could feel the cold breeze hitting your face.

You felt happy because after a long time, you had met someone; besides, he seemed like a nice person.

Maybe leaving home and being independent wasn't so bad.

Because if you hadn't, you would never have met him.

And he would never have met someone like you.

Maybe the two of you meeting was a coincidence or a piece of fate.

Or maybe the two of you were meant to be.

I think you should stop overthinking things. If you keep doing this, you'll most likely get some kind of headache.

The important thing is to live in the future.

And stop looking at the past

Jason is so Aleksander Code

Maybe I'll do a part 2 if I'm not too lazy

[lastoneout]

I always feel like I sound like a libertarian when I say this but no that's literally YOUR money. The fact that I worked for a little over 4 years having social security deducted from my pay check, something that is not optional, and then when I became disabled and went to the SSA and said "Hi I'm disabled now, can I have that money I gave you to watch specifically so if something happened to me I could take care of myself back so I can take care of myself?" and then they go "haha NO" is unreal. That should not be allowed. It's my fucking money, they took it from me by force under the logic that it was to be kept safe until I became unable to work, either due to age or disability, and then when you actually need it they go "sike, fuck you" and there's basically nothing you can do about it. The government took our money, used it for whatever, and is now trying to cover their asses by making a big fuss about fraud and how expensive it is and isn't it better to just let old and disabled people die? After all they're such a drain on the resources we fucked up managing, honestly fuck you for even expecting to be taken care of when you're sick or in your old age.

(Also this isn't to say that people who have never worked should be left out to dry, you don't have to deserve to be taken care of or work a specific amount to be worthy of not ending up starving and unhoused when you can't work, and the amount I paid in over the course of four years of primarily minimum wage just-under-part-time employment would never be able to take care of me for the rest of my life given that I'm only turning 30 this year and will hopefully live for another 60 at least, but as OP says if the gov had been smart and invested the money they could make bank and have plenty to take care of every single person in this country who needs it forever. But they didn't. And then they act like we're the problem.)

with musk and trump gunning for social security, now seems like a good time to remind everyone that social security isn’t like government charity or something. it’s fully paid for. always has been. corporate media loves to parrot the conservative lie that social security is running out of money without ever mentioning why: congress stole the money. they literally robbed from peter to pay paul.

the whole idea of social security was always that you pay into it your whole life, and then when you retire the government gives you that money back. it’s your money. always has been. like sure technically the money being paid by working age people now is going to the people who are retired now. but social security was started in the 30’s, the people who are collecting benefits now paid into it their whole lives. the idea was to be a retirement savings account that the government keeps safe for you because it’s almost impossible for working class people to save for retirement under capitalism.

the problem is that congress looked at all that money just sitting there and decided to use it as a slush fund. and never paid it back. because it’s easier to steal that money than it is to raise taxes for new spending. so yeah, it’s a problem now that there are more old people retiring than there are young people working, but only because congress stole the money it was supposed to be saving for the people now retiring. all those savings could have actually earned money for the people who can’t pay in due to disability etc by being used as a massive investment fund. instead it’s the classic austerity misdirection: sabotage a useful functional government program, then claim that it doesn’t work and is too expensive. and the media never talks about it.

[pomefioredove]

*ੈ✩‧₊˚ ad perpetuam memoriam II

I II

summary: you enroll at night raven college one year after the original yuu. a heartslabyul event and a mysterious letter type of post: series includes: ace, deuce, riddle, silver, sebek additional info: platonic, reader is gender neutral, reader is not yuu, this is all AU, not making predictions for how twst will end

"Leave me be,"

The hollow sound of knocking and the rasps of weary sighs end. Finally. You pull your blanket back over your head, content to sleep through the rest of the morning.

BANG!

The door splits itself apart, sparks of magic and smoke flying through the cool air.

Sebek Zigvolt, vice housewarden of Diasomnia, pushes his magic pen into the slim opening of his pocket before he comes inside.

"Up,"

He demands, curtly but not coldly, a hand on his hip. "I have no patience for your disrespect. Silver has been far too lenient with you."

Lenient. If lenient meant sending birds and squirrels through your window, then yes. If lenient meant trying to talk to you in your sleep, then certainly. If lenient meant sending his vicewarden to split your door in two, then Silver was the most lenient housewarden this dorm ever had!

...Not that you'd know.

"Lord Malleus would have torn this room apart, stone by stone, days ago," Sebek says. "You cannot shut yourself away as though you are some... sleeping princess in a tower! UP!"

Cold air touches your sweaty, crumpled body, and your blanket falls at Sebek's feet as he pulls it from you.

"You're ill," he asks, though it's more of a statement than a question.

You say nothing, and he scoffs.

Sebek leers over you, the soft gray light of morning casting his shadow over your body. "You should consider yourself fortunate, that Silver has not thrown you out of this room yet. You are making a mockery of the Housewarden,"

With some difficulty, and, surely, some disgust, he lifts your sweaty, cold body from the bed.

Fwump.

Sebek sits you in the lounge, forcing you to keep upright with a hand on the nape of your neck. With the other, he holds a cracker to your lips. His hand doesn't move until you've eaten the entire thing.

"Sebek... What are you doing?"

Both of your eyes, sharp and wide, crusty and tired, turn to Silver.

"What does it look like?" the vicewarden scoffs. "Feeding your pet."

Silver looks taken aback, crystalline eyes reflecting your sordid state, and he hurries to your side.

"Gentle," he instructs his vicewarden, taking your hand in his. You can't seem to understand why he's so kind to you. You don't ask.

"Are you ill?" he asks (genuinely, this time). "You must be hungry..."

Sebek rolls his eyes, though even he looks a little uncomfortable at the thought, shifting where he stands.

"I'll prepare something," he mutters.

"Thank you, Sebek. That would be good,"

Silver's thumb draws lines and letters over the back of your hand, soothing you. He must have learnt that somewhere. You wonder what his parents are like.

"You've missed several days of classes. I've had some of your classmates collect your work for you. But don't worry about that now,"

You look away, eyes tired and barely open. Sick, yes, that's what you are. It's not that you'd been avoiding everyone... you're just... sick.

"Riddle wanted me to give this to you," Silver says, taking a delicate, elegant paper from his pocket. Had he been carrying that all weekend?

"It's an invitation for an unbirthday party, which-"

"I don't want to go," you don't even let him explain. Though you're not sure of what you want, now. Except for this headache to go away...

Silver frowns. "You should. You should make friends, or at least... talk... to someone. Deuce has been asking Sebek about you,"

For some strange reason, that makes your headache worse. Is it obligation? Guilt? Pity? Do these people think that if they care enough, one day they'll look at you and finally see someone else?

Is it so hard to believe that you're cared for?

Yes. It is.

"You should tell him I'm fine," you snap, though without meaning to. "I don't have to be friends with him, you know."

Silver winces, and you overflow with guilt. Something about him, the only person to, so far, treat you as a human and not a shadow, makes your stomach twist and turn.

"You're right. But he's trying. Really,"

"That's what they say," you relent.

"Yes. It's not easy for everyone," Silver dabs at some of the sweat and grease on your forehead with a handkerchief. "Especially those who were close to... never mind. Don't worry yourself about it. You have nothing to feel bad for, you belong here just as much as anyone does."

His gaze becomes hazy, unfocused, as he speaks. He may as well have been talking to himself.

"Soup!" Sebek announces, as if it were some kind of culinary battle cry.

He sits at your side in the comfortable darkness of the lounge and sets the warm bowl in your lap. It smells good.

"You cook?" you ask, absent-mindedly stirring the broth.

Sebek smirks. "Certainly. We both do,"

"We learned because Lil- er, my father is a terrible cook," Silver explains with a smile. "You're lucky he isn't here. He'd insist on making you his "specialty" and you'd end up worse than before."

You snort at that. "It can't possibly be that bad,"

"It is," the two say in unison. Sebek shudders at some memory, or another.

"He'd love you," Silver says. "So would... well... Malleus would understand."

Malleus. Your stay in Diasomnia has been haunted by that name, spoken into every conversation and implied between each breath.

Something about the way they spoke of him told you he wouldn't like you. You're not sure why.

"I guess that's good enough," you relent. Silver smiles, and Sebek pats your head, not knowing how else to show his approval.

"I'm unsure if this is entirely necessary-"

You catch yourself talking in that voice and just as soon shut your mouth. Have you always mirrored the others, or is it only a symptom of mania?

Perhaps you've been locked in that room for too long, after all.

Riddle doesn't seem to notice that you were mimicking his voice, or he doesn't say anything of it, at least, instead fixing the white and red sash of your scratchy uniform over your shoulder.

"It is. It's custom to be dressed in the Heartslabyul dorm uniform for an unbirthday party,"

"But I don't think that-"

"Hush," he pins the sash in place.

Riddle takes a step back, his chin comfortably cradled in his gloved palm. "Perfect. Now, let's make haste. It'd be uncouth for the Housewarden to be tardy,"

Great. Is that what you sound like??

You follow after him, the heels of your tight, pinchy boots click click clicking on the tile in rhythm with his.

"I would have had Deuce tend to you, as the former vice housewarden would have, but..." Riddle sighs. "He's doing his best, he's doing his best..."

You glance at him as he mutters the mantra to himself, fingers twitching around the magic pen in his pocket.

He withdraws them. "Of course, Ace has been of no help, either,"

Ace. A thought of a figure in red and white comes to mind, faceless and apprehensive. He was the one who had hugged you at the orientation ceremony.

You hadn't seen him since.

"Has he fallen ill?" you ask, still sounding all too like the housewarden.

"No," Riddle says. "Yes. It's... an affliction of the mind. Ahem. Never mind that."

"Oh,"

"Yes. Well, Deuce will have you. It was he who wanted to extend the invite... ever charitable,"

Yuck. The apprehension in Riddle's voice makes your skin crawl, even if it's not entirely aggressive.

"...Right,"

Riddle leads you through a door with a mockingly smiling face engraved on the knob, and into the gardens.

In another world, you might have liked it here. The tall, handsome hedges, the perfectly kept grass, the painted roses which seemed to sing in the golden sunlight... and, of course, the tables, one set after the other, in pinks and whites and greens and gold, a spread of teapots, tarts, jams, sugar, butter, on each one.

"Hey!" a merry, little-too-loud voice beckons from behind. You would have jumped, but a sudden hand on your shoulder keeps you tethered to the earth.

"There you are! I'm so glad you could come!" Deuce Spade smiles. "You look great... the uniform really suits you!"

"You think so?" you ask, feeling more like a circus clown than a student of the strictest dorm in school.

Deuce nods enthusiastically (a little too much so) and his hand slides to your wrist. "Oh, man, I have so many people to introduce you to,"

Dread. As much as you would have liked to run back to your room, or mingle on your own terms, or simply say no, you don't.

"...Great,"

"Great!" Deuce echoes, dragging you over the manicured lawn.

There is, at least, some comfort in the confusion, apathy, and meager care of Deuce's Heartslabyul dormmates. The disinterested greetings, the humble waves, the looks of pity, as if you were anyone but yourself. Then, at least, you can pretend as if you belong here.

"And one more person!"

You glance towards Riddle, scolding a first-year for spreading his jam "offensively" (whatever that means). You haven't had any food, yet. Or water. You haven't even sat down.

The taste of Sebek's soup is still stuck to your tongue. That was last night.

"Ace, over here!"

Dread. If there was anything in your stomach, it surely would have introduced itself to the front of your shirt.

Deuce drags you through the grass, caking your pointy shoes in mud and debris. Why, you? Why? He pushes and pries himself (and you, attached at the wrist) through a crowd of ooh-ing and ah-ing first-years. "Ace, look who it is!"

A boy with spiky, red hair, not unlike the hedgehogs Riddle had introduced you to earlier, bristles. The lively cards between his fingers die on his palms, and the table falls silent.

"Yeah?" Ace asks.

He doesn't seem too excited to see you.

"Look who it is!" Deuce repeats, as if Ace hadn't heard him the first time. He definitely had. "Finally decided to come!"

Ace shuffles the deck, slotting each card together, and then separating them again.

His eyes, narrowed, dark but fiery, like molten iron, never stray from Deuce. He doesn't even look at you.

"So?"

"So?" Deuce says. "Wouldn't you like to say hi?"

You tug, trying to break your wrist free of the binding of his hand, your body making some futile effort to escape.

Deuce doesn't budge.

Ace's eyes finally lower to his cards. "Nah, I'm good,"

The table seems to let out a collective sigh of relief, but the tension isn't done with. Ace's casual response had only thrown a blanket over the corpse of this conversation.

"...Oh. Okay," Deuce says, withdrawing from the first-years. "Sorry." he says to you.

You shake your head. "I should get back to Diasomnia, anyway. Silver needs me,"

He doesn't. No one really needs you.

Deuce doesn't have to know that.

"Oh, well..." he looks at his feet. "Um... if you... need anything, Riddle and I would be glad to help, 'kay?"

"...Sure,"

His grip is gone, and cold, afternoon air embraces your wrist. His palms had been sweaty, you grimace.

You leave the dorm uniform where Riddle had given it, dressing yourself in the familiarly unfamiliar clothes that Crowley had dumped on your doorstep days ago.

Though they're not really yours, they're still something you can call your own.

"Mind yourself," the strict sound of Riddle comes from the kitchen. "I can't recall having excused you."

Your mouth dries. "Did I... need to be excused?"

He comes into the light. At least his expression is softer than his voice.

"Well, you could have at least said good-bye,"

"...I didn't think anyone would notice-"

"Nonsense," his face goes red. "I would have. Are there no manners, where you come from?"

You open your mouth, but only breath comes out. Riddle coughs, taking out an embroidered handkerchief (you swear you've seen like, eight of those so far. This school is weird) and breathes into it. His face returns to its proper color.

"...And... breathe," he sighs. "Now... as for you. You mustn't think so lowly of yourself. You were invited to this event, were you not?"

You nod.

"Then you are wanted. I have heard from Silver that you haven't adjusted?"

"No one would," you mutter. Which seems logical to you. Who would "adjust" to being magicked into another world?

Riddle looks away for a moment. "...To some, it comes easier than others. Forgive Deuce for not knowing how to behave. He's... trying,"

You raise an eyebrow. Riddle sighs and waves off your look with his handkerchief.

