#like she could very easily be the same age as I am or even a bit older but then she could just as easily be like 16 or something

[notanactressyayy]

˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥ 𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐧𝐭. | natasha romanoff

. ݁₊ 𝑠𝑢𝑚𝑚𝑎𝑟𝑦 . Natasha and you were the only 'constant' in each other's lives. poor you, to think you could get over her so easily.

. ݁₊ 𝑤𝑎𝑟𝑛𝑖𝑛𝑔𝑠 . smut! i am not responsible for your content consumption! — making out, g!p Natasha, guided masturbation, orgasm denial, unprotected sex (p in v), choking, swearing, homesickness, fluff, reconciliation.

. ݁₊ 𝑛𝑜𝑡𝑒𝑠 . english isn't my first language (🇧🇷) so i apologize for any spelling errors. been in love w Nat for a damn long time — i've been away for a while, but turns out i can't really live without her. i miss my red so much :(

Natasha Romanoff rarely had the chance to see the same face twice. She saw a lot of people throughout her life — as a spy, as a superhero, or simply as Natasha. The thing is: it was unlike she would return to a place she’s been before. It wasn’t uncommon for her to be on the run. Thus, she traveled around the whole world, and saw thousands, millions of different faces. Destiny made sure not to let her cross paths with the same individual again. It wasn’t only the diversity of people that she witnessed, though. This woman saw the world. She knew life’s ups and downs, and at some point in her life, she just got used to the idea that it would forever be like this: boring. Boring experiences, boring women, boring men, boring relationships. Nothing was ever exciting, thrilling. It felt like she was advanced in time, and the rest of the world wasn’t following her. This wasn’t a complete lie, she got her maturity at a very young age, which made her pay the price now, in adulthood. 

For a spy, the most important thing is to learn not to be caught off guard. But it seemed like life was never on Natasha’s side. And this time — it felt good. Oh, it felt so good. 

At first, she didn’t want to get high hopes. It would be just another temporary friendship to help her pass time, nothing more. However, you managed to surprise the red haired Avenger in the best way possible. When she decided to spare a little time of her life and get to know you more, it was really mind-blowing the side of herself she discovered. She never thought she could actually be.. giddy. Like a silly, hopeless romantic girl. That is what she became whenever it was time to see you. She got excited. Actually excited. She couldn’t see through you, read your emotions or body language, like she did with other people; It was a natural thing, sometimes she didn’t even mean to do that. But you, something within you, kept her at bay. Like you effortlessly turned Natasha into a normal woman. Somebody who could love. Somebody that wasn’t raised and enhanced to be a killer. Not that you went through anything like she did, but you weren’t naive. You showed her that people didn’t necessarily have to be traumatized to be aware of things, of reality, of the surroundings. And for her, you’re the most beautiful person in the whole world. Inside and out. She adored you. 

Opening up was never easy. Revealing the broken parts of herself wasn’t like having a simple chat. But patience is a virtue and thankfully, you followed that say just fine. Little by little, the secrets came out. Most of the parts you already knew — it’s not like she wasn’t a worldwide known superhero. What you mostly had to acknowledge were her feelings, the point of view of the little girl who was experiencing it all, and becoming a strong woman, with built up walls around her heart. Doing that was no problem. Natasha couldn’t be more thankful. 

She couldn’t be more infatuated. More in love.

She’d always remember that one day: in the bar with her team, and you — chattery, music, tons of drinks and laughter. Stolen glances. Stomach butterflies, wild. The moment Clint pulled Laura a little closer to himself, and Tony kissed Pepper’s cheek. How she used that as an excuse to pull you into her lap. Your breath getting labored. Eyelashes gently fluttering, to the point she could count them. Your gentle yet tight grip on her shoulders. Your goddamn eyes staring right into hers. And the part where everything would change: her own bodily reactions to all those little details about you. When you restlessly shifted on her lap, quietly gasping when something poked you through your dress. Eyes going wide at the bulge showing on her black jeans. 

From that point on, you belonged to her.

Or so, she thought.

The sex was great, but she was in conflict — she couldn't tell if the only reason for it to be that enjoyable was because you were both tipsy, almost drunk, or if it was really meant to be that way. It felt right, yes, to have you in her arms like this — naked, piles of discarded clothes laying by her bed.. the sound of your quiet snoring as you cuddled into her. It was also a relief to her. To have someone care for her, desire her, after so long, after forever. The night had been amazing. She was a mature woman anyway, wasn't she? She could sort her feelings out without messing up everything.

Wrong. By the morning, everything would change.

You stared at her as she got up and got dressed again, eyes still a little blurry from sleep, eyebrows ceasing into a small confused frown. "You're not staying?" you'd ask, sitting up and leaning against the headboard, bringing up the sheets to cover your unclothed body. "Ugh, my head hurts like hell,"

"Got things to do." she simply answered, cradling the side of your face and kissing your forehead. You could swear the look on her face was.. apologetic. She tilted her head towards the nightstand, where some aspirin and water waited for you. "Take these. I'll text you later."

"Okay.." you mumble, disoriented. As she leaves, you reach out, shoving the aspirin in your mouth and downing the pills with water. Was there something you were missing? Because all you could remember was how good her hands felt on you, the way they wrapped around you neck while she—

You shook your head, lying down again, and closing her eyes. All the fun and pleasure you had been given from the previous night was slowly vanishing and being replaced by a feeling of uncertainty and confusion. Natasha was an enigmatic person, okay, but you thought you knew her better. She had no reason to leave you just like that, especially when she had already vented about all her past experiences, flaws and failures. Nah, it was probably nothing, you were overthinking. Perhaps she indeed had something important to take care of. You closed your eyes as fatigue took over, and slept for a little bit more.

Natasha went back to her apartment — one of her apartments, and for the whole day, her thoughts ran like crazy. Her emotions were all over the place. She had just fucked her best friend, the one person she felt comfortable and at ease with. She considered her feelings carefully; this.. dinamic, between you two, had not been platonic for a considerable amount of time. But not being platonic doens't necessarily means being romantic. It could either be love, or lust. What happened the day before was carnal, once the two of you were way too much in a drunken haze to actually feel anything.

And, like always, Natasha didn't want to think about falling in love. She felt scared just by thinking about this. It was a new territory, one she wasn't willing to deep dive in. So she took her phone and deeply sighed, opening her chat with you.

"Yesterday was fun. But I need some time. I don't think this can work. Hope you're doing okay. xx"

That text just completely shattered you.

You had no idea what you did wrong. It was not like Natasha was pushing you away forever — but while being with her, the only thought running through your mind was: I wanna be with her. I wanna explore this with her. And Natasha didn't give a single sign that she thought the opposite. You felt... disappointed. With yourself and her. For hoping.

Yeah, getting involved with an ex kgb Avenger killer spy probably wasn't the best idea.

You wouldn't simply forget everything you shared together, so the easiest way here not to create a big tension was.. being fake. The two of you weren't stupid, you were aware of the unspoken feelings going on. But what happened that night should not happen again. So your friendship was what prevailed. A friendship like the start. But obviously, with a few changes. Natasha and you didn't lose touch — on the contrary, you were closer than ever. You spoke and flirted (a lot), but with one small rule, a rule that you subconsciously added to this.. situationship. No feelings involved. It would be singularly that. Friends, some casual hookups, and nothing else.

It didn't last, because that's not what you both wished, longed for.

Little by little, this turned boring again. Not that you were the boring one and she just didn't realize this before. Far from that. The thing was: Natasha and you were supressing your feelings, consequently, supressing all the thrill, the delicious tension that hanged in the air whenever she, once again, crossed paths with you. The russian wanted nothing more than just grab you and kiss you hard, pour all the emotions that she kept bottled up throughout her life into the kiss. But unfortunately, she couldn't. She had a duty to fullfil, as someone born, destined to save the world.

And with all of this, you and her settled a distance. You with your previous and trivial life, and her, saving little girls from bad guys, and bringing down cats from tall trees. It was truly shocking: one day, you lived for Natasha Romanoff. She was your everything and everything you'd ever want. In a blink of an eye, it ended. You followed your paths, like two completely different people, with different purposes.

Right person, wrong time.

Fool her, to think she could get over you that easily. Poor you, to try and put that inside of your head as well.

Sometimes, when normally doing daily tasks, you would catch yourself thinking about her — when you were going to watch TV and put your legs on the coffee table, instead of simply sitting. It was an habit of hers. Or when eating something with peanut butter. It was her favourite late night snack. When it rained. She liked to watch the rain. With somebody else's hands on you. It wasn't right. It was never right to have somebody else touch you. You were constantly thinking about your life before things with her changed — the memories brought comfort, a sense of nostalgia.. at some point, you weren't living in the present anymore. Just faking. Faking your feelings. Pretending it was okay to let her go.

This woman ruined you for everything and everyone else.

Natasha could relate to that. In a life that could be resumed in one word: a 'whirlwind' of a life, and you were her only 'constant' among all of this... she couldn't bear this anymore.

So she made an important decision.

The decision was today.

Today: she'd take you out again, praying that, if not reconciliation, she wanted at least to say everything she had to say. Because if life taught her one thing, was to make choices that she wouldn't regret in the future. And it was damn right she would regret choosing not to meet you tonight.

Sitting in the stool of the bar, in a more secluded corned, her eyes followed your figure as you approached — purse hanging on your shoulder, dress exposing your back and a little bit of your waist, eyes so awfully soft and gentle as you looked at her. It wasn't fair. A pang of guilt hit her hard. Oh, she regretted letting that go. She wanted you to be mad at her. But you were not. She shakily rises to her feet to kiss your cheek as you stand in front of her, thankfully not stumbling. Your eyes lock again, already in a trance. Just like that other day.

"How are you doing?" you ask. Natasha could cry. She missed that voice everyday. "Did I take too long? I'm sorry."

"No, no. Don't worry." she swallows hard. You both sit on the stools by the countertop. When the bartender comes, the redhead dismisses him. She wanted the two of you sober for this. "I'm... so much better now that you're here, honestly. How about you?"

"Amazing." you chuckle, tilting your head to the side and watching her. She didn't change a bit. Hair braided, black jeans, leather jacket. That was your Natasha. "I didn't expect you calling me here, to be honest..—"

"Me neither." she admits, in a whisper. Her tongue darts out to moisten her lips, eyes involuntarily starting at your mouth. She sighs and looks into your eyes. "But I had to... I can't get you off my mind."

Her sincerity never fails to amaze you. With each second that passes, the butterflies in your tummy return, to remind you of the past — feelings and sensations resurfacing. You bite on your bottom lip and look around the bar, quickly scanning to see if there was anybody paying attention to the two of you. Maybe a few eyes here and there, which didn't linger. Everyone else was too busy minding their own business — and it's not like you'd care if someone was staring anyway. Natasha turned some heads. You felt greedy for that. You were the one having her. The only one having her.

"You live in my head rent free, Natasha." you tell her, voice having a sultry edge to it. You slowly stand, walking closer.

You take her hands and open her arms — making it possible for you to straddle her thigh. She tenses almost immediately. Her head tilts up to stare into your eyes, arms circling your waist to keep you close, where she wanted. You shake your head when you see a small frown between her eyebrows — lips pressing against that small spot, coaxing a little exhale of hers. She missed you. Everyday. Every minute. She wanted that respect and care all the time.

"What are we even doing here?" she whispers, so quietly you almost can't hear it. Her hands cup your waist and gently roam up and down your sides, palms brushing against your bare skin every now and then, all thanks to the waist slits of your dress. Your face leans closer to hers, noses bumping — the smallest of touches, making you both crave what you once had. "Why didn't I just invite you to my place right away?"

"I don't know. Why didn't you?" you raise one eyebrow, fingertips caressing her jawline. Her hands give your waist a squeeze — and you almost moan. She swore she could hear it. It replayed in her head, the beautiful sounds you made for her. She wanted to hear them again. She was going to make you sound like that again.

It wasn't just a physical thing — your body and mind craved her touch, her presence, so much that just the mere thought of being on her bed again got you soaked. She felt something wet through the rough fabric of her jeans, and that got her brain spinning. She fell for you hard. So painfully hard.

"Let's get out of here," she groans, hands firmly grabbing your thighs and lifting you up — wrapping your legs around her waist and carrying you out the pavement. Her hardness pressed right against your core — you blushed, hiding your face on her shoulder, wrapping your arms around her neck.

In a heartbeat, you were back at your house.

Your place, because it was the fastest way, when taking the cab. No words were exchanged, not yet. The aching, burning need had to be taken care of first — before properly talking. Your back hits the wall hard as Natasha pushes you against it — her body trapping you between herself and the hard surface — hands hardly, possessively holding you by the hips. Desperately, even. Making sure you wouldn't slip away from her grasp. Her lips dance with yours, tentatively, yet naturally, tongues tasting one another after what felt like centuries. She felt so good, tasted so good.

"Nat..—" you moan against her lips, having her bottom lip trapped between your teeth, then releasing it. Your forehead against hers, eyes soft and filled with desire. Your hands hold her cheeks, traveling to her jaw. Needily, you press kisses to the side of her throat, breathing shaky, heart hardly thrumming. "I never stopped thinking about you..."