"Trey would have known exactly what to do with you..." he says. "He would have had you bake something with him. Explained the rules, given you that... ugh, what was it? Some kind of sauce? As a practical joke... all very immature, yes, but it worked on the first-years.

And Cater, of course. He would have treated it like a holiday. Sevens, my head hurts just imagining the hashtags..."

You snort, if only at Riddle's memories, names and faces you didn't know.

He smiles. "I suppose Deuce sympathizes with you, in that way. You both have certain expectations to meet. The difference is that you didn't ask for yours... ahem. Take care,"

You walk back to school feeling unlike yourself. Your chest is light, your feet don't seem to meet the earth, and your mind is elsewhere. Not here, but not at home, either.

Riddle's awkward words of comfort were gauze to your bleeding heart, though it bled on nonetheless.

But they gave you something to imagine. Something to soothe your mind.

What was this place like before?

Most days, the school felt more like a museum. Dates and titles, portraits without faces in golden frames, hung above your head and hands, unreachable, untouchable.

Everything, every conversation, every question, every word of solace, every smile, was a test you hadn't studied for. A funeral for a person you hadn't known.

No one has lifted the lid of the coffin. Maybe that person has been mangled beyond recognition. Maybe that person is you.

You stop.

There is the dilapidated dorm called Ramshackle, and the one light in its foggy window. The lingering smell of mildew feels like a lullaby. It sings, come in, come in and enjoy the quiet, this is your grave.

Your foot turns, the toe of your shoe dragging across the beaten cobblestone, toward the lullaby, the singing, and the quiet.

Then, there's a hand on your shoulder.

"Lost?"

You would have screamed, but you're suddenly bound by another hand, this one larger and colder than Deuce Spade's, and you're beckoned back into the school.

"Oh, don't fret," the Headmage chirps. "It's an absolutely labyrinthine campus! I've had to collect twenty-six lost students this week alone. I've considered maps, but think of the cost... print is not free, you know!"

You steady yourself, finding your breath and balance again.

It feels more as if the Headmage is talking to himself than to you, and so you don't speak, following him (not of your own will, of course) through the dark, abandoned halls of the school.

"...And I resolved to doing it myself, but it really is such a hassle... I am a busy man, you know," he says. "Though, never too busy for you! Housewarden Vanrouge has come to me with some concerns about your socializing... or, rather, lack of it. Oh- now, don't give me that pout! I'm sure you'll be pleased to know that I told him to forget it. I said, not all magicless students from another world will be spry, sociable sixteen-year-olds! And it gives you more time to focus on me- ah, your studies. But now that you've mentioned it, I do have a few cabinets that could use sorting..."

Crowley stops before a door, as tall and dark as he, but without any ability to speak, which makes it slightly more tolerable.

"Here we are," he smiles.

"Here... where?"

"The mail room," he takes a key from his ensemble and slots it in the imposing door. "Now, wait here."

You raise an eyebrow. Mail room? It's getting dark- the shadows on the walls are slanted, and the sun had given its last breath while he was monologuing. Surely, he's not asking you to sort anything now...

"You know, I thought letter-writing had fallen out of fashion," Crowley says, returning from the depths of the dark. "What, with the emails, and the text messages, and the... ah, that reminds me, I'll have to procure you a phone for emergencies... er, but later. Here, for you."

He hands you an envelope, cream-colored and smooth. There is no name, nor return address on the back. It is simply addressed to the "Residing Second Magicless Student of Night Raven College."

You feel the rich, creamy paper under your thumbs. It smells like smoke.

"Now, don't look at me," Crowley says. "I haven't the slightest clue of who might write you from outside the college. In fact, it makes me worry about our campus security... ah, I'll have someone look at that tomorrow. Good night, dear."

He leaves you there in the hall, envelope in hand, a frown on your lips.

It's dark now. The light has vanished beyond the imposing walls of the school, the shadows have become long-limbed and monstrous, and the sky is blue and red in the blood of the setting sun.

You turn the envelope over. There is still no name. A single wax seal, imprinted in the shape of a bell, is the only sign of life.

Weird. All of this is weird.

You walk home in the dark and cold.

[paxtito]

make a mess, lioness

PAIRING - tara x g!p!reader (req) | WC - 3k

WARNINGS - smut. some oral sex (r receiving), orgasm denial, p in v, tara is a power bottom

A/N - i stayed up until 5am to finish this ☹️ questioning my life choices— but at least finished it before friday. yay.

You’re trying so damn hard to focus on the game, but Tara isn’t making it easy.

Her fingers brush over your thigh, light and teasing, barely there. “You always get this tense when I touch you?” she muses, her voice dipped in amusement.

You clear your throat, eyes fixed on the screen. “I’m trying to concentrate, Tara.”

“Uh-huh.” She doesn’t sound convinced. Instead, she shifts closer, pressing against your side, her breath warm against your neck. “You’re really bad at pretending this isn’t getting to you.”

Your grip on the Switch tightens. “You’re annoying.”

Tara just hums, sliding her hand up a little higher. “And yet… here you are, rock solid.”

You nearly choke. “Tara.”

She grins, smug as hell. “Yes?”

Before you can even think of a response, the bedroom door swings open.

“Jesus Christ—” Sam’s voice fills the room. “Do you two ever stop?”

Tara doesn’t move an inch. She just tilts her head, throwing her sister a look that’s far too innocent. “We’re literally just sitting here.”

Sam’s eyes narrow. “Yeah, right.”

You quickly hit pause, setting the Switch aside. Because let’s be real—Tara isn’t stopping anytime soon.

As soon as Sam walks out, you turn to Tara with a deadpan look. “For the record, I’m not even rock solid.”

Tara barely holds back a laugh, eyes gleaming with mischief. “Oh?” She leans in closer, fingers dancing up your arm. “Rock soft, then?”

You sigh. “Flaccid as hell.”

She snorts, finally breaking into laughter. “Damn. That bad, huh?”

“Tragic, really.” You shake your head, feigning disappointment. “You should work on your technique.”

Tara gasps, shoving you playfully. “Excuse me?”

You grin, picking your Switch back up. “Just saying.”

Tara huffs, crossing her arms. “Alright. Challenge accepted.”

You try to keep your focus on the game, but Tara isn't having it. In one smooth motion, she pulls the Switch right out of your hands and tosses it onto the bed. Before you can even protest, she's straddling your lap, knees bracketing your thighs, hands coming up to rest on your shoulders.

"I think you're distracted enough," she declares, a wicked grin spreading across her face. Her eyes are dark, almost black in the dim light of the TV, and her cheeks are flushed a soft pink.

"Tara..." you warn, but your voice comes out softer than intended. Your hands come up to rest on her waist, thumbs brushing the bare skin beneath her tank top. She's so warm, so soft.

Tara leans in closer, until her forehead is resting against yours, until you can feel the whisper of her breath against your lips. "What are you afraid of?" she murmurs, her voice low and teasing. "That I might actually make you feel something?" Her fingers dance along your collarbone, tracing the line of your jaw, the curve of your ear.

You swallow hard, trying to ignore the way your heart is pounding against your ribs, the way your skin feels too tight and too hot. "I'm not afraid of anything," you say, but it sounds like a lie, even to your own ears.

Tara just smiles, a slow curve of her lips that's somehow both innocent and wicked all at once. "Good," she whispers, and then she's pressing her mouth to yours, and you can't think of anything at all.

Tara grins against your lips, clearly enjoying your flustered reaction. She nips at your bottom lip, not hard enough to hurt, but enough to send a jolt of electricity through you. Her fingers tangle in your hair, nails scraping lightly against your scalp as she tilts your head back, deepening the kiss.

She takes her time, exploring your mouth like she's trying to memorize every inch of it. Her tongue traces the curve of your lips, the hard edge of your teeth, the soft cushion of your tongue.

When she finally pulls back, you're both breathing a little harder, your chests heaving against each other. She leans in close, her lips brushing your ear as she whispers, "I can feel how much you want this, how much you want me. Don't try to deny it."

Her hand drifts down your chest, fingers splaying over your stomach, your ribs. She traces the lines of your muscles, the dips and curves of your body. Her touch is electric, setting your skin ablaze, making you ache for more.

"But I want to hear you say it," she murmurs, her voice a low purr in your ear. "I want to hear you beg for it, beg for me."

She rocks her hips against yours, a slow, deliberate grind that has you gritting your teeth, your fingers digging into the soft flesh of her thighs. She's not even trying to hide how much she wants this, how much she wants you. And fuck, the way she's looking at you, like she wants to devour you whole... it's enough to make you forget your own name.

Tara grins wickedly as she feels you start to respond, your growing hardness pressing insistently against her core. She grinds down harder, relishing the way you gasp and tense beneath her. "There it is," she purrs, her voice dripping with satisfaction. "I knew you couldn't resist forever."

She leans back slightly, looking down at you with a smug, triumphant smile. Her fingers dance along your chest, toying with the hem of your shirt. "Come on, baby," she coaxes, her voice a low, teasing lilt. "Don't be shy. I want to hear that pretty mouth of yours begging for what it needs."

You try to hold out, to maintain some semblance of control, but Tara isn't making it easy. She rolls her hips in slow, deliberate circles, grinding down on your now fully hardened length. It's almost too much, the way she's touching you, teasing you, pushing you to the brink of desperation.

"Please..." you hear yourself whimper, hating the neediness in your own voice but unable to stop yourself. "Please, Tara..."

She hums, a sound of pure satisfaction, as she leans in closer. "Please what, baby?" she murmurs, her lips brushing the shell of your ear. "Tell me what you need. I want to hear you say it."

"Please, Tara..." you breathe out, your voice strained with need. "I need you. I need you so fucking much. Please, touch me... taste me... anything. Just please, don't make me wait anymore." The words spill out of you in a desperate rush, all thoughts of holding back forgotten. You're completely at her mercy now, ready and willing to beg for whatever she wants to give you.

As Tara moves off of you, you feel a pang of disappointment, of loss at the absence of her warmth and weight in your lap. But that feeling quickly turns to awe and desire as she starts to undress.

She pulls her tank top up and over her head, tossing it carelessly to the floor. She's not wearing a bra underneath, and your breath catches in your throat at the sight of her bare breasts. They're perfect, and you can't look away as she reaches for the button of her shorts.

Slowly, teasingly, she pops the button and drags the zipper down, revealing a sliver of skin inch by tantalizing inch. She hooks her thumbs into the waistband of her shorts and her panties, and with a wicked little grin thrown your way, she tugs them down and steps out of them, leaving her completely bare.

Your mouth goes dry, your heart pounding against your ribs as you take in every inch of exposed skin, every curve and line of her body. She's stunning, a work of art, and the sight of her standing there, unashamed and unapologetic in her nudity, makes your cock throb almost painfully against the confines of your jeans.

As Tara crawls back onto the bed, your pulse races. She kneels between your spread legs, her bare skin brushing against your jeans-clad thighs, sending sparks of electricity shooting up your spine. Your breath catches as she reaches for your fly, her fingers undoing the button and dragging down the zipper with a low, deliberate hiss.

She doesn't say a word, but her eyes speak volumes as they meet yours, dark and smoldering with lust. She hooks her fingers into the waistband of your jeans and your boxers, and you lift your hips instinctively, allowing her to tug them down and off. The cool air hits your heated skin, and you hiss at the contrast, your cock springing free, hard and aching and already leaking at the tip.

Tara wraps her hand around the base of your shaft, stroking it once, twice, before slapping the swollen head against her tongue, smearing the bead of precum that's already leaked from the tip. The sensation is electric, sending a jolt of pleasure shooting up your spine, and you can't help but groan at the feeling of her wet, warm muscle against you.

She holds your gaze as she does it again, and then again, each slap of your cock against her tongue sending waves of heat coursing through you. She's looking at you with pure, unadulterated desire, her eyes hooded and dark, her cheeks flushed a deep, rosy pink. She's enjoying this, enjoying the power she has over you, the way she can reduce you to a needy, desperate mess with just a touch and a look.

She parts her lips, her tongue darting out to lick a slow, teasing stripe up the underside of your shaft, from base to tip. She swirls her tongue around the head, lapping up the precum that's leaking steadily now, before taking you into her mouth, just the tip at first, her lips sealing around you like a tight, wet heat. 

She suckles gently, her cheeks hollowing as she takes you deeper, inch by inch, until you feel the head of your cock hitting the back of her throat. She holds you there for a moment, her throat constricting around you, before pulling back and starting all over again, driving you closer and closer to the edge with every second.

Tara takes you deep, her nose pressing against your pelvis as she swallows around your length, her throat a tight, rippling heat. She holds you there, keeping you suspended on the brink of ecstasy, refusing to let you tip over the edge. 

After long, agonizing moments, she pulls back, releasing your cock with a lewd pop. Before you can catch your breath, she's crawling up your body, straddling your hips, and grinding her bare, slick folds against your shaft.

“God….”

"Don't you dare come until I do," she warns, her voice a low, breathless rasp. She rocks against you, coating your length in her arousal, using it to slide herself along your cock with shameless abandon. "I want to feel you throbbing inside me when I let go. I want you to fill me up, baby. Can you do that for me?"

Tara moves off of you abruptly, leaving your aching cock throbbing and bare, slick with her saliva and arousal. Before you can protest the sudden loss of contact, she flips onto her back on the bed, spreading her legs wide. She's glistening, swollen and ready, her pink folds just begging to be filled. Tara crooks a finger at you, a wicked grin playing on her kiss-swollen lips.

"Come here," she purrs, her voice dripping with lust. "Fill me up like you promised, baby." She reaches down to spread herself open with her fingers, revealing the tight, clenching entrance of her pussy. "Hurry up and give it to me."

You move over Tara with a whimper that turns into a low, almost feral growl as you settle between her spread thighs. You line yourself up with her entrance, the head of your cock nudging against her slick, swollen folds, and with one hard thrust, you bury yourself inside her to the hilt.

Tara lets out a small cry, her back arching off the bed as you fill her completely. She's so tight, so hot and slick and perfect, her walls clenching down around you like some sort of trap. You have to grit your teeth and dig your fingers into the sheets to keep from coming right then and there.

"Fuck, yes," Tara hisses, her nails raking down your back, leaving red lines in their wake.

Tara's hands move to your ass, gripping the firm globes tightly as she guides your movements. She urges you on, pulling you harder and deeper into her with each powerful thrust. The sound of skin slapping against skin fills the room, mixing with both you and Tara's moans.