"Yeah?" she hums, grabbing the hem of your dress and lifting it up, bunching the fabric by your hips. Her fingers hook around the elastic of your panties and pull them down, pooling around your feet — making you gasp, and pull away from her neck. Eyes wide open. The air hits your heat, making you needier for her.

You almost mewl.

"God, I need you." Natasha utters. She grabs you again and smashes her lips against yours once more, now with so much more passion, more need, more anxiety. Her bulge presses against your now unclothed wetness, coaxing a tiny cry of need out of you. You breathlessly pull away from her, reaching down and fumbling with the buttons of her jeans — until she stops you.

"No—"

"Quiet." she shushes, maneuvering you back, until your body hits the mattress. She climbs onto the bed and stays in a kneeling position, hungrily taking you in. Messy, needy, all for her. Sober, like she wanted planned from the first time. "That dress goes off."

Her voice is commanding, yet not harsh — and her eyes betray her a little. Her eyes are almost pleading, that it is clear how much she needs this. To have you all to herself, to show you how much she wants that. Her underwear becomes even more tight as she sees your trembling fingers, pulling the dress over your head and tossing it aside, lips parted. Just by her look, you can tell she wants the bra off, too. So you reach behind your back and grants her silent wish, breasts now exposed to her sight.

"There you are..." she moans to herself, shamelessly taking in the sight of you. You're a work of art. With her hand, she coaxes your knees open, and parts your legs. "My... you're so wet. So perfectly wet."

"You're still with a lot on.." you quietly complain, feeling hot and shy at the same time. But her gaze is enough to wipe away the confusion from your eyes. She had a plan.

"Touch yourself for me." she breathes out.

Your eyes briefly widen with the unexpectedness of this statement. You had certainly done this before — touched yourself thinking of her — but the idea of showing this, while she watched, never crossed your mind. But it wasn't an unpleasant idea. It was actually... hot. Sensual. They darken, pupils blown wide as you make yourself comfortable against the pillows, eyelids fluttering as your legs spread a little more, palm resting on your stomach, then moving down. Deliberately, it reaches your sex, a shakily sigh leaving your lips when your middle and ring finger collect some of the slick coat covering your sensitiveness, using it to slowly rub your clitoris, getting you to gasp louder.

"Natasha..." you whisper, eyes falling close, thoughts wandering.

Wandering back to the start — when you first discovered your feelings for her, then the climax, when you both got in bed due the alcohol — then the aftermath, when you needed her so much, felt so alone at night, that your fingers were the only solution. Little wet sounds echo within the room as you rub circles on yourself, applying just the right amount of pressure, that it doesn't take long for the pit in your stomach to manifest itself.

"Faster." Natasha rasps out, taking her jacket and quickly throwing it away. She pulls her tank top over her head, then undo the buttons of her jeans — leaving the bed, just so she can get rid of all the uncomfortable fabric, and climbing it again. She crawls closer to you — eyeing you as you worked on your pussy, her hands caressing your thighs, adding to the stimulation.

"Please...!" you whimper, doing as you're told — rubbing yourself faster — slipping one of your fingers inside your entrance, almost cumming, that quickly. "Please, I need you..!"

"I need you too," she moans to herself, and harshly grabs your wrist, pulling your hand away. You moan loudly in protest — Natasha wouldn't tease you. Not today, when you both needed each other so much. She discards her undergarments, finally — groaning as she's set free. Your eyes lock on her hard length, which was practically hitting her abs now.

"Put it inside me." you beg, grabbing her shoulders to pull her closer. She hovers over you, bracing herself on her forearms, on each side of your body. Your fingernails gently graze her back. Natasha was feeling so much, so much more than she ever felt. Your eyes were sparkling so much, like you were crying — shimmering with the depth of your adoration for her. You grab her cheeks and press your lips to hers, in a gentle peck. Knowing her past, she didn't have to explain her reasons for what had happened. She was scared before, and you respected. "Go on. Love me."

She couldn't wait no longer. She lowers her forehead to your shoulder and places her hands on your hips — her chest against yours, as she lined herself with your hole, effortlessly pushing inside. Stretching you out, like she once did. Having the chance to hear that delicious sounds again.

"You're mine... shit," she groans, rolling into you gently, getting you used to the feeling first. You're so tight, so perfect around her. Natasha's overwhelmed. Her hands press against the base of your throat, squeezing firmly, yet leaving enough room for air. She's so hot. "That pussy is mine. You're mine. You're all mine—"

"Yes," you moan, wrapping your legs around her middle. You wouldn't take long to come tonight. Maybe she'd make you come over and over. She rocks into you, pace not too slow, not too fast. Just right. The right tempo to bring you both the pleasure and connection you so much needed. "Mhm.. fuck, Nat, missed your cock,"

"You're gonna take it over and over—" she comments — kissing your shoulder, roaming her hands up your body, her right palm cupping your breast and giving it a firm squeeze. Your head lolls back, mouth opening to allow a satisfied moan out. "I'm never fucking letting you go again,"

She accelerates, pulling almost all the way out just to slam back into you again — feeling her climax approach. She moves her mouth close to your ear and moans — her own sounds now mixing with yours.

"Natasha...! Fuck, you feel soo good," you gasp, a wave of pleasure washing over you as you get closer. She takes the hint immediately, cupping the back of your knee and pushing it up, allowing her a better angle. "Ah, gimme more,"

"My greedy girl," she groans, her head tilting back. Her cock twitches inside of you — precum already painting you white. She glanced down at where your folds swallowed her, eyes darkening impossibly more. "You're so goddamn tight... 'm not gonna last, moya krasivaya malysha,"

"Okay.. 'ts okay... Cum with me..." you beg her, tangling your fingers into her red strands of hair, pulling her down more, so her forehead rests against yours — the eye contact increasing the intimacy of the moment. She didn't know what to expect now. Didn't know what to think. Only that she had to fill you up.

"C'mon.. nhg, darling.. c'mon.. cum around me," she encourages, feeling her own legs shake as her orgasm washed over her.

She grabbed your hips hard and slammed into you — once, twice, three times, filling you up with her hot release. You squeezed your eyes shut as your body shuddered forwards, breasts pressing against her own as a long, strangled moan flowed out of you, nails digging into her back, pressing her body against yours as you finished. Your walls clenched around her cock, swallowing her more, not allowing her to pull away just that. "God.. I love you!"

Natasha blinks, not sure if she heard right. Her heart squeezes in her chest, arms wrapping around your body. Her back hits the bed and she flips you on top of her, still inside of you — but now, her member softened. The adrenaline was running wild, but you had calmed down a little bit. Just a little. Because this time, it wasn't pure sex. It was lovemaking.