"Yes, just like that," she pants, her hips rolling to meet yours, taking you impossibly deep. "Harder, baby. Fuck me harder." Her nails dig into your ass, no doubt leaving crescent-shaped indents in your skin, marking you as hers.

You comply, pouring all of your pent-up desire and lust into each forceful, driving thrust. The bed creaks and shakes beneath you, the headboard slamming against the wall as you lose yourself in the heat and tightness of Tara's body. She's like a drug, and you're addicted, craving more and more of her with each passing second.

After a while, you feel your release approaching, your hips starting to move erratically as you near the edge. A desperate whine escapes your lips, your fingers scrabbling at the sheets as you try to hold back, to delay the inevitable.

"Please..." you beg, your voice strained and high-pitched. "Tara, I can't... I'm going to..."

"No," she snaps, cutting off your pleas. She squeezes her legs around your waist, holding you deep inside her as she grinds her hips against yours, chasing her own pleasure. "Not until I do. Don't you dare come before me."

She's ruthless, focused solely on her own climax, using your body to bring herself closer and closer to the brink. Her walls flutter and clench around you, and you know she's getting close, but she refuses to let you find your own release until she's satisfied.

You grit your teeth, trying desperately to hold back, to keep yourself from falling over the edge. Your hips jerk and stutter, your thrusts becoming sloppy and uneven as you fight to keep control. Lewd, choked sounds spill from your throat - whimpers, whines, and groans as you struggle to do as Tara demands.

"Please..." you pant, sweat dripping down your face and back as you continue to move over her. "Tara, I can't... I'm trying... but you feel so good..."

She just shakes her head, her eyes squeezing shut as she loses herself in the sensation of your body against hers, your length stirring her insides. She's close, so close.

"Touch me," Tara demands, her voice urgent and breathless. "Rub my clit, baby. Make me come."

She reaches down and pulls your hand up between her legs, pressing your fingers against her swollen, throbbing clit. It's slick and hot, and slick with her arousal. She rubs your fingers against it in tight, quick circles, her hips bucking up into your touch.

"Don't stop," she pants, her eyes squeezing shut as she grinds herself against your hand, against your still-throbbing cock buried deep inside her. "Keep going, just like that. Fuck, I'm so close..."

"Please, Tara," you beg, your voice cracking with desperation. Your hips jerk and stutter, your length pulsing and throbbing inside her as you struggle to hold back your impending release. "Please, I need to come. I can't... I can't hold back anymore."

Tara just shakes her head, gritting her teeth as she grinds herself against your hand, chasing her own pleasure. "Not yet," she grits out, her voice strained. "Don't you dare come until I do. I'm so fucking close, baby. Just a little more, please..."

With a sharp cry, Tara's body goes rigid, her back arching off the bed as her climax crashes over her. Her inner walls clench down around you like a vice, rippling and pulsing as wave after wave of pleasure consumes her.

"Fuck, yes!" she groans, her fingers digging into your wrist, holding your hand firmly against her spasming sex. Her hips jerk and shudder, grinding herself against you, prolonging her intense orgasm.

"Come," Tara demands breathlessly, her voice ringing in your ears as she rides out the aftershocks of her intense climax. "Come inside me, baby. Now."

With Tara's permission and the feeling of her still fluttering walls, you finally let go. Your hips jerk forward one last time as your orgasm overtakes you, your length pulsing and throbbing as you empty yourself deep inside her. You groan long and low, your body shaking with the force of your release.

"Fuck, Tara!" you grunt, your vision going white as sparks of pleasure burst behind your eyelids. Your cock twitches and jerks inside her as you fill her up, just like she demanded, your hot seed painting her walls.

You collapse on top of Tara, both of you panting and trembling in the aftermath of your intense lovemaking. Your softening length remains nestled inside her, plugging her up, as the last spurts of your release dribble out. Tara wraps her arms around you, holding you close, her fingers tracing idle patterns on your sweat-slicked back.

"That was... incredible," she murmurs, her voice still breathless and sated. She tilts her head up to press a soft, languid kiss to your jaw. "You did so good, baby. I'm so proud of you for holding out until I was ready."

After a few moments of basking in the afterglow, you carefully pull out of Tara, both of you wincing slightly at the sensation. You collapse onto the bed next to her, your chest heaving as you try to catch your breath. Tara rolls onto her side, curling up against you, her head pillowed on your chest.

You reach for your Switch, picking it up and turning it back on. The game loads, the characters frozen on the screen in the exact moment Tara interrupted your gaming session. You glance down at her, taking in her satisfied, contented smile and the flush still dusting her cheeks.

Tara looks up at you curiously as you fiddle with the Switch. "What are you doing, baby?" she asks, propping herself up on her elbow to get a better look.

"Just... getting back to the game," you mumble, pressing buttons and navigating menus. "I don't want to lose all my progress."

Tara rolls her eyes but can't help grinning. "Seriously? We just had mind-blowing sex and you're worried about some stupid game?"

“Mhm.”

[mintmatcha]

inevitable bonus content:

the unfamous Christmas party. cw: mentions of drug use, depictions of abuse.

Two years before the story:

It's not that you're embarrassed of Touya, even though he wore the jeans you specifically told him not to, even though you explained it's a formal party. You're actually quite proud. Proud that he's chewing on nicotine gum, proud that he's slipping a second suboxone under his tongue. Recovery is slow and painful, and yet he's trying for you, trying again.

The event is loud enough that it sets your teeth on edge. All of your coworkers look different like this, in low light and nice clothes, like different versions of themselves, buzzing with excitement for the holidays and free food. Your dress isn't new, or particularly fancy. Neither of you fit in, you suppose. When you try to loop your arm into his, Touya shrugs you away with a scoff.

The restaurant Prome has rented for the evening is nice, way nicer than anything you could possibly afford. Usually, you wouldn't bother Touya with something like this, something so self serving, but... maybe you just wanted to pretend for an evening.

Touya had been gone for 21 days. It was supposed to be longer - the full 90 day program the doctor had recommended - but he had checked himself out early. Seeing him made you... Happy, you guess. At least now you get to enjoy a night together.

"Don't drink too much, please," you say.

He shouldn't be drinking at all, but you're a realist and you're not ready for the inevitable fight that's brewing between you.

"Fine."

The withdraw anger. You're used to it by now. It's his third time going through rehab and you swear it gets worse with every round, more angled and pointed, purposefully stabbing. You try to remind yourself that it's not actually him acting like this. No, it's the pain, the need, the chills and aches he should be done with by now, but he never seems to shake.

"It's a nice party," you comment.

"I said fine," Touya shoots you a look and you try to smile back. His scalp is stained blue, his hair freshly dyed. It matches the bright black tattoo on his neck, only a couple days healed. It's a fight you chose not to have; you can't say you're fond of it - this... skull thing that creeps down his jaw and certainly cost more money than he should have spent - but you suppose that you need to be grateful for anything that makes him happy.

As soon as you two settle into a table, a familiar figure catches your eye. The man is tall, taller than you remember, with an upward turned mouth and wide, wild eyes. You perk up and the man looks you way, lighting up with excitement.

"Hey!" he practically leaps across the room. "Good to see you!"

"Mirio!" Standing, you open your arms for a hug. Mirio hugs you so hard that he lifts you off of your feet-- and your stomach immediately sinks. You're quick to back away, but Touya is already up. "Oh, I- uh--I've missed you, uh. How's the PhD?"

"Difficult, but amazing," he smiles a million watt smile. "Did you just get here? Want me to grab you a drink? There's like little peppermint thing that's-"

"She can get her own drink."

Touya's hand clamps on the back on your neck. It's a warning, a leash and collar all in one: a reminder both for you and for Mirio. The grip isn't tight, but a thumb digs into the spot between muscles. From the corner of your eye, you watch how Touya slides his tongue piercing across his lips, his jaw flexing hard.

"Can't you, princess?"

Your body is immediately on spikes and you freeze, trying to avoid being stabbed.

"Oh, uh. Yeah. Yeah, totally. Sorry, um, this is my boyfriend! Touya, this is Mirio! He was an intern when I first started here. I haven't seen him in-"

"I'm getting a drink." Your boyfriend lets his hand fall away and a scoff. Touya dips into your ear as he passes, whispering into your ear with a bitten sneer. "Take your fucking jaw off the ground."

Rehab was different this time. You keep telling yourself that.

"Um-" Mirio says uncomfortably, no longer smiling. He shifts on the balls of his feet, glancing around as if wondering if anyone else had seen that interaction. You certainly hope they hadn't. "You okay?"

"Sorry, he's just--" You're already following Touya. "He's having a bad day. I'll catch up with you in a little, okay?"

There's a creeping feeling in your throat that you'll never talk to him again.

By the time you weave through the crowd behind your boyfriend, he's already saddled up at the bar. The drink in his hand is already drained, only ice clanking around as he turns to you with an ice expression.

"Thought you were busy humping that guy's leg."

There's a dry spot on your lips that you can't stop picking at, even though the spot is tender and raw. "It's not like that."

"You're a fucking whore," he taps the glass against the Bar top to summon the bartender's attention. "Bet you're gonna have a headache when we get home though."

Something flips inside you. No, you don't want to have sex tonight. Why would you? Ever since he's gotten back, Touya's been on a tear-

"I won't."

- but you make sacrifices for peace.

"Whatever." Touya says. You don't miss the bartenders annoyed look when he makes his way over. "Another whiskey sour."

"D-"

"Don't fucking nag me." The drink comes quick and he tips half of his drink down even quicker. "Hold this. I'm gonna go take a drag."

You open your hands and let him slot to glass into them. "I thought you were doing to gum instead."

"Oh, yeah." He jams his fingers into his mouth and pulls out the wad of gum, jamming it to the edge of his cup. "Thanks for the reminder."

Touya stalks away, throwing a shoulder into yours as he passes. It's almost enough to knock you off of your balance, but you get a hand on the bar top just in time.

"Are you alright?"

Why do people keep asking you that? You glance up and realize it's another familiar face. One of the engineers, you think. It's hard to recognize him without his sunny yellow sweatshirt.

"Yeah. Yeah! Totally, yeah." You suck in your lips and they taste of copper; the spot you have been touching has broken. Aizawa sucks in air between his teeth, his neutral expression never breaking.

"If-" he pauses himself. There's a quick, outward breath. "Hizashi is looking for you."

That's not what he was going to say, you think, but you aren't sure you want to know what he was really thinking. Not when you already feel so small. You truly feel sixteen again, but in the worst ways, the helpless, voiceless way, the one that's easily dismissed and forgotten.

"Yeah. Thanks, yeah," you reply.

.

When you finally run into Hizashi and Nemuri, you make sure to only hug her. Touya hadn't returned yet, but you still feel the needle prick of his attention. Most nights with him are good, but others are the loaded chamber in Russian Roulette. There's been too many quiet nights in a row; the bullet is coming and you aren't sure if you can dodge this one.

Hizashi is leaned across the table, lost in a work story. It's not as captivating as he thinks he is, but it's nice. Mundane is always a nice reprieve from the highs and lows of your home life.

"You're quiet tonight!" Hizashi suddenly gripes. "'muri, she's usually not this quiet. This girl is an absolute riot."

"I'm just tired, I'm sorry."

"Don't be sorry!" Nemuri places her hand over yours. "I thought your bad boy boyfriend was supposed to be here?"

"He is, somewhere," you say. "I have his drink. And gum."

"He gave you his gum?" Nemuri winks. "In like- a sexy way?"

"No. Is there a sexy way to share gum?"

"Are you kidding? Anything can be sexy if you're dedicated."

You smell him before you hear him, then feel his touch before you can react. Again, his hand clamps onto your neck, but this time he pulls, yanking you back like a marionette on a string. You stumble with a seasick smile.

"There she is!" There's a loud slur to Touya's words. He's unstable himself, nearly falling into Nemuri. "Knew I'd find you whoring it up."

"Whoa," Hizashi says, all humor gone from his voice.

"Whoa," Nemuri echos, nearly jumping out of her skin. Her eyes narrow hard, snarling. "I know you did not just smack my ass."

"Aw," Touya tugs at your neck again. It's easier to go limp and play along, to let your head bop from side to side. "She can flirt, but I can't?"

Attempting to change the air, you laugh, but only Touya smiles back. He reeks of cigarettes, with something else brewing underneath. Alcohol, maybe. You hope it's alcohol. You really want it to be alcohol. Your pleasant charade only lasts a moment; your body sighs with disappointment.

"I'm so sorry," you say. "He's just-"

"I'm just fucking fun." Touya jerks you back again and your neck aches. "She's just a lame cunt."

"Whoa." Hizashi has never looked more unamused. He's not the only one either; when you glance around, you notice more than a few watchful eyes. Shame starts prickling at the corners of your eyes.

"He doesn't mean it. He's-- Touya, apologize." You clutch at his arm with mock affection. "Touya, say you're sorry."

You turn back to your friends. Maybe ex-friends. The apology is meant for them and them alone; you don't need an apology from Touya, mostly because you know it would be hollow.

"I'm so sorry," you try again. When you look up again, you catch Yagi out of the corner of your eye. With his mask on, it's too difficult to read his expression, but you doubt it's good. "We're gonna go. I'm so, so, so sorry."

Luckily, you had left your coats in the car. It's a quick get away-- just like you had planned. The two of you can escape before-

The smile slides off of Touya's face and the gun goes off.

"There she goes." The way he addresses the room makes your gut twist. He does it with a practiced pomp and circumstance, a tactless grace- "Always so fucking embarrassed of me."

You pull at his arm. Luckily, he's wiggly enough that he stumbles along with you, even as his tone rises and rises.

"You always make me out to be the asshole."

"Let's go."

"So fucking embarrassed."

"Let's go, baby. Please."

"Anything for the fucking princess."

Somehow, you manage to get him outside. The weather is biting cold, with moisture clinging to the air in the anticipation of snow. Touya's breath puffs out visibly, each labored breath faster and faster. A real blow out is coming. Saying something will either mitigate it or push him over the edge.

"I just wanted to spend time together." You take the risk. "I just wanted-"

The gamble doesn't pay off.

"It's always about what you want." He yanks himself away from you. "You just fucking hate me, don't you?"

"I love you!" You do, you really do. It's why these bad moments hurt so badly, why your heart's so heavy when he gets this angry. "I love you so much, but this is my work and I want you to behave. Just for one night."

"It's always about you. What you want. What you want to do." The dark of his eyes are blown out, nearly swallowing the blue completely. "Never about fucking Touya. Never do anything for me, you fucking--"

Shit. He's high. You should have seen it earlier.

"You're heartless. You're a bitch." It's in the way he rambles, the laziness in his tongue. "Never what I wanna do."

There's a flash of anger inside you. All of this. All of your effort, your love, your money: it all feels wasted.

"Because all you ever wanna do is get high."

Touya whips around, fists bunched, lip sneered-

"You have no fucking idea how bad-" Spittle flies from his mouth as he speaks and you jump at their intensity. Every inch of your spine dissolves. "I wanna fucking bash your face in right now."

His body heaves with every breath. You wait for the retraction, wait for the realization, but his expression stays hard, firm with conviction. Suddenly, you're glad to be in the parking lot, bearing with the cold and ice, because it affords you silence. There's time to swallow down your tears, to remind yourself that he doesn't mean that, that it's just the withdraw talking.

(He's not in withdraw anymore. He's not in withdraw.)

Touya shoves a hand out.

"Gimme the car keys."

"You're drunk." And high. Where did he even get the drugs? Did he bring them?

"Give me the fucking keys." When you do, he starts to stalk off. "Take the fucking train home-- I don't wanna look at your fucking face."

"Touya..." you step after him. Your voice is wild and wet. "Touya, I-"

"I will fucking hit you, I swear to-"

He wheels around again, then freezes. His eyes are locked behind you. Shit- Hizashi, who had clearly followed you both outside. Relief and worry flood your system at the same time, so thick you might choke on them. Your boyfriend backs off, keys gripped tight in his hand.

"I'm leaving."

You watch him prowl away, through the parking lot, into the first flakes of snow. Quickly, you wipe away your snot and tears with the back of your hand. That's when you realize Touya's drink is still in one hand, gum still pressed into the edge.

"Hey-" You friend takes a couple steps forward. You're quick to start rambling.

"Hey, um-- ignore that, I--"

"Yeah. Totally. Yeah." Hizashi throws his hands up, expression open, yet twinging on sad. "Hey, I was just thinking; Nemuri and I just redid our guest room if you wanted to stay at our place for a little. We'll have a little sleepover."

"I couldn't-" Pity: you hear it in his voice. Guilt rises in your throat; you don't need his help. Tonight was just a bad one. "I don't have a toothbrush or my phone charger-"

"Oh my god, don't worry about it." Hizashi reassures you. "We'll take care of you, it's fine. I need someone to tell me if the mattress is good! You'd be doing me a favor, really."

There isn't a train station nearby. You'd have to cross the highway, you think. There's no guarantee you'd make it home tonight and if you did, there's only a chance that Touya will be over his mood.

"Okay, thank you." You rub your palm into your eye again. The tears have dried your contacts up. "I'm so sorry about him."

Hizashi cups a hand at your back. The contact makes you paranoid, as if someone's still watching, but it also eases your ache, just a bit.

"It's gonna be okay, babygirl, don't worry."

.

Touya calls you that night, just after 4am. It's a bad idea to answer, but you do anyway, voice low.

"Where are you?" Touya asks. His voice is smoothed out, calm and sweet. It soothes your headache, irons out a bit of your worry.

"Friend's house."

"Text me the address."

The guest room is nice, with finer sheets than you've ever slept on. Your eyes are puffy from the salt of your tears. "Touya, I don't know..."

"Princess, baby..." he pleads. "You know I'm sorry. Can't sleep in this apartment without you."

This is the side of his you like. The syrupy, soft kindz the one that sticks to your teeth like caramel.

"I was worried 'bout you, yeah?" he continues. "I miss my pretty girl. Miss kissing you."

"You were so mean."

"I didn't mean it. You know that. It's not me- I was just coming down real bad. You know that. You know that, right?"

"I do."

"And you know I love you. So much it makes my fucking head go crazy. Love you so fucking much. You're my princess." He rambles on, tugging at the strings. "You're my girl, right?"

The clock in the corner ticks. You count the seconds until you answer, voice small. "Yeah."

Touya blossoms at the inch you've given him. "My favorite girl. Always gonna be my girl, aren't you? It's just you and me 'til the end of the line."

Affection and dread. You can't decide with one you feel.

"Gimme the address, princess," Touya pleads again. "Lemme come get you. Take you home."

You do.

The car pulls up outside within the hour. All you have on is the loaned sweat set that Nemuri had lent you and the heels you had worn to the party. Snow has gathered enough that it wets your feet as you walk out to him. Touya is leaning against the car, arms open.

"Hey, princess." He sniffs. The tension is gone from his face and body. "Come'ere."

When he hugs you, his arm wraps around your neck.

[dont-touch-the-phlebotinum]

Blood pounds in Buck's ears along with the sound of his frenzied footfalls echoing around the stairwell, but it's not nearly loud enough to drown out his spiralling thoughts, the thrum of helicopter blades picking up speed, of explosions and gunshots and every single thing that could possibly go wrong before this day from hell is over. He's pretty sure the only reason he's not having a full-blown panic attack right now is because he doesn't have either the time or the oxygen to spare.

Please, God, don't let him be too late.

He bursts out onto the rooftop with enough force that the door bounces back against the wall and slams behind him, and Buck can't tell if the spotting in his vision is from the sudden blinding sunlight or because he's forgotten to breathe in what feels like hours. But it doesn't matter. The helicopter is still there on the helipad, blades motionless, and there's a familiar silhouette walking towards it.

"Tommy!" Buck scrambles closer, before he can reach the helicopter and escape, again, before Buck has chance to explain, to fix things. He's too far away. Even at Buck's breakneck speed he won't reach Tommy before he reaches the helipad. "Tommy!"

The figure stills, and turns.

Buck stumbles to a halt in front of him.

In the golden light of the setting sun Tommy looks gorgeous — and wary, and torn, and Buck's every impulse is screaming at him to take Tommy's face in his hands and kiss all that pain away. But he bites it back. He's let his impulsiveness take over too many times when it comes to Tommy; it's time to be deliberate. If he doesn't get the words out now…

Tommy's head turns towards the helicopter waiting for him, the responsibilities, the reminder that the world is bigger than the two of them as much as Buck wishes right now it could be otherwise. He looks back to Buck, pleading. "Evan—"

"I know," says Buck. Each breath feels like a knife between his ribs, but he forces himself to take one, to shape what he's needed to say to Tommy for far too long. "Just — please, just give me a second to say this before you go."

The corner of Tommy's mouth twitches into a wry smile. It doesn't reach his eyes. "That's not a ringing endorsement of my chances," he quips, but if Buck lets himself think about Tommy's chances right now whatever force has been powering him through past the fear clawing up his throat and threatening to suffocate might finally up and leave him, so he shakes his head, shakes the words away somewhere they can't be heard, can't be made real.

"It hurt, what you said that morning," he says. "But that doesn't make it okay for me to hurt you back, and I'm so sorry I did."

Tommy nods, squares his shoulders like that's all Buck had to say before letting Tommy go. But it's not, not even close to all the words scrambling to make themselves heard, and Buck catches Tommy's wrist before he can turn away from him again.

"I just — did you really think I could've spent our entire relationship thinking about anybody but you?" The thought has churned through his mind enough times these last few weeks that the anger that comes along with it is less biting — less likely to make him say something he'll regret, hopefully — but it still flickers in his chest. He's been so goddamn gone for Tommy since the moment they met, how the hell could Tommy never see it?

The smile on Tommy's face is so sad, so defeated, that Buck wants to take him by the shoulders and shake him. "I know how this plays out, Evan," he says.

"But you don't!"

He forces himself to stop, let his emotions settle. It's not easy to think clearly around Tommy, never has been, between the lust and affection and hurt and now a healthy measure of bone-chilling terror that Buck might lose him completely, but he owes it to Tommy to try. Maybe he owes it to himself, too.

"When I said I didn't have to have feelings for everyone I sleep with, I didn't mean that I don't have feelings for you. I do. Tommy, I feel so much for you I don't know how I haven't burst from it all."

He watches Tommy's face for some sign of him shutting down again, that Buck isn't getting through to him. His jaw is clenched, tension still radiating from him like it's taking everything in him not to give in and run, to fight that wounded animal side to him that Buck was too blind to see before. But his eyes, glittering wet in the dying sunlight, are still fixed on Buck, and he's listening.

Maybe it won't change anything. But at least Tommy will know what he really means to Buck. Will know he's important, and loved, and deserving of so much more than he lets himself have. And that'll be enough.

"What I was trying to say was that I know what I'm doing. I know who I want to be with and who I don't. You know," he says, "everyone else keeps telling me what I want, like I'm too dumb to know it myself."

"That's not what I—"

"Don't," Buck cuts in, before Tommy can say it. He's on a roll now, and he's going to say his piece even if he has to strap himself into the cockpit beside Tommy and fly into God only knows what dangers to do it. "Right now I need you to listen when I tell you what I want."

There's something of surrender in the shrug of Tommy's shoulders, but he's smiling, as if even this version of Buck, frantic and sweat-soaked and angry, is still hopelessly endearing to him. "Okay," he says.

"I want you, Tommy. Only you. I want to wake up next to you in the morning. I want to listen to you talk about basketball even though we both know I only go to your pickup games 'cause you look so hot when you play, and I want to ramble about whatever stupid thing I learned that day that nobody else cares about and see you watching me the way you do, like you really wanna hear what I have to say, and know you're gonna remember months from now when I've forgotten it myself.

"I want you to feel like you can be yourself with me, and let me see that scared, lonely part of you you try so hard to keep hidden, and I want you to believe me when I tell you I'm in love with you, because I am. I love you so much, Tommy."

The tears in Tommy's eyes spill over, and Buck's pretty sure he's crying too at this point but he doesn't stop to scrub his cheeks, doesn't want to stop for all the world. The wind whips around them, sounds of traffic drifting up from the streets so far below, and there's people waiting for them, people who need them, but right now the only thing that matters is Tommy stood in front of him.

"And when you're ready, I want us to build a life together."

Tommy swallows. "I'd like that," he breathes.

The words are cracked and quiet, but he and Buck have gravitated so close towards each other by now they're stood practically chest to chest and the sound tucks itself between their bodies, there for Buck and Buck alone. He nods, and lets out a shaking breath.

"I'm gonna screw up," he says, giving Tommy one last chance to walk away before Buck gets his hopes up, as if it isn't already going to kill him if Tommy takes it. "I'm gonna say the absolute worst thing at the worst time and I'm gonna hurt you without even realising, but I swear to God, I will do everything I can to fix things if you'd just stick around and give me a chance. Do you trust me?"

"With my life."

"How about with your heart?"

Tommy leans in, touches his forehead to Buck's. "You already have it," he says. They breathe deep, not kissing, barely even touching — just there, together, reaching for whatever comfort they can find in each other. "It feels like I've been terrified my whole life. I'm not sure I know how not to be. But I want to try, with you."

"I can work with that."

And finally, finally, they're kissing. Not the desperate, all-consuming kisses they'd shared last time, but something tender and honest in a way maybe neither of them have really been with each other before now. They stay close even after their mouths drift apart.

"I love you, too," Tommy says. "And I'm sorry as well. I was an idiot. You know," he adds, in that bone dry tone Buck has spent months thinking he'd never get to hear again, and Buck smiles at the sound of it, "I'm kind of a mess, Evan."

The laugh that bubbles up from Buck's chest feels like a tide washing over him. "I had noticed that, actually."

"Wait, you did?"

"A little bit, yeah."

"Damn."

"I don't mind getting messy," says Buck, serious again. "And, in case you hadn't noticed, there's plenty of issues over here too."

Tommy smiles back at him. "Maybe we can work on them together."

"Deal."

And like a spell's been broken, Tommy's radio crackles to life, thrusting them back into the world, into the uncertainty of what's to come, into the gnawing terror that regardless of how their conversation had gone there's still a chance this is the last time Buck ever sees the man he loves.

"Kinard, what's your status?" comes a voice over the radio.

"Go save the day," Buck says, a gentle nudge to Tommy's chest to get him moving before Buck can give in to the urge to pull him closer and refuse to let go. "Just promise me you'll come back."

"I'll try my damnedest. I've got a hell of a good reason to now." He presses another kiss to Buck's lips, and Buck tries not to think of it as goodbye. "They'll need you on the ground."

"As soon as you're airborne I'm gone."

Tommy nods. "Be safe."

"You too."

One last embrace — no, Buck tells himself, not the last, because there's a future waiting for them and they're both going to fight like hell to get to it — and Tommy's jogging towards the helipad. The sun's dipped beneath the horizon now, the clouds swept away for Tommy to take to the air, giving Buck a clear view to track his progress from the ground.

"Hey," he calls after Tommy. "What are you doing Saturday?"

Tommy turns back to him with a grin. "How about you let me know when I land?"

[daenysx]

literally on my knees for drummer!James, idk if it counts but if it does I would love it !!!

-send me drabble requests!

drummer!james potter x fem!reader, a bit suggestive

"Do you think you'd let me bite your biceps?" you ask James, the world slowly settling down in your eyes. "I promise I'll be gentle."

He laughs so bright, you can't help a stupid smile forming on your lips. He holds your waist to keep you steady, wavy hair falling on his forehead, and his arms fully on display.

"Who are you and what have you done to my girlfriend?" he asks, laughs again when you lift your head for a kiss.

"I'm not drunk," you say. "But your arms-"

You're not drunk, that's true. James would say you're slightly tipsy after a few cocktails you had as you watched their band play. His eyes followed you even when he had to pay attention to playing, he was flirting relentlessly with you and his drums. You remember getting yourself another drink because suddenly everything around you felt hotter.

"Come here," he tells you, gets you into a somewhat emptier corner in the bar. You see Sirius shouting at something behind, Remus is there too, they laugh and you turn back to your boyfriend. Gorgeous boy with a gorgeous face. James Potter has been blessed by divine beings, he helps you sit down on a bar stool and you hold onto his arms. His arms.

"What were you thinking when you put this shirt on tonight?" you ask. "Because it's like you're trying to give me a heart attack."