Your face is buried in her chest as she brings up the covers, creating a cocoon of warmth around you. She buries her face into your hair and inhales deeply, staying silent. Just to process things.

"I love you, too. So so much." she murmurs into you hair. She felt terrified to say this. But once you're someone who she already showed her scars to, it's not that bad anymore.

"You do?" you ask expectantly, feeling tired, drowsy. Natasha smiles at that. She feels her eyes burning with heavy emotion. She nods.

"Yes... I love you so much." she confirms, softly stroking her hair, brushing some strands away from your sweaty forehead. "And I want you to be mine. Will you be mine?"

"You're asking me to be your girlfriend after the sex?" you chuckle quietly, but happiness was evident in your voice. Now you could sleep at peace. The first night of rest you'd have in a long time. In the arms of the woman you cherished, worshipped.

Natasha had won now. She was so fucking relieved. All because of a phrase.

"Of course I will, you idiot."

"I'm never, ever, ever letting you go again." the room is messy, smell of sex lingering around you. But now things were sorted out. By the morning, you could have a more direct, serious conversation. For now, you'd rest together, wrapped up in each other's arms, like it was always meant to be.

[sirfrogsworth]

So, I did know the basic psychology of this. Or I have a good guess at least. But I was too tired and just needed a way to end the post quickly. I am running on fumes nearly all the time and sometimes I just do whatever I need so I can publish something and feel like I accomplished a goal.

But a few people are having issues with what I said.

They mentioned that autistic folks find comfort in repetition and feel like I am calling that sad. I definitely see that as a possible interpretation and I appreciate them mentioning feeling that way.

But I just wanted to use a little bit of energy to address why I don't think I was referring to these normal, healthy coping mechanisms. I mentioned in a reply that my father actually needed to watch the same show over and over because he was too sick to concentrate on something unfamiliar. I get why it can be helpful.

Firstly, I don't know many autistic people who trap everyone they know at a party and play the same 12 songs over and over.

By and large, that aspect was what I found most sad.

But aside from that, I see this repetitive behavior as a very different thing.

In fact, I would say it isn't the behavior itself... it is the *reason* for the behavior.

I see Trump's repetitive behavior more as living in the past, stuck in his ways, being stubborn, and unwilling to try new things. Something I see a lot with elderly conservative folks. They yearn for a better time in the past when they forgot all of the shitty things and only remember happy times. They say music was better in the good old days and refuse to consider any good music could be created outside of that golden age.

Trump is stuck in the 80s and 90s. He was young and healthy and grabbing pussy and fucking models (with and without consent) and going to parties of important people. He was invited to celebrity weddings and was literally Regis Philbin's best friend. Society generally liked him. He was just the goofy rich guy with the hair and many of us thought he was really good at business. Something enhanced by The Apprentice which was heavily edited to make him seem like a business genius. He likes people thinking he is good at business more than he likes being president.

I actually think he hates being president and only ran this time to stay out of jail.

Trump is not well liked as he used to be. No matter how many cult members love and praise him, he remains deeply unhappy. His wife refuses to touch or even kiss him in public. She does this little hand escape thing every time he tries to hold her hand. And when he tries to kiss her she makes him do that French thing where he has to kiss the air near her head.

Every one of his current "friends" is just playing the game. They are hoping their fealty will help them climb the ladder. I doubt he has a single genuine friend left. Except maybe Rudy Guiliani, who turned into a fucking nutball.

He was traumatized from being inches away from death and I think that was the real reason he moved his inauguration inside. A life long New Yorker is pretty well adapted to the cold.

He probably has erectile dysfunction. He is said to need a diaper. People say he smells really bad. Getting old sucks for everyone, but it is devastating to a narcissist of Trump's caliber.

Trump is in a psychological prison of unhappiness and all he has left is his rallies and his parties where he tries to trigger memories of better times. He has the world's thickest nostalgia glasses.

Why do you think he says "Make America Great AGAIN"?

He says he is going to restore the US to its "former glory."

Almost every personal and political goal of his is based on restoring how things used to be. Which is why he so easily fit into the regressive Republican party despite being a New York Democrat for most of his life.

Trump has elderly nostalgia brain and he is stuck in a loop. He is desperately trying to recreate his glory days.

I get why people had an issue with the caption. And I should have waited until I had more energy to clarify.

In the end, this man is stuck in his ways and stupendously uncurious of new things.

And those are terrible traits for a president.

[sgstories123]

Sean's New Family

“Welcome home, the new Mrs Lee!” Sean’s father gushed happily as he led his new bride into the large living room. “Let’s go up and try the new bed!”

“Oh, you dirty old man! All you think about is sex.” The newly wedded Mrs Lee was obviously faking displeasure as she giggled seductively and pulled naughtily at Sean’s father, leading him up the stairs to the bedrooms.

Sean just stared after his father as he disappeared together with his new wife into their bedroom. He turned his attention back to the other person sitting nonchalantly in the living room, his new stepsister, Sophia.

Sean’s mother passed away when he was still a baby. Since then, his father, a successful businessman had been regularly bringing home different woman back to their home. He was used to all these “aunties” coming and going. None seemed to last very long, at most about a year. He was thus surprised that his father decided to marry Sophia’s mother despite having known her for less than a month. All the previous “aunties” were telling him that they will soon be promoted to be his “mummy” but had never succeeded. There was something special about Sophia’s mother.

Sure, she had huge boobs, D cup at least, maybe much larger. But she also knows how to dress and talk seductively. He has seen the way she looked into his father’s eyes. They were like a doe’s eyes, so soft and gentle. Any man’s soul would melt staring into them.

This was only the third time that he had met Sophia. His dad brought Sophia to the house for the first time when he announced that he was marrying Sophia’s mother. He then met her at the Registry of Marriage two days ago. And today was when their parents held their traditional wedding dinner. They had not talked at all during the first two meetings, but Sean thought Sophia was pretty and sexy. Clearly, she had inherited some of her mother’s genes.

Sophia had large breasts, not as large as her mother’s, but definitely at least a C cup, much larger than most girls of her age. She was thin, which made her breasts even more prominent. She had a small waist and a well-rounded ass. Her curves could easily put her on a fashion walkway. But the most seductive feature were her thick, succulent red lips. Against the background of her pearly white smooth skin, she was like a Japanese AV model.

“So, where’s my room?” Sophia asked in a husky voice. That was the first time Sean had heard her voice. It was so sexy.

“Upstairs.” He croaked, his throat dry.

“Are you stupid? Of course it is upstairs. Did you think I am going to sleep in the servant’s room on the ground floor? Which room is it?”

“The one at the end of the corridor, facing the swimming pool.” Sean finally found his voice.

Sophia was silent for a while before speaking again, in a gentler tone. “Sorry for sounding harsh. I am not used to this, you know. Living with strangers.” She sighed before continuing. “Mum is always a hopeless romantic, falling in love with different men all the time. But I guess we are now family. We are the same age, so I won’t call you “Kor” even though you are a couple of months older than me. Cool?”

“Yeah, cool.” Sean cursed inwardly. Damn. Sophia had those doe’s eyes as well. He could feel his cock stirring in his pants. He tried calming his cock down by trying to list the letters of the alphabet backwards.

“Show me my room?” Sophia stood up, her round ass swaying seductively inside her tight pink jeans.

Sean quickly adjusted his hard cock in his jeans so that it would not be so obvious before Sophia could turn around. He walked past Sophia and caught a whiff of her scent. Damn. She smells so good, like some fruit ripening in the woods. They went up the stairs and when they passed their parents room, they heard Sean’s father groaning loudly in pleasure. “You like that, huh? You like that? You like my big cock fucking your tight hole?”

Sean turned red with embarrassment. He turned back to look at Sophia who clearly heard every word. “Your dad, huh? Dirty old man.” She smirked.

At that moment, Sophia’s mum could be heard moaning lustfully. “Fuck me harder. I want your cock in my tight hole.”

Sean smirked back at Sophia. “Your mum, huh? Dirty old woman.”

They looked at each other and then laughed. The ice was broken.

“You are cool.” Sophia smiled, her eyes twinkling. “And cute.”

Sean’s pulse quickened, the blood gushing down into his cock. “Yeah, I am always cool.” Sean croaked, his throat going all dry again.

“That’s my room?” Sophia tilted her head towards the room at the end of the corridor. Without waiting for an answer, Sophia opened the door of her room, revealing a large king-sized bed with a thick, fluffy, pink comforter.

“Nice. My favorite colour.” Sophia sat down on her bed, bouncing slightly, testing the springs of the bed. She leaned back and laid down on the bed. Her blouse became loose and Sean caught a peek of the white, flat stomach against the tight pink jeans.

Sean moved closer to the side of the bed. Lying down, Sophia’s breasts rose rhythmically with each breath. Maybe a D cup or larger, Sean corrected himself, viewing the twin towers from this new angle.

Sophia sat up suddenly and looked at Sean with her doe eyes again. She glanced downwards and giggle.

“You are just like your dad. Dirty old man.” Sophia giggle.

Sean looked down and realized with horror that despite him adjusting his cock earlier, it was still making an obvious tent in his jeans. “Fuck!”

“Yes, why not? Let’s give little Sean down there a breather.” Sophia cooed.

She unbuckled his belt and tried to pull down his jeans. “Ouch!” Sean cursed as his stiff cock got caught in his jeans.

Sophia giggled. “Who ask you to have such a big cock? You deserve it.” She pulled down his Calvin Kleins and pushed his cock down before releasing it. Sean’s erect cock snapped back, hitting his flat stomach with a dull thud.

“Fuck! That hurts!” Sean cursed. “This is not a toy, you know.”

“Well, it is going to be my sex toy.” Sophia smiled seductively. She grabbed Sean’s balls, tugging at them and pulling them closer, as she licked them carefully, slowly tracing the contours with her tongue.

Sean moaned as Sophia’s rough tongue caressed all his pleasure points. Sophia wrapped her longer slender fingers around Sean’s cock, caressing it seductively, scratching it lightly with her fingernails along its whole length. Sean held on to Sophia’s shoulders for support as strength oozed out of him, surrendering himself to Sophia’s expert ministrations. 

Sophia wrapped her fingers around Sean’s cock, applying pressure along it, adding to his pleasure as she continued her tea bagging. She pulled and tugged at his cock, changing the direction and pressure, reacting to Sean’s moans of pleasure and involuntary thrusting of his hips.

“I am gonna cum!” Sean groaned as he thrust forward, his hand holding Sophia’s head tight, as he shot a stream of semen into the air. Sophia had not expected it and could not move away in time as Sean was holding her head tightly against him. Some of the semen got into her face and hair.

“Can’t you at least give some warning the next time? You know how difficult it is to wash this off?” Sophia pouted.

“Sorry.” Sean apologized. He was disappointed too that he came so fast. But Sophia’s blowjob was just out of this world, he reasoned. No one could last more than 5 minutes with that kind of blowjob.

“Sorry not good enough.” Sophia stood up and pushed Sean onto her bed. She took off her clothes, revealing her large breasts and a shaved pussy.

Fuck! Sean thought to himself. Those are definitely D cups! And a shaved pussy! He had fantasized about them after seeing them in porn but he had never fucked a shaved pussy before. This was a dream come true. His cock stirred.

“Nice! I don’t have to do anything and you are already ready to be my sex toy.” Sophia gushed. She straddled Sean, guiding his hard cock into her waiting, wet pussy. Sean’s cock found the entrance to Sophia’s love hole easily. It slid in easily into the well-lubricated love tunnel but half-way in, it met with resistance.

“Argh! Your cock is so much larger than any other cock that I have.” Sophia grimaced. Her right hand held onto Sean’s shoulder for support, her nails digging deep in as she tried to bear the pain of Sean’s large implement entering her. She leaned forward, positioning herself for an easier entry as she slide backwards.

Slowly, Sean’s cock inched in, spreading the walls further apart. But it was not fully immersed yet. Sean felt the base of his cock and there was about a finger’s width of his cock still outside Sophia’s body. But Sophia is no longer moving as the pain was too much for her to bear. Sean was getting impatient. With his cock still impaled in her, Sean sat up and turned Sophia onto her back. Not listening to her objections, he forcefully thrust himself deep into her, closing that last bit of distance between them.

Sophia screamed in pain, pushing hard against Sean’s body. Her resistance was futile as Sean lifted her legs up over his shoulders, ramming himself deeper into her. He was overcome with lust and didn’t care anymore if he was causing his sister pain. He paused for a second to enjoy the sensation of his cock enveloped by the warm, tight love hole. He grinded himself against the smooth pussy, sliding his pubic hair against the pearly white skin. The tip of his cock twinged with pleasure as it rubbed against the innermost sanctum of Sophia’s womb. Sean slowly withdrew his cock, feeling his cock head traversed across the many pleasurable folds along the love tunnel. As the whole length is almost out, he slowly pushed his cock in again, new pleasurable sensations run from his cock throughout his whole body as his cockhead brushed against the folds from a different direction.

Sophia relaxed herself against Sean as the pain subsided, and was replaced by increasing pleasurable sensations as Sean’s cock filled her a second time. Her vagina was getting used to his length and girth now, adapting quickly to the size of Sean’s large cock. She moaned softly in pleasure and as Sean picked up his pace, her moans grew louder and louder.