He steals a quick kiss from your lips. You taste like something sweet, your lip gloss got messed up, and you're eager for another kiss. Your fingers squeeze his arms and you let out a soft noise. You're really glad for being tipsy, it gives you new ways to be courageous.

"You played so good," you tell him. Your lovesick eyes, he loves looking at them. He fixes the smudged mascara with his thumb. "But you know that already."

"Always nice to hear," James says. He knows it's time for silent confessions of love in the crowded bar, an invisible bubble around both of you as he gets praised by his lover girl. "I played for you. Got this shirt on for you. I even practiced extra to look at you without making a mistake on the stage."

"You did?"

"Yeah," he murmurs against your lips. "I love when I get to see my girl admire me. Your eyes get all wide and you keep squirming in your seat, did you notice?"

"James-"

Your words are silenced as he presses his lips on yours in a proper kiss. His fingers are tired, he keeps them on your neck as the cute top you wear exposes your skin to him. He needs a drink, maybe you'd want one more, too. James thinks he lives for that admiring looks you give him, your gentle praises and smiles, your greedy hands on his arms.

You break the kiss and take a deep breath. He looks sinful, but still your boy under all this drummer persona. He just carries it so well, a new part of him, you like seeing him embrace something he loves. The band will do better in time. You know you'll always be in front of the stage to watch them play like they were born for this.

"The shirt is a good choice," you manage to say. "If I didn't make that obvious enough."

James smiles. You want to pinch his cheeks and play with his hair.

"I'm loving this new side of you, angel," he says. "Gonna look for more shirt options, see if I can find something more revealing on the arms."

You let him have fun with the new knowledge he has on you. He deserves it after being so good on the stage.

[urdreamydoodles]

Hello! First off, I need to let you know you had made me the happiest person when I found out there was a marvel comic x reader writer and your writing is beautiful! I was wondering if you would write a hc of marvel comic Matt Murdock, Remy Lebeau, Kurt Wagner, and Julian Keller (idk if you write for him since he’s formerly x-men) reacting to reader kissing them out of nowhere/when they least expect it. Thank you!

X-MEN CHARACTERS X FEM!READER

You kiss them when they least expect it

Characters: Logan Howlett, Remy LeBeau, Kurt Wagner, Scott Summers, Jean Grey, Ororo Munroe, Rogue, Erik Lehnsherr, Charles Xavier, Wanda Maximoff, Pietro Maximoff, Hank McCoy, Emma Frost, Laura Kinney, Wade Wilson & Julian Keller

Reply to anon: I'm a Marvel & DC Comic book fan first and foremost, so I wanted to write for this version of the characters and to be honest, I didn't expect so much love for it...SO I'M EXTREMELY HAPPY to receive your type of message! The headcanons for Matt come right after in the "Marvel Comics Characters" headcanons I will post <3 (Btw, I love Julian)

Logan Howlett

- Logan smells you before he sees you, that familiar, intoxicating scent that always seems to linger in the air long after you’ve left. He barely has time to turn before your lips are on his, searing and unexpected, a wildfire in the dead of winter. His entire body tenses—like something wild, something caged—but he doesn’t pull away. Instead, he goes utterly still, as if afraid that any movement will wake him from this impossible dream. He has lived lifetimes soaked in blood and regret, but this? This is something he never let himself believe he could have.

- The taste of you is an ache, something he knows will settle into his bones and never leave. His hands twitch at his sides, the animal in him howling to hold, to take, to claim—but you are not something to be taken. And so, he lets you lead. Your lips move against his with the kind of softness he has never known, and his mind screams that this is dangerous. He is dangerous. But then you sigh into him, fingers curling in the worn leather of his jacket, and he thinks—maybe—he could allow himself this one selfish thing.

- When you finally pull away, his breath is unsteady, rough, the remnants of your touch burning through his veins like whiskey. His eyes—dark, stormy, something unspoken lurking beneath them—search your face as if trying to commit every detail to memory. He should say something. Tell you this is a mistake, that he is too old, too broken, too much. But when he sees the way you look at him—like he is not a weapon, not a thing made for war but a man—his throat closes around the words.

- “You got no idea what you’re doin’, darlin’,” he mutters, voice rough as gravel. And yet, when you smile, soft and knowing, when your fingers trail the faintest touch against his jaw before you step back, he knows you do. You know exactly what you’re doing. And for the first time in a very long time, Logan thinks—maybe—he could let someone love him. Maybe he could love them back.

Remy LeBeau

- Remy never expects to be caught off guard. He is a man who thrives in the game of unpredictability, who lives in the art of mischief and charm, who always has the upper hand. And yet, the moment your lips press against his, he forgets how to breathe. His hands, so used to sleight of hand and stolen treasures, falter at his sides. He could swear his heart stops beating, just for a second, just long enough for the world to tilt beneath his feet. He has been kissed before, a thousand times over, but never like this. Never by you.

- When the initial shock fades, he reacts like a man starved. His fingers find your waist, his body pressing flush against yours as if he could sink into you, disappear into this moment and never return. He tastes of spice and something sweeter, something sinful, and you realize—Remy LeBeau does not simply kiss. He devours. He worships. His lips move with the expertise of a thief, stealing the breath from your lungs, the steadiness from your limbs, and he does it all with a smirk curling at the edges of his mouth.

- He doesn’t let you pull away easily. Even when you try, his grip lingers, his forehead resting against yours, breath mingling with yours like a confession neither of you are ready to speak. His eyes, those crimson-burning embers, flicker over your face with a hunger that has nothing to do with the usual games he plays. “Ma belle,” he murmurs, voice like velvet, like the slow drag of a match before it sparks. “Y’gon’ be the death of me.” And yet, the way he smiles—half-dazed, half-drunk on you—tells you he would not mind dying that way.

- There is something dangerous in the way Remy looks at you now. Not the usual teasing, not the flirtation thrown so easily to the wind, but something deeper. Something reverent. As if he is looking at a gamble worth losing everything for. And as his fingers brush your jaw, tracing the ghost of your touch, you realize—you have just become the only game Remy LeBeau is willing to play for the rest of his life.

Kurt Wagner

- Kurt is not used to being touched so freely. Not like this. Not without hesitation. When your lips meet his, it is as if the world stutters around him, as if time itself takes pause to marvel at the impossible. His breath catches in his throat, a sharp, startled sound, and for the briefest moment, he forgets how to exist. His tail curls behind him in a sharp flick of surprise, and he nearly disappears in a reflex of instinct, but something about the warmth of your hands, the softness of your mouth, keeps him grounded. Keeps him here.

- When he finally gathers the courage to move, it is hesitant, unsure—his fingers hovering at your waist as if afraid to break something sacred. His lips, gentle, trembling with quiet reverence, move against yours like a whispered prayer. You are warmth, light, something divine in his arms, and he drinks you in like salvation. He has dreamt of this—secret, foolish dreams whispered into the lonely nights—but never dared believe it could be real. That you could want this as much as he does.

- When you part, his breath is unsteady, his golden eyes wide with wonder. He stares at you as if you have done the impossible, as if you have rewritten the very fabric of his existence with a single touch. His tail coils loosely around your wrist, a subconscious tether, as if to reassure himself that you are real. That this is real. “Mein Herz,” he murmurs, voice thick with emotion. “What have you done to me?” And yet, the way he smiles—soft, awestruck—tells you he never wants to be undone by anyone else but you.

- He does not know how to ask for more. Does not know if he is allowed to. But when you lace your fingers with his, when you press the faintest of kisses to his cheek before stepping back, he knows—he would wait a lifetime for you to do it again. And again. And again.

Scott Summers

- Scott lives by control. He has spent his life suppressing, restraining, calculating every breath, every movement, every word, because one wrong step can mean disaster. But when you kiss him—without warning, without hesitation—every ounce of that control shatters. His entire body stiffens, breath stolen, mind racing with the sheer impossibility of what is happening. He has dreamed of this, a thousand different ways, but none of them prepared him for the reality of your lips against his.

- His hands—gloved, always careful, always distant—hover at your sides, caught between instinct and hesitation. He wants to touch you, wants to pull you closer, but the fear of losing control, of breaking something irreparable, holds him back. And yet, you do not waver. You kiss him like he is not a weapon, like he is not something dangerous, like he is just a man. And for the first time, Scott Summers allows himself to believe it.

- When you finally part, he exhales sharply, as if he has been holding his breath for years. His glasses slip slightly down his nose, and he pushes them up with a shaky hand, his fingers brushing against his lips as if trying to chase the ghost of your touch. “I—” His voice falters, rare uncertainty cracking through his carefully built walls. He swallows hard, eyes hidden but gaze heavy. “I wasn’t expecting that.” But there is something else in his tone, something just shy of desperate. He wasn’t expecting it—but now he wants more.

- You smile, tilting your head, studying him with a knowing softness that makes his stomach twist. “Would you like me to do it again?” The question is playful, teasing, but the heat that flares in his chest is anything but. He swallows down a million responses, a million emotions threatening to spill over, and simply nods. Because yes. Yes, he would. More than anything, he would.

Jean Grey

- Jean has always been attuned to the emotions of others. She feels them like echoes in her own mind, the soft hum of sorrow, the sharp sting of desire, the quiet weight of longing. But when your lips press against hers, she feels nothing but silence—beautiful, breathtaking silence. The world, usually so loud, so overwhelming, fades into something small, something insignificant. There is only the warmth of your mouth, the way your fingers tangle in the red silk of her hair, the way your heartbeat thrums against her own like a perfect melody.

- She gasps against you, not out of shock but something deeper—something fragile. She has lived lifetimes within the span of a single moment, has seen the past, present, and future weave together like a tapestry, but she never saw this. Never saw the way you would tilt the world on its axis with a single touch. Her hands, delicate yet unshakable, find your face, her thumbs tracing the shape of you as if committing you to memory. She knows, in the depths of her soul, that she will never forget this.

- When you finally pull away, she exhales a laugh—soft, breathless, incredulous. Her emerald eyes search yours, bright with something that flutters on the edge of joy and disbelief. “You—” She stops herself, biting her lip as if savoring the taste of you, as if reluctant to let it go. And then she shakes her head, a slow, knowing smile curling her lips. “You really are full of surprises.” There is a lightness in her tone, but beneath it, something deeper lingers. Something that tells you she does not want this to be a singular moment.

- And then, before you can respond, she leans in—this time, she is the one to steal the air from your lungs. The kiss is softer now, slower, but no less consuming. When she pulls away, she rests her forehead against yours, her breath mingling with your own. “I could get used to that,” she murmurs, voice warm as sunlight. And in the way she lingers, in the way she stays close, you know—she already has.

Ororo Munroe

- Ororo is a goddess, a tempest, a force of nature so powerful the very skies bend to her will. And yet, when you kiss her, she is caught in a storm she cannot control. Her breath catches, her usually poised frame stiffening for the briefest of moments as your lips mold against hers. She has always been the eye of the hurricane, calm amidst chaos, but now, she is swept away in a current she never anticipated.

- Her hands hover at your sides, unsure, not out of reluctance but reverence. To be loved by Ororo Munroe is to be touched by the divine, but for the first time, she does not feel like a goddess—she feels human. She feels the warmth of your skin, the way your fingers brush against her cheek, the way your lips move with something so tender it unravels her. The storm within her does not rage—it settles, it quiets, it softens into something resembling peace.

- When you finally part, her white lashes flutter against her cheeks, her breath uneven, her hands finally finding your waist as if to ground herself. She looks at you as if you have done the impossible, as if you have harnessed the wind and commanded the rain. And perhaps you have. Because for the first time in a long time, Ororo Munroe does not feel alone. “You surprise me,” she admits, her voice a whisper of thunder, low and full of something unreadable. “And I do not surprise easily.”

- A smile tugs at the corner of her lips, rare and breathtaking, the kind of smile that shifts the seasons. And then, with a gentleness that contradicts her power, she presses her forehead to yours, fingers threading through your hair. “Do it again,” she breathes, and there is something almost dangerous in the way she says it. Because now that she has tasted you, now that she has felt this, Ororo Munroe is not sure she could ever let it go.

Rogue

- Rogue has spent her entire life fearing touch. She has spent years mastering the art of distance, of longing from afar, of never letting herself hope for too much. And yet, when your lips meet hers—soft, unguarded, reckless—she forgets to be afraid. The world disappears in the space between heartbeats, and all that remains is the impossible, the breathtaking reality of you kissing her.

- Her mind screams at her to pull away, to stop this before it’s too late, before she ruins something beautiful. But she can’t. She won’t. Her gloved hands grasp at your arms, her body leaning into yours as if she has spent lifetimes waiting for this moment. And perhaps she has. Because for the first time, she isn’t thinking about control, about consequences. She is thinking about the way your lips feel against hers, the way your breath mingles with her own, the way your fingers press into the small of her back as if you could hold her together.

- When you part, her chest rises and falls in quick, uneven breaths, her wide green eyes searching yours with something almost desperate. “Sugar, you—” Her voice falters, thick with emotion, with something dangerously close to hope. Her fingers, still gloved, trace the ghost of your touch against her lips, and she swallows hard. “You don’t know what you just did.” But the way she looks at you—the way she stares as if you have rewritten the very fabric of her existence—tells you that maybe, just maybe, she doesn’t mind.

- She should be afraid. She should be pushing you away, telling you that this is dangerous, that she is dangerous. But when you smile at her, when you reach for her hand despite the barriers she wears, she feels something shift. Something new. Something she is not sure she deserves, but something she wants all the same. And for the first time, Rogue wonders—what if she let herself have this? What if, just this once, she didn’t run?

Erik Lehnsherr

- Erik has built his life around steel and rage, around vengeance and pain, around the belief that love is a weakness he cannot afford. And yet, when you kiss him, every wall he has so carefully constructed crumbles beneath the weight of your touch. He stiffens, a sharp inhale slicing through the space between you, his entire body wound tight like coiled metal, but he does not pull away. He does not stop you. Because for the first time in a long, long time—he doesn’t want to.

- Your lips move against his with a softness he does not deserve, a tenderness he has spent lifetimes denying himself. His hands twitch at his sides, hesitant, torn between pushing you away and pulling you closer. But when your fingers tangle in his hair, when your breath mingles with his, when you kiss him like he is not Magneto, not a man shaped by war and loss, but simply a man—he is undone.