Sean rocked himself against Sophia, grinding her against her bed. He pushed harder and harder, faster and faster. His perspiration is falling onto Sophia’s large breasts now and he leaned forwards, burying his face between them. Grunting, he pushed himself even harder, forcing Sophia to curl upwards like a ball. Ramming vertically down into her cunt, he released his second load of semen deep into Sophia’s womb, without wasting a single drop. Exhausted, he finally let go of Sophia, rolling off to one side, satisfied.

The two of them lay silent side by side, each satisfied for the moment, enjoying the slowly subsiding pleasures from their bodies.

“I always wanted to fuck a shaved pussy. This was a dream come true.” Sean confessed softly.

“I always wanted to fuck a brother. This was a dream come true. Kor.” Sophia confessed softly. Sean’s cock stirred. Incest. Now that was another of his favorite porn theme.

“Oh my. Look what have we here.” Sophia’s mother appeared at the door, naked, her large D cup breasts jiggling as she spoke.

Fuck. Sean cursed himself. They should have closed the door. Now how is he going to explain to his dad?

“Hmm. Looks like I don’t have to worry about the siblings not getting along. Shall we join them, Mrs Lee?” Sean’s dad appeared behind Sophia’s mother, his cock limp and swaying slightly.

“I want a taste of that young, huge dick.” Mrs Lee looked hungrily at Sean as she walked forwards.

“Okay. But my cock is still bigger and I don’t think you will find Sean a better fuck than me.” Sean’s dad countered.

“Well, Sophia already had a taste of Sean’s cock. Why don’t you fuck her and see whether she thinks you are better than Sean.” Sophia’s mother climbed onto the bed and whispered into Sean’s ear. “And you better tell me that I am a better fuck than Sophia.”

Fuck! This is going to be an interesting family, Sean thought to himself.

[barleyo]

Build-A-Bride.

Enji Todoroki X F! Reader (smut)

A/N: i can't stop writing broken enji... he's so depressed and lonely i LOVE it ^_^ isn't he just so dreamy? all downtrodden and sad? anyways this is so half-assed, sorry!

Tags: dub-con, forced/arranged marriage (sort of), age gap, mostly plot tbh (minimal smut), brief mentions of dehumanization, breeding, creampie, p in v, size difference, language barrier

Wordcount: 1.8k

Women don't like divorcés. It's a mark of failure. It brings down one's stock value. Enji's mistakes with Rei were numerous. He knew it was for the best, that he had nothing to fight for when she had the papers mailed to him. Why would he argue with her about it? The kids had all grown up and moved out. Their assets were easily separable. She did not ask for much in the split, and even if she did Enji would have given it up without pushing back. 

He was a man defeated. What point would there be in chasing after Rei again? He did not love her; not truly, at least, and she certainly did not love him. They had been living stagnantly ever since she was released from the hospital. It would be a feat for them to even speak to each other over breakfast. Idle chat about the weather or what their adult children were doing was a rare treat. 

Enji's life had slowed significantly. No children to fill his too-big-for-one-man house and no woman to be kept company by. Work had slowed down. Younger heroes took the top spots, slowly but surely. Even his own son was predicted to soon surpass him. Old timers, or "Golden-Age Heroes", as the media titled them, were losing fame and fortune alike. No longer the hot commodity, old was out, new was in.

He expected it, really. His goal was to be the number one hero, and he was for a while. Was it his dream to remain number one? He didn't have time to think about it before he got knocked down to a measly third place in the ranks. 

He had thrown so much of himself into the hero life. It crossed his mind a few times, it all ending, but he never realized that it would come crashing down so soon. What friends he had, using the term very lightly, were less than helpful in his condition. 

None less so than Hawks, of course. That damned fool.

Keigo had been dragging Enji out to these annoyingly quaint cafés for a while now. He'd force piles of biscotti and scones onto Enji's plate while blabbing on about some new excursion of his or the other, taking up the prime hours of Enji's day in the name of socializing. 

Seldom it was that Enji left the impromptu meet-ups with anything but slight annoyance at best and utter exhaustion at worst. He could hardly pay attention to the meaningless drivel Keigo threw his way. Sometimes it was talk of the current hero ranks, which Enji immediately tuned out. Other times it was about a concert or movie Keigo was going to. 

Lately, though, Keigo had an interest in trying to play matchmaker for Enji. 

"You should really get out there," he said, smug little smile plastered on his cheeky face while he sipped his espresso. "You aren't getting younger."

Enji's response was the same as always, in that he was too busy and too old to be worrying about such things. "I do not have time to woo a woman like a schoolboy. I'm fine where I am," he responded with his arms resting on the café's comparably small table. 

Keigo chuckled, curling his lips upwards. "You can only spend so many nights with your right hand, Endeavor."

"Shut your damned mouth."

"If you won't let me set you up with someone," Keigo said, not taking Enji's gruff tone seriously, as usual, "there is another option."

Enji pressed his mouth closed tightly, eyes narrowing into a judgmental squint. "It had better not be online dating."

Defensive hands flew up. "No, no. You've made that pretty clear, man. I'm talking about getting, like, a mail-order bride or whatever they're called."

"You do realize how much that sounds like human trafficking, right?"

"It does not! They still do it, you know. There are websites and everything." 

Enji sighed and leaned his head back to look up at the ceiling. The idea sounded horrible. God only knew how sketchy something like that would be, and besides, how horrible were the moral implications of that? Some old bastard like himself purchasing a young girl like a farm animal. 

It wasn't completely unheard of. Plenty colleagues of his had foreign brides ordered for them. Even his own cousins had done similar things. Hell, he wasn't far off from trying it out to get the perfect quirk marriage before he found Rei. 

But now? It sounded cruel. Unnecessary. He already resented himself for how he treated his family— he didn't need to ruin the life of some other woman too.

"I am not going to order a wife," he said, voice strained, "like a spare part off of eBay. Do you not see how horrible that would look on me?"

Keigo waved his hand dismissively, unbothered. “It’s not like that. These women are looking for a chance at a better life," he explained before teasingly adding, "just like the lonely men who send for them." 

Enji stared at him, trying to decipher if he was serious. “You really think I'm desperate enough to buy some random woman?"

"Don't think of it like 'buying.' Think of it as rescuing. How will the press feel about that, hm? Imagine the headline: ‘Endeavor, the hero with a heart, saves a foreign damsel in distress by bringing her to Japan to live a new life of riches and mind-blowing sex!'"

"You disgust sometimes, you little brat."

Keigo leaned over the table, teeth flashing briefly as he spoke. "Just think about it, okay? I'll send you some links tonight." He got up and pushed his chair in with his foot. "Besides, I'm tired of being your only friend. These little 'dates' of ours are cutting majorly into my work." 

Keigo had compiled a ridiculously long list of websites and companies that specialized in international marriage deals. He had definitely committed to the bit too much or he had researched this topic heavily before presenting it to Enji via text.

Either way, Enji peered at his cell phone screen in distaste. Link after link, scrolling through the masterlist Hawks compiled, he just felt more unsure of the idea. The names of the sites left a strange feeling in his gut. 

GoldenBride, Rose Brides, Latidate. For fuck's sake, UkraineBride4You dot com? "Legitimate & Cheapest Mail Order Bride Sites! Click here for more!" 

He clicked his phone off. The light from the vibrant ads and taglines disappeared from his face as quickly as they appeared, leaving him in the dark of his bedroom. He didn't speak, he just stayed in his bed, leaning on the headboard in silence. 

He had gotten used to his house being quiet. It was never especially loud, but at least when the kids still lived at home, he could hear the sounds of life. Of Shoto's feet padding through the halls. The sound of Fuyumi's books opening and closing. Natsuo's grumbling under his breath. Proof that he had gotten them all this far— that he had done something right for them. 

No. He couldn't stay this way, living in the dark silence, figuratively and literally. He turned his phone back on and clicked the highlighted link with the least concerning name. 

Well, you were just the perfect little thing, weren't you? Young, pretty, doe-eyed, and sweet. After perusing a website that looked less criminal than he thought it would, Enji decided on you. He had to have you. 

You stood out immediately from the pages of other women. All of them were, of course, gorgeous. They would not be advertised if they weren't. You, though. There was something about you. You were small—Enji liked that—but not frail. Built for carrying children was what you were, he decided, with your soft curves and buxom build. 

Your profile did not give much away. Basic information and a little greeting. It intrigued him enough, so clearly it worked. 

The two of you chatted for a few weeks, if you could call it that. There was little getting to know each other and more plane tickets being purchased and pick up times being arranged. To say that you had him hooked was an understatement, especially considering the only tools you had to connect with him were shitty translations of your language to his from Google and emojis. 

Everything about you read as gentle. Docile. Probably the only personality Enji was equipped to deal with. He would just die if married to a combative woman. His enemies would love to see him nestled up with a loud, abrasive one with a temper to match his own. 

No, you would do quite nicely, with your limited speaking and non-provoking nature. You were the perfect escape, a blank canvas onto which he could project his hopes for a new life onto. He could start a family over again. He could fix his mistakes and move on. Maybe, just maybe, he could forgive himself.

The flood of ideas filled him each time his phone buzzed with your messages, even if they were often short and punctuated by misunderstandings and screwy sentences due to poor translations. He found himself counting the days until your plane would take off to bring you to him, to his home. He had plans for you.

Things moved quickly with your new husband. Just last week your flight landed. Then you were  saying "I do," and now he had you bent in positions unimaginable. 

He worked fast. His hands were large and rough, but God, they were efficient. Thick fingers rubbed at your clit. A thicker cock  prodded at your entrance. You wriggled beneath him a bit, eyes widening at the stretch. 

You didn't have the words to tell him you were a virgin, but you didn't have the desire to stop him either. 

"Hold still, you," he said, voice gentle in comparison to how rough his strokes were. "You've got to let it adjust." 

Even if you could understand his words, the heat burning your ears drowned out any sound completely. Fullness filled you everywhere. Like a missing piece you never knew you didn't have. 

"Ah, you still aren't broken in yet for me," he muttered to himself. He watched as your struggles to swallow him into your walls. "Virgin, yeah?"

You mumbled incoherently to yourself, feeling his words cast over your face. More or less, you understood the tone of his words and hummed in agreement, hands playing with your tits absent mindedly. 

Pain tinted moans escaped you. Enji felt good, sure, but a warmth of discomfort passed through you with every inch of him. Your mind told you yes, but your body tried to reject him. He was simply too big, and too much. 

Not that it would stop him. 

He spat on his length to ease the friction. A steady hand stayed over your clit, abusing it to the point of overstimulation. He wanted this to be pleasurable for you, but he had a goal in mind. 

The load or two he had pumped into you earlier wasn't enough. He wouldn't dare give up yet, especially not with the adrenaline rush hearing you whine gave him. 

Besides, your plane ticket was expensive. He planned on getting paid back in spades.

[daydreaming-in-letters]

Against the wall

05/24/2024

Pairing: Hozier x fem!reader

Word Count: 1,917

Warnings: rpf, alcohol, pining, naughty thoughts, fluff

Summary: Sometimes all it takes is a room full of people to figure out you want nothing more than to be alone with that one person.

A/N: Guys, this was written in a fevered frenzy. Haven't felt the muse in months and don't know whether she did a good job, but I am so happy she is not dead.

Picture is a screen cap from this video

Dividers by @firefly-graphics

If you enjoy my story, you are very welcome to like, comment or reblog. No permission is given to copy, repost or share my work on other platforms.

She had forgotten how much she loathed being in a room full of people. Maybe it was a condition that came with age, to appreciate silence and solitude, or maybe, just maybe, it was entirely his fault. 

Her back leaning against the wall, his hand was splayed out right next to her head, supporting the weight of his body as he leant in slightly so he could focus on her voice above the noise of the bustling room. He had never been this close to her, so close she could smell the intoxication scent of his body, and in an instant the chatter was drowned out by the wild drum of her heart, which in turn made it one of the most challenging tasks she had ever had to face to string her words together into meaningful sentences. 

But it seemed she had somehow succeeded, against all odds, as he turned his head to look at her, his face so close now that she could feel the heat of his breath on her face. And as if that had not been enough to clear every coherent thought from her head, he chose to turn his lips up into the most dazzling smile upon her silly joke. 

It made her dizzy, combined with the sparkle in his eyes it was an almost deadly combination, impossible to resist. It had captured her completely. He had captured her completely, occupied her every thought in a way that was bordering on concerning, for her sanity, maybe even for the idea of feminism she lived by, but even more so for the very essence of her existence. 

She had seen it all so clearly, a happy future, no one to bother her, especially no man to cause her even more worries than she already had. Just her, the path in front of her clearly mapped out. And then he had crossed her way, and it had dawned on her that what she had deemed the perfect life would seem like nothing but a cheap substitute next to a life with him. Certainly, she could still be happy without him—if she needed to. 