- When you finally part, his breath is heavy, uneven, his storm-gray eyes dark with something unreadable. His fingers curl into fists at his sides, as if restraining himself from reaching for you, from keeping you tethered to this moment forever. “You shouldn’t have done that,” he murmurs, voice like rusted iron, rough and laced with something dangerously close to yearning. But there is no real warning in his tone, no true resistance. Only the weight of a man who does not know how to accept kindness, how to accept love.

- And yet, when you step forward, when you press your palm to his chest, when you look at him as if he is not a monster but something worthy—his resolve fractures. His fingers, finally, finally, find your waist, his grip firm yet reverent, as if afraid you might disappear. “Do it again,” he breathes, and in that moment, Erik Lehnsherr does not care if love is a weakness. Because if this is what it means to be weak—then for you, he will gladly fall.

Charles Xavier

- Charles Xavier has spent his life knowing things before they happen. His gift is both a blessing and a burden, allowing him to read thoughts, anticipate words before they are spoken, sense feelings before they fully form. But when you kiss him, it is the first time in his life that he is truly, utterly surprised. For once, his mind is not a step ahead—it is caught in the moment, helplessly, beautifully ensnared in the warmth of your lips and the gentle insistence of your touch.

- His breath stutters as you tilt into him, the world narrowing to the space between your bodies. He has always prided himself on his composure, on the unshakable calm of his demeanor, but now he feels undone. Your lips are soft but certain, as if you have known this moment was meant to happen all along. His hands twitch against the arms of his wheelchair, caught between instinct and disbelief, between wanting to pull you closer and simply letting himself exist in this quiet, impossible wonder.

- When you finally pull away, his blue eyes flutter open, dazed, unfocused, as though waking from a dream too precious to be real. A slow smile tugs at the corner of his lips, something warm and unreadable flickering behind his gaze. “That was unexpected,” he murmurs, voice like velvet, smooth but slightly unsteady. And yet, there is something else beneath his words, something deeper—an unspoken truth that has lingered between you for too long, now given breath at last.

- He reaches for your hand then, his fingers ghosting over yours in a way that is both hesitant and reverent. “Would you mind terribly,” he breathes, his smile deepening, “if I returned the favor?” And when he leans in, when his lips find yours again, there is nothing hesitant about it. There is only the weight of time, of longing, of something that was always meant to be.

Wanda Maximoff

- Wanda has spent her life walking the fragile line between control and chaos, between the known and the unknown, between the world as it is and the world as it could be. And yet, when you kiss her, all of it—the noise, the worry, the restless ache of her existence—disappears. There is only you. Only the impossible softness of your lips, only the warmth of your touch, only the way time seems to slow, to bend, to hold its breath for her.

- She does not pull away, does not tense, does not question. Instead, she melts into you, her fingers curling into the fabric of your clothing as if afraid you might slip through her grasp like so many things before. You taste like something she has spent lifetimes reaching for, something she has never quite believed she could have. And yet, here you are. Here she is. And for once, the world does not seem so cruel.

- When the kiss finally breaks, she does not move far. Her forehead lingers against yours, her breath mingling with your own as if unwilling to let go of the moment just yet. Her deep, sorrowful eyes search yours, dark with something unreadable—something aching, something vast. “You shouldn’t do things like that,” she whispers, and yet her fingers tighten their grip on you, betraying her own words. “It makes me want to believe in things I shouldn’t.”

- And yet, despite her protest, despite the ghosts that haunt her, Wanda does not step away. Instead, she tilts her head, studying you as if memorizing every detail, every curve, every fleeting second. And then, as if deciding something only she can understand, she kisses you again—slower this time, softer, as if weaving a spell that neither of you will ever escape.

Pietro Maximoff

- Pietro Maximoff moves faster than thought, faster than light, faster than anyone can keep up with. He is a blur, a flicker, a storm that never settles, never stills. But when you kiss him—when you reach for him without hesitation, without warning—time stops. For once, he is not ahead of the world. He is not running. He is simply here. And it terrifies him.

- His entire body locks up, caught between instinct and shock, between the urge to retreat and the unbearable need to lean in. No one ever catches him off guard—no one. But you? You have done it so effortlessly, so completely, that he feels as though you have stolen the breath from his lungs. He forgets to move, forgets to think, forgets everything except the way your lips press against his, the way your fingers grasp at him like you have no intention of letting go.

- When you finally pull back, his silver lashes flutter, his bright blue eyes wide, wild with something unreadable. “Did you just—” He stops himself, swiping his tongue over his lips as if to make sure the sensation is real. And then, suddenly, he laughs—a breathless, incredulous sound, full of something sharp and breathless. “You’re either very brave or very reckless,” he murmurs, voice tinged with something teasing, something warmer than he meant it to be. “Maybe both.”

- And yet, even as he tries to turn it into a joke, his fingers twitch at his sides, restless, uncertain. He has never been good at staying still, never been good at patience—but for you, for this, he thinks he could learn. “Do it again,” he says, grinning now, eyes glinting with something wicked, something real. “I dare you.” And the way he looks at you—the way he leans in, as if already chasing the next kiss—tells you that this is a dare neither of you ever plan to back down from.

Hank McCoy

- Hank McCoy is a man of intellect, of reason, of science. He has spent his life in pursuit of knowledge, in understanding the mysteries of the world through logic and deduction. But when you kiss him—when your lips press against his without preamble, without hesitation—there is nothing logical about it. His mind, so accustomed to analysis, simply stops. And for the first time in a long, long time, he is left with nothing but feeling.

- His breath hitches, a sharp inhale caught in the depths of his chest, his large hands flexing at his sides as if unsure what to do with them. He is a scholar, a thinker, a man who prides himself on his control—but here, now, he feels unmoored. Your touch is warmth against the cold edges of his mind, a spark that ignites something deep, something unexpected, something he cannot name.

- When you finally pull away, he does not move for a long moment. His blue eyes flicker with something complex, something vulnerable, something profoundly, devastatingly human. “That was… unexpected,” he finally says, voice rough with something you cannot quite place. And yet, despite his words, despite the shock that lingers in his expression, his gaze is soft when it meets yours, unbearably gentle.

- He exhales a slow breath, as if steadying himself, and then—almost tentatively—he reaches for your hand. His fingers are careful, cautious, as if afraid you might vanish like a fleeting hypothesis unproven. “Would you, perhaps, consider repeating the experiment?” he asks, a small, wry smile curling at the edges of his lips. And when you lean in again, when his hands finally settle against you with quiet certainty, you know this is an experiment he never intends to abandon.

Emma Frost

- Emma Frost has spent a lifetime ensuring that no one can touch her—not truly. Her mind is a fortress of diamond walls and razor-edged wit, a citadel where no one is allowed entry without permission. She does not startle easily; she does not allow herself to be vulnerable. And yet, when you kiss her—when your lips press against hers without warning, without hesitation—she falters. Just for a moment. Just long enough for you to feel it.

- Her breath catches, but she does not pull away. No, Emma Frost does not retreat. Instead, she tilts her head slightly, allowing you just enough room to linger, to taste the cool, intoxicating sharpness of her. And yet, there is warmth beneath the ice, a slow-burning ember hidden beneath layers of frost. She is calculating even in this, assessing, analyzing—but there is something else in the way her fingers twitch against your arm, something unspoken in the way her lips part ever so slightly beneath yours.

- When you finally pull back, her expression is unreadable, a perfect mask of composure—except for her eyes. There is something dangerous in them, something bright and wicked and amused. A slow, knowing smile curls her lips as she tilts her chin, regarding you with the kind of gaze that makes people weak in the knees. “My darling,” she purrs, voice like silk and steel entwined, “if you wanted me, you only had to ask.”

- And yet, when her fingers brush against your wrist—light, fleeting, almost imperceptible—it is not just a challenge. There is something softer beneath the bravado, something she will never admit aloud. You have surprised her. And Emma Frost does not allow herself to be surprised. So when she leans in again, this time on her own terms, you understand the weight of it—the rarity, the quiet surrender hidden beneath the smirk.

Laura Kinney

- Laura Kinney is not accustomed to softness. Her world has been forged in blood and survival, in the quiet brutality of necessity. She has been trained to anticipate every attack, every shift in movement, every threat before it even takes form. But when you kiss her, there is no time to predict, no time to react—only the moment, sudden and unrelenting. And for once in her life, she is caught off guard.

- Her body stiffens on instinct, muscles coiled tight, but she does not pull away. No, she stays still, frozen in place as if trying to process something unfamiliar, something she has no protocol for. Your lips are soft against hers, warm and sure, and for a brief second, she forgets to breathe. It is foreign, this feeling, this intimacy that is not laced with violence or pain. And yet, it does not feel wrong. It feels… safe. And she does not know what to do with that.

- When you finally pull back, she blinks up at you, her gold-green eyes wide, pupils blown. Her breath is uneven, though she would never admit it. Her fingers flex at her sides, a silent battle between instinct and something deeper, something softer. “Why did you do that?” she asks, voice low, guarded. But there is no anger in it, no sharp edges of rejection. Only quiet curiosity. Only the echo of something she is too afraid to name.

- And then, as if deciding something in that precise moment, she steps closer. Not much, just enough for her breath to brush against your cheek. Her gaze flickers down to your lips, and when she speaks again, it is almost hesitant—almost shy. “Do it again.” It is not a request. It is a challenge. And when you accept, when your lips find hers once more, she does not freeze this time. Instead, she leans in.

Wade Wilson

- Wade Wilson never shuts up. He fills the air with words, with jokes, with carefully crafted chaos designed to keep people at arm’s length. He is quick and loud and relentless, because silence is where the darkness creeps in, where the thoughts become too heavy, too real. But when you kiss him—when you press your lips against his without preamble, without warning—he falls completely, utterly silent.

- His mind goes blank. It is a rare thing, for Wade to be lost for words, for thoughts, for anything but the sheer, staggering reality of this moment. Your lips are soft against his, warm, steady, real. And for once, he is not a punchline, not a joke, not a monster wrapped in red and black. He is just Wade, just a man who is suddenly, unexpectedly being kissed by someone he never thought would want to.

- When you pull back, there is a beat of absolute stillness. Then, suddenly, he sucks in a sharp breath and blurts out, “Was that a pity kiss? Wait, no, don’t answer that. Actually, do answer that. But lie to me if it was. Unless it wasn’t. In which case—” He stops himself, blinking rapidly, his gloved fingers twitching at his sides. “Holy shit. You actually kissed me. I didn’t hallucinate that, right? Because, like, my brain is super messed up, and sometimes I—”

- But then, you kiss him again—shorter this time, softer, just enough to shut him up. And when you pull away, he just stares at you, his mouth slightly open, his expression unreadable beneath the mask. And then, slowly, his hands come up to his face, covering his mouth as if trying to hold something in. “Oh my God,” he whispers, voice slightly muffled. “I’m gonna have to marry you now.” He peeks between his fingers. “You cool with that? No take-backs.”

Julian Keller

- Julian Keller is not used to being caught off guard. He is sharp, quick-witted, arrogant to a fault, and always, always in control. People orbit around him, drawn in by the effortless gravity of his confidence, his charm, the raw, unapologetic force of his presence. But when you kiss him—when you take him by surprise for the first time in his life—his mind goes completely, devastatingly blank.

- For a split second, he doesn’t react. And then, his body catches up with him, his hands instinctively reaching for you, gripping your waist like an anchor. His breath stutters against your lips, and suddenly, he is no longer the Julian Keller who always knows what to say, who always has the upper hand. He is just a boy, completely and utterly at your mercy. And it thrills him.

- When you finally pull back, his lips are parted, his green eyes slightly dazed, like he’s trying to piece together reality again. Then, slowly, a grin spreads across his face—wide, cocky, but with something undeniably genuine beneath it. “Damn,” he breathes, running a hand through his dark hair, voice rougher than usual. “That was… unexpected.” His grin sharpens, his gaze flicking to your lips. “You gonna warn me next time, or is this just how you say hi now?”

- And yet, despite the teasing, despite the bravado, there is something else in his gaze—something that lingers, something that betrays just how much that single kiss affected him. He leans in again, close enough that his breath fans against your skin. “You know,” he murmurs, tilting his head, “if you wanted my attention, there were easier ways.” But the way he looks at you—the way his fingers curl slightly, as if resisting the urge to pull you back in—tells you that, despite his words, he wouldn’t change a thing.

[lesbian-moon-gf]

i really really hated 23 and me and other copycats. they advertised to black americans in a way that is so predatory. it can be painful to not know your entire background, especially since it was stolen from us. i get the appeal of wanting to know. finding your family tree takes time and a lot of digging in public records. sometimes you hit a dead end and you can't go further down one line. but it's an effort worth taking and my local libraries are chomping at the bit to get people to attend their family tree workshops. i'm sure other libraries would love to start them or have them already too. these DNA test companies were trying to appear as an easy, convenient, and cheap way to get "answers."

well they were lying. they were always lying. they cannot trace your lineage. they could tell you how your dna compares to a SAMPLE of the world's population within the last decade or so. that's it. So they take a sample of Igbo and their DNA look mostly like xyx (this is not a scientific term). if your dna looks kiiiinda like that, say 38% they'd say you were 40% Igbo.

which isn't necessarily what you're looking for. it's not culture, it's not names, it's not even really history. it just says "hey your dna look like this dna from our sample in 20XX." and to give you a better example a white friend (shout out to you, i see you living that parent life in your blog) did one of these things. it said he had some albanian heritage. he grew up italian so it was news to him. he did more digging and it turns out there are CENTURIES old albanian neighborhoods in italy.

so like did the dna test work? i mean kinda??? but in my view it's like giving someone money to do something you would have to do anyway. my point is fuck these companies and i hope every person gets their dna back!!

not to be all i told you so about ancestry tests but 23 and me went bankrupt and can now legally sell human genetic information to the highest bidder, as per their privacy policy which was signed by approx. 15 million test takers

[jazzy11scorpio]

Adult Content

Summary: Pedro Pascal. Backstage. Some hot stuff happened. That's pretty much it. You get the idea.

Pairing: Reader / Pedro Pascal

Tags ⚠️: Adult Content, MDNI, backstage hookup, quickie, dirty talk, oral sex ( m/f rec), unprotected sex, rough sex, riding, PinV, cream pie, fluff, SMUT.

Word count: 1k

Note: Deleting this tomorrow so enjoy in my last RPF

The backstage of Jimmy Kimmel Live! buzzed with a nervous energy, a stark contrast to Pedro's usually relaxed behavior. Tonight, though, was different. He paced his dressing room, running a hand through his already tousled hair, a slight frown creasing his brow.

"I don't know," he muttered, adjusting the collar of his shirt for what seemed like the tenth time. "I feel…off. Like I'm going to say something stupid."

You smiled, moving to stand in front of him, your hands resting gently on his arms. "Hey," you said, your voice soft and reassuring. "You're going to be great. You always are."

He looked at you, his eyes searching yours, a flicker of doubt still lingering. "You really think so?"

"I know so," you said, giving his arms a gentle squeeze. "You're charming, you're funny, and you have this… this magic about you. It's impossible not to love you."

He leaned in, his forehead resting against yours, the tension in his shoulders easing slightly. "You always know what to say," he murmured, his voice a low rumble. "Thank you. Just having you here makes it easier."

You watched the show from the crowd, your heart swelling with pride as he commanded the stage. He was effortlessly charming, his wit sharp, his smile infectious. He had the audience in the palm of his hand, laughing and applauding at his every word.

After the show, as the credits rolled, you made your way backstage, your footsteps echoing in the quiet hallway. You found him in his dressing room, the door slightly ajar. He was leaning against the vanity, a relieved sigh escaping his lips.

"You were amazing," you said, stepping into the room.

He turned, his face lighting up as he saw you. "You were right," he said, grinning. "They loved it. I owe you one. Thank you for your support my love."

He crossed the room, pulling you into a warm, lingering hug. "Thank you for being here," he murmured, his voice soft against your ear. "It made all the difference. You're like my personal good luck charm, only way hotter."

You gripped his arm, your fingers digging slightly into the soft fabric of his shirt. "You know," you said, your voice a low murmur, "you're making me crazy. Looking this hot, this strong… I can't get enough of you. I swear, you could read the phone book and I'd still be drooling."

He turned to you, his eyes darkening with a familiar intensity. He kissed you gently, "And you," he whispered against your lips, his voice husky, "are making me incredibly impatient. I'm pretty sure my heart is trying to escape my chest to get to you faster."

He pulled back slightly, his eyes tracing the curve of your jaw. "I can't wait to get home," he murmured, his voice laced with a playful growl, "to show you exactly how badly I want you. I've been thinking about it all night. And let's just say, those thoughts are very dirty."

"We don't have to wait," you purred, a mischievous glint in your eyes. You stood up quickly, the click of the lock on the door echoing in the suddenly charged atmosphere.  With deliberate slowness, you began to peel off your dress, revealing the lacy bra and panties beneath.

"You're naughty," he breathed, his voice a low growl, his eyes following every move. "And crazy. Just how I like it." A slow, predatory smile spread across his face as he watched you.

He remained seated on the sofa, his gaze fixed on you as you knelt before him.  You reached out, your fingers tracing the outline of his bulge, teasing him through the fabric of his pants. "You're so hard," you whispered, your voice husky. "And you're all mine." You unzipped his pants, slowly, deliberately, revealing his already throbbing cock.

"Come on, show me how much you want it, mi amor," he said, his voice thick with desire.

You leaned in, your tongue darting out to lick the tip of his cock, your eyes never leaving his.  You swirled your tongue around the sensitive head, teasing him mercilessly.  He groaned, his hand finding your hair, holding your head as you took him deeper into your mouth.

You sucked him slowly, then faster, milking him with long, deep strokes, the sound of your wet mouth filling the room. He cursed under his breath, clearly enjoying every second.  "Stop," he finally groaned, his voice ragged. "I'm going to come. I want to be inside you."

You stood up, your eyes locking with his.  He reached out, his hands sliding down your hips, pulling your panties down your legs.  He tugged you closer, his hands gripping your thighs, his face burying between your legs.  He licked your pussy, his tongue swirling and teasing, his fingers dipping into your wetness, exploring your swollen clit. "You're so wet," he groaned, his voice thick with lust. "So fucking ready."

You tangled your fingers in his hair, your hips bucking against his face as he sucked you harder, his tongue driving you wild. "Fuck, Papi," you moaned, your voice thick with desire. "I want to fuck you. Please."

He pulled back, his eyes burning with a primal intensity.  He leaned back against the sofa, his legs spread wide, inviting you.  You straddled him, your eyes locking with his as you slowly lowered yourself onto his waiting cock.

As his hard cock slid slowly inside you, stretching you, filling you completely, your pussy clenched around him, milking him with each inch. "God," you groaned, your voice thick with desire. "You feel so fucking good. Your cock is made for me."

He gripped your waist, pulling you down harder, his eyes burning with lust. He traced his hand up your back, unhooking your bra, his hot breath ghosting over your skin, sending shivers down your spine. He began to suck on your nipples, his tongue swirling and teasing, nipping and pulling, making you whimper.

You started to move faster, bouncing harder on his cock, your hips grinding against his, your wetness slicking against him. You teased him with slow, deliberate swirls, driving him wild, making him groan. He buried his head in your neck, kissing you deeply, his huge hands gripping your ass cheeks, pulling you closer, wanting you deeper.

You held onto his shoulders, your moans growing louder, your pussy squeezing him with each thrust, your juices dripping down his shaft. "Fuck," you gasped, your voice ragged. "You're so hard. So deep. I want you to fill me up."

The pleasure was almost unbearable, a raw, primal feeling that made you want to scream his name. You kissed him hard and passionately, your lips bruising against his, your teeth nipping at his bottom lip.

"You're fucking amazing," he groaned, his voice hoarse, his cock throbbing inside you. "Like you were made to hold me, only me." He put his hand around your neck, his thumb stroking your skin, his fingers digging into your flesh. "Be quiet, baby," he whispered, his voice a low, possessive growl. "Come on my cock. Ride me, baby, ride me...Ohh Fuck..you feel like heaven."

"Fuck," you screamed, your body tensing, your orgasm building. You bounced harder, faster, your pussy milking him with each thrust. You were so close, teetering on the edge "Pedro," you gasped, his name a raw plea on your lips. "I'm gonna come."

"Yes, baby," he growled, his hand tightening around your neck, his fingers digging into your skin. "Come for me. Let it for me. Let it all go."

You gripped his biceps, your nails digging into his flesh. He was so strong, so powerful, and the raw, animalistic energy between you was intoxicating. "You're fucking destroying me," you moaned, your voice thick with lust. "And I fucking love it."

Your orgasm ripped through you, a wave of pure, white-hot pleasure. Your pussy clenched around his cock, squeezing him with each pulse, your juices flooding him. You cried out, your body shuddering, your head thrown back.

He groaned, his own orgasm building, his thrusts becoming frantic. "Fuck, yes," he roared, his cock pulsing deep inside you. "You're so fucking good. So wet for me babe."

He came then, a deep, guttural sound ripping from his throat, his cum flooding your pussy, hot and thick. "Goddamn," he whispered against your ear, his voice thick with lust. "You're mine. All mine. You're fucking mine."

He held you tight, his body still shuddering, his cock still buried deep inside you. "Fuck," he groaned again, his voice hoarse. "You feel so good. So fucking amazing. Iwant to feel you like this forever." He kissed you, hard and deep.

"I'm gonna fuck you again," he whispered, his breath hot against your ear. "Until we get home. You are gonna get more. I'm gonna fill you up until you can't take anymore."

"I want that," you breathed, your voice ragged. "I want you to fuck me all night Papi."

You kissed him, your lips bruising against his, your tongue tangling with his. "I love you," you whispered, your voice filled with raw, unfiltered desire.

"I love you too, babe," he murmured, his voice thick with emotion. "More than anything. And trust me, once we get home, I'm going to prove just how much." He gave you a wicked grin. "Prepare to be thoroughly… loved."

His arms wrapped around your body, pulling you closer to his chest. His heart beat against your ribs, a rapid, insistent rhythm that mirrored your own.

You ran your hands over his chest, your fingers tracing the bold white lettering on his black t-shirt:

"Adult Content." "Fitting," you purred, your voice husky. "Especially for what just happened in here. Makes me wonder what kind of content we'll be creating later."

He chuckled, a low, rumbling sound in his chest. "Oh, baby," he said, his eyes darkening with a playful glint. "We're going to be creating some very explicit content. And maybe a safe word." He nipped at your earlobe. "Think you can handle it?"

"Yes," you breathed, your voice thick with desire. "I can. With you, there's never enough. I want to feel every inch of you, every touch, every thrust. I want you to brand me with your cock."

He smiled softly, his eyes filled with a tenderness that made your heart melt. "You know," he murmured, his voice gentle as he tucked a stray strand of hair behind your ear, "you're beautiful when you talk like that. So fierce, so passionate. Makes me want to worship you."

He kissed your forehead, a soft, lingering press of his lips. "But more than anything, I just want to hold you. Close. And love you. Forever."

"I love you too," you whispered, your voice thick with emotion. "Now and forever."

Just then, a sharp knock echoed through the room. "Shit," he muttered, a reluctant sigh escaping his lips. "That's probably Jimmy."

You laughed, a nervous giggle escaping your lips, and kissed him quickly, a playful peck on his lips. "We almost got caught," you whispered, your eyes sparkling with mischief.

"Yeah," he chuckled, a low rumble in his chest, "talk about a close call. I can just picture his face. 'Pedro, what exactly were you doing in here?'" He mimicked a Jimmy making you laugh even harder.

"Though, to be fair, the sounds coming from in here were probably a dead giveaway."

He couldn't stop laughing either.

So, yeah, the whole sexy vibe kinda evaporated as you scrambled to get dressed. But, like, the afterglow was still there. Definitely picking up where you left off later.

Thank you for the reading 💜

[drewswife]

Rafe helps you break into your pointe shoes

The satin ribbons felt cool against my skin as I tied them around my ankles, the brand-new pointe shoes gleaming under the soft light of my bedroom lamp. They were a dream, a culmination of years of practice, and now, finally, they were mine. But they were also stiff, unforgiving. Breaking them in was a necessary evil, a painful ritual every ballerina endured.

I rose onto the box, the delicate platform at the very tip of the shoe and wobbled precariously. A sharp twinge shot through my toes, a reminder of the hours ahead. I sighed, adjusting my weight, trying to find that elusive balance. Suddenly, a knock echoed on my door. "Hey, you alright in there?" Rafe's voice, muffled by the wood, was laced with concern.

"Yeah, just breaking in my new pointe shoes," I called back, a hint of a wince creeping into my voice. The door creaked open, and Rafe poked his head in, his eyes widening as they landed on my feet. He'd seen me dance before, and knew the dedication it took, but he'd never witnessed the grueling process of breaking in new shoes.

"Wow," he breathed, stepping fully into the room. "Those look… painful." "They are," I admitted, lowering my foot gingerly. "Want to try?"

Rafe's eyebrows shot up. "Me? In pointe shoes?" He looked down at his own size twelve sneakers, a stark contrast to the delicate slippers. "Just for a minute," I coaxed, a mischievous glint in my eye. "It'll be funny."

He hesitated, a grin spreading across his face. "Alright, but if I break an ankle, you're carrying me to the hospital." I laughed, pulling a pair of thick socks from my dance bag. "Deal."

He struggled to squeeze his feet into the tiny shoes, his face contorting with the effort. Finally, with a triumphant grunt, he was in. He wobbled precariously, arms outstretched for balance.

"Whoa," he gasped, his voice a mix of amusement and pain. "How do you even walk in these things?" "Years of practice," I replied, suppressing a giggle.

He took a tentative step, then another, his face a mask of concentration. He looked like a baby giraffe taking its first steps, all long limbs and awkwardness. Suddenly, he lost his balance, flailing his arms wildly.

"Woah!" he yelled, grabbing onto my dresser for support. I couldn't help it I burst out laughing. He looked so ridiculous, so completely out of his element. Rafe, despite his precarious position, grinned back. "Okay, I get it now. These things are torture devices."

He took another step, then another, gaining a little confidence. He even tried a clumsy pirouette, nearly crashing into my bookshelf. We were both laughing so hard, tears streamed down our faces.

"You look like a baby swan trying to learn to fly," I choked out between giggles. He stuck his tongue out at me, then tried another pirouette, this time managing a wobbly turn. He was surprisingly light on his feet, despite his size.

"I think I'm getting the hang of this," he declared, a mischievous glint in his eyes. He started to dance, a ridiculous, improvised ballet, complete with exaggerated leaps and dramatic arm gestures. He was a natural clown, making me laugh until my sides ached. He even tried to do a grand jeté, landing with a thud on my bed.

"Okay, okay, I think that's enough," I gasped, wiping tears. "You're going to break something." He grinned, finally kicking off the pointe shoes with a sigh of relief.

"Man, those things are brutal. I have a newfound respect for you, ballerina."

tags, @spencerreid66

[riddlesrizzler]

𝙇𝙤𝙨𝙩 𝙖𝙣𝙙 𝙁𝙤𝙪𝙣𝙙 (𝙬𝙞𝙩𝙝 𝙧𝙞𝙗𝙗𝙤𝙣𝙨)

summary: Mattheo and his friends find you surrounded by first-years tying ribbons in your ears.

characters: slytherin boys. bunny! reader (animagus)

warnings: none! just some scary slytherins with their bunny.

word count: 596

⊹₊ ˚‧︵‿₊୨୧₊‿︵‧ ˚ ₊⊹⊹₊ ˚‧︵‿₊୨୧₊‿︵‧ ˚ ₊⊹

Mattheo had lost you

Technically, they had lost you. But since he was the one who had let you out of his sight first, he was taking the blame.

"You had one job, Mattheo," Theo muttered, running a hand through his hair. "One job!"

"You were watching her too, mate." Mattheo shot back, scanning the hallways of Hogwarts. "She was right there a second ago!"

"She's a bunny, she's small, she's fast," Enzo reasoned. "She couldn't have gotten far."

Draco signed. "Unless a bloody cat got to her first."

Blaise frowned. "Not helping, Malfoy."

It wasn't unsual for you to slip away in you animagus form- it was cute, they had to admit. A small, fluffy bunny hopping around, nose twitching, ears flickering at the smallest sound. But this was different. You had vanished.

"She's got to be somewhere in the castle," Mattheo said, shaking his head. "She always stays inside."

Theo groaned. "I swear, if we don't find her in the next ten minutes, I'm putting a tracking spell on her."

They turned down another corridor, checking corners, under benches, even behind a suit of armor. Then, just as Mattheo was about to start panicking, Enzo let out a sudden laugh.

"Oh, you're going to love this." He pointed ahead.

There in the middle of the hallway, was a small circle of first- year girls. They were giggling excitedly, whispering to each other, completely oblivious to the group of older Slytherins approaching.

And right in the center of them was... you.

In bunny form.

With ribbons being tied behind your ears.

Mattheo stared. Draco blinked. Blaise covered his mouth, holding back a laugh.

"Oh, that's precious," Theo smirked

One of the first- years clapped her hands. "She's so soft!"

'And she's letting us dress her up!" another squealed.

Mattheo cleared his throat loudly. The girls jumped, turning to face the group of tall, intimidating Slytherins.

"Uh- hello," one of them said nervously.

"That's our bunny," Mattheo said flatly, crossing his arms.

The girls looked between each other, then down at you. You twitched your nose.

"But she came up to us," one of the girls mumbled, hesitantly stroking your fur.

Theo raised a brow. "Yeah, she does that. But we kind of need her back."

Reluctantly, the first-years untied the ribbons, though one of them gave you a soft pat on your head before stepping back. Mattheo crouched down, holding out his arms.

"Alright, sweetheart, time to come back now.

You hesitated for a second, then with a small hop, you leapt into his hands. He stood cradling you gently, running a finger down your soft ears.

"Alright," Blaise smirked, shaking his head." "Let's get her out of here before they try to put a dress on her next."

As they walked away, Theo leaned over to Mattheo. "You know we're never letting her live this down, right?"

Mattheo sighed, looking down at you. Your small paws pressed against his chest as you looked up at him with big, innocent eyes.

'Yeah, yeah," he muttered. "Just... let's not tell everyone about the ribbons, alright?"

But the smirk on Draco's face said that the secret wasn't staying secret for long.

[invincibledc]

˗ˏˋ ꒰ ♡ ꒱ ˎˊ˗

𝐁𝐨𝐨𝐠𝐢𝐞 𝐌𝐚𝐧.ᐟ

────୨ৎ────

𝐉𝐀𝐂𝐊 𝐐𝐔𝐈𝐍𝐍 (𝐎𝐂) 𝐗 𝐁𝐀𝐓𝐒𝐈𝐒!𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐃𝐄𝐑

── .✦ summary: what’s worse than the boogie man? A obsessed clown boy. All cause of grown man couldn’t keep his disgusting words to himself, Jack has some things to handle on his own.

── .✦ genre: oneshot/Yandere

── .✦ info: kidnapping, Yandere themes, OC work. this OC is an OC I’m written for my own amusement. He’s the son of Harley Quinn and joker. Full name, Jacklyn Oswald Quinn. I got bored. Reader is the twin sister of Damian, but Damian is the older twin of course. Im only a writer so you can imagine who he looks more like but all I can is he is handsome canonically in my head and anything. Boy’s crazy but handsome.

── .✦ word count: 625

Vision blinded by some kind of sack on a man’s head. Jack ripped it off, showing his crooked smile and clown face with green hair. His hair slicked back as he chuckled at the scared look.

“Rise and shine!” he exclaimed in a cheery voice, moving back with a bounce. He couldn't help but stare at the wide-eyed man who tried to get up but couldn't due to the chains holding him down.

“Oh yeah. Don't even think about trying to get up silly.” the cheerful expression on his face then melted completely off as his eyes darkened. “You ain't going anywhere.” his scruffed voice lowered, turning his back to face the table of objects. It went from a crowbar, pliers, a drill, and a hammer.

The man seemed to notice as he screamed, but no sounds came out due to some cloth wrapped around his mouth. “Shut the hell up,” Jack says coldly, glancing at the man with emotionless eyes.

“You should’ve thought about your actions before catcalling teenage girls off the streets.” grabbed the crowbar, and a crazed smile spread across his face. “Especially my girl.” He taps the tip of the crowbar against his flat palm.

“Man… Ima have a fun time with you.” wide-eyed, the man screamed as Jack got ready to aim at his head. Soon a phone ring echoed in the air. Raising a brow, Jack pauses his mid swing and goes over to his phone. There he sees it says “Puddin`” with two red heart emojis and a picture of you and him in bed together making funny faces.

It seemed this made Jack immediately drop the crowbar and grab the phone with a sick love expression. He answers it with no reluctance.

“Yes my sugarplum!?” he exclaimed happily, jumping onto his table, and swinging his legs back and forth as he heard your sweet angelic voice from the other side.

“Hey, I was wondering if you can do an errand for me?” you asked, going downstairs of the Wayne manor to see your older brother arguing over who gets the last piece of food. You had already eaten so you didn't need to eat again.

“Of course my love, what pleasures do I owe you.” he purrs hearing you chuckle. “Okay, I just need you to get me some ice cream. I'm just craving it.”

“Of course love!” he says after listening to you, he hops off the table and walks over to the man. The man seemed to freeze and try to scream, Jack immediately muted himself, putting a gloved finger to his lips, his eyes narrowed as a dark look washed over his face.

“Be quiet. And I might be gentle on you.” Jack takes the man’s wallet and moves back, still looking at the man as if he were worth nothing. Which he is.

Unmuting himself, Jack smiles as he hears you. “Hello?” you questioned due to how unusual it was quiet.

“Yeah sorry about that hon, anyways yeah I'm going. [fav.flavor] ice cream right? Your favorite to just stuff your face in?” he says as he turns his back.

“Yeah! That's the one, thanks Jack. You’re the best. And of course, just try not to start a fight with Jason. You both were bruised and bloodied.”

“Of course, I always listen to you. I’ll be there.” as Jack hung up, he threw an ace card at the man, the man jolted as the card was sharp enough to stick to the wall beside him.

“You get to live approximately 35 minutes. And then it's show time for me.” a malicious laugh rang out from Jack’s mouth, sending dread all over the man who was still gagged and chained up.

“Cya later.” and with that, Jack left the man in that room.

Just to save him for later.

[nudityandnerdery]

Actually, I want to take a second longer on this logic.

Democrats cannot be trusted. Not the politicians, not the voters. [...] They have to be stopped just as much as the Republicans.

So, let's just consider this. They're trying to tell us, "You can't trust anyone who supports the Democrats in any way! Even the voters can't be trusted! They're just as bad as the Republicans!"

I'm not going to touch on the politicians part, whatever. We're gonna set that aside, because there's like three politicians I'll speak up in defense of right now. Instead, I want to look at the part about where they say the voters can't be trusted either. Both sides, presumably, from their vague effort to remember that the Republicans are supposed to be bad, too, at the end. But they're saying all the voters are to blame, too. Just consider that for a second.

They want us to think that we literally cannot trust about 98% of the people who voted across the past handful of elections.

Imagine living your life like that. Imagine going into the grocery store, looking around, and thinking, "Maybe one in fifty of these people wouldn't sell me out at the first opportunity, if I'm lucky. Wouldn't turn a blind eye to me being dragged away by the cops screaming. Maybe one person out of dozens is someone I can trust. No, I can only trust myself." That's how they want you to live your life.

Hey. Remember what we've talked about before? About community? About how the most important thing in surviving through times like this is in finding your people, supporting each other, reinforcing our friendships and caring and bonds?

Yeah. Rhetoric like that person's posts is meant to scare you, to tell you to remain isolated, to not trust anyone and to not take a risk for anyone. It's trying to keep you from finding community and safety and support. It doesn't serve much other purpose than that, even if they want to think it's doing anything else. Because, if you can't trust anyone who's voted Dem, then where are you supposed to find allies to build a better movement? Or to build anything?

So be very careful, folks. When someone is trying to convince you of something, ask yourself why, ask yourself what impact it's having, what they're really getting at.

And anyone that is telling you "You can't trust ANYONE" is really telling you that they aren't to be trusted.

At their core, these people are bullies. The cruelty is the point.

[anglbunny]

ᝰ.ᐟstreet racer!Kaiser headcanons

Racer kaiser hcs. Explicit content, Mdni. Drugs.

"'𝐶𝑎𝑢𝑠𝑒 𝑦𝑜𝑢'𝑟𝑒 𝑎 𝑜𝑛𝑒 𝑖𝑛 𝑎 𝑚𝑖𝑙𝑙𝑖𝑜𝑛. 𝑇ℎ𝑒𝑟𝑒 𝑎𝑖𝑛'𝑡 𝑛𝑜 𝑚𝑎𝑛 𝑙𝑖𝑘𝑒 𝑦𝑜𝑢" - 𝑆𝑡𝑟𝑒𝑒𝑡𝑠 𝑏𝑦 𝐷𝑜𝑗𝑎 𝑐𝑎𝑡

ᯓ★ᯓ⚡︎

street racer!Kaiser.ᐟ who doesn’t race for money—he races for the high, thrill, and ego boost of crushing his competition.

street racer!Kaiser.ᐟwhose car is sleek, expensive, and custom-made, probably European, something that turns heads as soon as he pulls up. His 2 main cars would be a glossy white with gold accents and a matte black car with metallic blue accents.

street racer!Kaiser.ᐟ If he ever gets pulled over, he knows how to talk his way out—or how to disappear before they even get close.

street racer!Kaiser.ᐟHas an unshakable confidence—even when he’s behind, he’ll smirk and say, “Don’t worry, I’ll still win.”

street racer!Kaiser.ᐟ "Off-limits" rules don’t apply to him. If someone tells him not to go after you? He’ll smirk and say, “Try and stop me.”

street racer!Kaiser.ᐟTrash talks mid-race through a comm system or just by rolling his window down and throwing a smirk at his opponent.

street racer!Kaiser.ᐟwill flirt even while racing—if you’re in the passenger seat, expect him to glance over and smirk: “You nervous, Schatz? don't be, when you're riding with me, you're riding with the king of these roads.”

street racer!Kaiser.ᐟAfter a win, he’s still buzzing with adrenaline, hot to the touch, and he’ll grab you by the waist, pressing you against his car. His hands roaming your ass, not caring who sees, while he feasts on your lips, barely letting you keep up with him.

street racer!Kaiser.ᐟThe way he grips the steering wheel? Imagine that grip on your thighs instead. well it's there, every. Single. Time. Bonus points if he squeezes when shifting gears. he'll slide his hand higher thinking you won't notice, oh but you do. similar to how he can see you trying to keep your composure and failing.

street racer!Kaiser.ᐟalways has something on his fingers. some sort of rings or whatever it may be. so when you're riding with him and he's feeling reckless, he'll move your panties to the side, slipping 2 or 3 digits inside. He has long, thick fingers, so imagine the shit-eating smirk on his face when you're gripping his wrist with both hands, almost bent over his hand, trembling, begging him to slow down all while he milks another orgasm out of you. His rings prod and push at your entrance. Just for his own entertainment, he might just push his fingers deep enough to have you go silent, mouth gaping, while your pussy clenches around the various metal pieces on his fingers.

"oh c'mon, you can take it. give me another one, alright? if you do, i'll let you drive my car... but you have to sit on my lap."

street racer!Kaiser.ᐟIf you’re mad at him? He’ll smirk and say, “Fine, punish me. But make it fun, Liebe.” and it ends up with you at his penthouse, legs spread open, tugging on his long strands while he licks up and down your pussy, devouring it whole.

"such a pretty fucking, pussy. God, you taste so.. so good, mm'"

street racer!Kaiser.ᐟHas definitely pulled you onto his lap in the driver’s seat after a win just to hear you say he’s the best. His windows have a very dark tint on them, so no one on the outside can see what's happening on the inside. He'll slip a hand under your skirt, kneading your ass. he won't let you go until you tell him he's the best.

"just say it, baby. tell me i'm the best. Don't go silent on me, i have other ways to make you speak... or more like scream"

street racer!Kaiser.ᐟ If you ever tease him about losing a race, he’ll push you against the hood of his car, gripping your jaw and pulling you in dangerously close, telling you to shut your mouth and if you persist. well... let's just say it's gonna be a long night and you won't be cumming for most of it.

"what? All bark no bite, yea? thought I was a loser? You gonna let this loser rearrange your guts and cum inside of you? huh? speak up, what happened to that cocky attitude from earlier?"

street racer!Kaiser.ᐟHis idea of a good time? A midnight race, an empty road, you in the passenger seat wearing his jacket while his cum leaks out of you, ruining your panties.

street racer!Kaiser.ᐟ Doesn't often do drugs, but if he's burning to feel something, he'll either call you over to his place or to the club he's sitting at. he'll pull you onto his lap and push the top half of your body back just enough to decorate your skin with a few white lines, snorting them off your body. BUT when you guys are alone, he'll rip a line off your ass.

"...mm, fuckk, that was good. you alright, Liebe? i know you're needy, just one more, alright? and then we'll fuck."

street racer!Kaiser.ᐟ won't force you to do drugs, ever but if you ever willingly want to try. If you choose to take a pill, he'll stay by your side, wrapping his arms around your waist and pulling you in, so you can fall limp on top of his warm body. BUT if you choose to do a line, he would definitely be entertained by your behavior, especially if it's your first time. Letting you run wild through his penthouse, munch on the food in his fridge, and touch him up. He loves seeing you act all bold and overconfident. he says it's hot. He won't ever do drugs when you do them because he worries about your safety but that doesn't mean he won't fuck you good. Sex, when you're intoxicated, feels twice as good, especially with a dick as big as Kaiser's.

street racer!Kaiser.ᐟIs not sloppy—he knows his limits. If anyone messes with his supply, he’ll find out, and they won’t like what happens next. and if someone tries to scam him, they disappear. He’ll show up at their garage, leaning against his car with that deadly smirk, saying, “You must be real tired of breathing, huh?”

street racer!Kaiser.ᐟ If someone flirts with you in front of him, he’ll spin his keys around his finger and smirk before saying, “Let’s race for her. Oh, wait—she’s already mine.”

but no matter what type of person street racer!Kaiser is, you'll always be his top priority.

Taglist: @cyberheartrebel @vaelils

A/N: lowkey not feeling the top icons, might change them or delete them but idk. He's so hot, i love him sm.

ꨄ︎Anglbunny | Do not copy, steal or translate my work and pngs. you'll be blocked.

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