The problem was, she didn’t want to. She didn’t want to live a life without the sound of his laughter, without his twisted sense of humour and the way he looked at her when they were engaged in a conversation, as if there was no one else in this world, as if it was only him and her. He made her feel secure in a way no one ever had. When he entered the room, she could feel her shoulders relax, her breath going more easily and the galloping of her heart slowing in pace. And when she talked to him, it was as if she had never done anything else in her entire life. There was nothing of the usual unease or urge to appeal between them that might, under different circumstances or with a different man, lead her to a point at which she had either moulded herself into a completely different person or where everything meaningful she had wanted to say and that had been phrased so clearly in her head became lost somewhere on the way from her brain to her mouth. With him though, she could just be herself, safe in the knowledge that he would not judge or tire of her at some point. 

If only she knew with the same certainty if he felt the same. Obviously he did enjoy talking to her as well, or he wouldn’t be standing here right now, choosing to talk to her when he had a room full of people to choose from. But did he also hang on her lips like she did on his? Did he also wonder if they were just as soft as he imagined them to be? And would he like her to step closer, or pull him closer to her instead? And when her hand rested against his chest then, would she feel the same thunderous beat that drummed behind her own ribs? Would it start to flutter as soon as their lips met and refuse to fall back into its regular rhythm until their bodies lay sweaty and spent, their desire finally sated? And in their blissed out state, would he hold her? Would he pull her that impossible inch closer and press the softest of kisses to her forehead, telling her all she needed to know without uttering a single word? Would he still be there in the morning to see her tousled hair and sleep-wrinkled face and look at her with the same affection she thought to find in his gaze right now? Would he—

“There you are! I’ve been looking for you everywhere.” His back still turned on the intruder, he gave her the most dramatic roll of his eyes she had ever seen, making it very hard for her to hide a snicker. “Come, there is someone I need you to meet.”

She wanted to protest, wanted to do whatever it took to keep him close, but before her brain had even been able to form a protest, he was being dragged away from her, his lips forming a silent apology. 

This social engagement was tedious. The thought came as somewhat of a surprise to him. There had been a time when he had truly enjoyed this kind of event, but tonight something just was not right about this party. Well, not ‘something’ as in an unknown factor that made this party different from other parties. It was not unknown to him at all. In fact, this evening had been perfectly enjoyable up until that moment he had been so rudely separated from her. 

She was still leaning casually against that wall, the only difference being that he was too far away from her now. To be fair, any distance that exceeded an arm’s length was too far for his taste. She on the other hand did not seem to mind his absence much, as someone else had already taken his place by her side to engage her in what appeared to be a most entertaining conversation. Not one glance did she spare him, while all he could focus on was the ludicrous attempt to will himself back into his old position, close to her. So close that her breath would waft across his neck again as she spoke, the heat of her body crawling over his skin. Maybe her hand would find him by accident—or intentionally, which would be all the better. After a moment he would return the favour, finally giving in to his longing to feel the smoothness of her skin against his fingertips.

Instead all he could feel was his mouth opening as she brought the glass to her lips and took a sip of champagne. Would he be able to taste it on her tongue if she allowed him to kiss her? He almost hoped he would not be, because what he really desired to taste was her, the exquisite, singular flavour only she possessed. 

And still, that would not nearly be enough to sate his hunger. He wanted to taste all of her. Her lips, her skin, the moist heat at the apex of her thighs. He wanted her so much he could feel his mouth drying up upon the ardor of his wish, no, need for her.

What would it be like to have her? He had imagined it a thousand times over and yet there were so many questions still left unanswered. Would she voice her pleasure or enjoy in silence? Was it her wish to be the director of their passion play or did she want him to lead the way? Would his name glide over her lips in a soft moan or would she scream in ecstasy when they had finally reached the peak? Would she stay serious, caught up in desire, all the way through or would there be giggles and laughter? And what then, after they had given themselves to each other completely? Would she leave, seeing this as an experience best enjoyed once only? Or would she stay, her naked body resting against his in peaceful slumber, and allow real intimacy to begin? 

If it were his choice to make, he would know exactly what to choose. But he could not blame her if she opted for something different. Commitment was tough, and there had been times when he had thought that he, like so many others, was simply not built for it. But watching her now, he could not recall how he had ever been this blind about himself in the first place. 

It had been strange at first, that sense of belonging that always befell him when she was around, completely unexpected. But ever since he had felt it for the first time and realised its true meaning, it was as if he had discovered a law of nature, complex and yet so easy to understand, as if it had always been an inherent part of him.

Once again, the dryness he had felt earlier returned to his mouth, more demanding this time, until it had managed to push every other thought aside for a moment. Instinctively he set the glass to his lips, his eyes not once leaving her until he had lifted the bottom high enough to block his view. It had only been for the blink of an eye, but now he found himself almost choking on his final gulp when his eyes returned to find her spot against the wall empty all of a sudden.

Leaving without a goodbye was childish, she knew, but she just could not shake this nagging feeling that had befallen her out of the blue, that being in the same room with him without talking  to him or being able to at least be near him without looking as if she was running after him like a duckling was far worse than not being here at all. 

With a sigh she set down the glass on an empty table she passed on her way to the exit. What a waste, as it was almost half-full, but somehow it did not taste quite right, and so she left the rest of her drink behind, like the dream that she would ever be to him what he was to her. 

It was dark as she entered the hallway and the air felt uncomfortably cool in contrast to the air inside that had been heated by all those bodies. Their chatter was still following her now, echoing from the walls left and right. 

It must have obscured the noise of his steps, or maybe they had not made any sound at all. Otherwise she would have recognised their rhythm from a mile away. But instead, she only realised that he was there as his warm hand closed around her wrist and gently brought her to a stop. And despite the fact that she had halted her steps almost instantly, she had not expected him to be this close now as she turned, so close that she could see the startled expression of her eyes reflected in his own. So dark, so green. 

He did not utter a single word. He did not have to. She knew when his grip on her loosened and his fingers softly glided between hers. She smiled, and so did he. And then, slowly, they began to walk.

taglist:

@rosecentury

@lowkeysimpinloki

@fightmespideyboy

[sunshinedaisywrites777]

Feverish Nights, Tender Care (DI!Leon S Kennedy x F!Reader)

A/N- I had written this sweet, fluffiest fluff story a while ago, while I was in my sickest and ugliest looking self. It was Leon who gave me comfort at that time, all I thought about was him, taking care of me (or f!reader) and how sweet would it be to let him take care of us 😭 I genuinely need him, want him.. God literally created men and sent Leon S Kennedy as an apology. I am also very sorry for being so inactive, I just had so many assignments 🤧 I hope you like this, have a good day/night ✨

Warning- Age g@p

Fever. Your entire body was burning as you lay curled up in bed one evening. Even though you had been through countless illnesses since childhood, your body still wasn't prepared to handle such a high fever. At first, you felt an ache striking your legs, then slowly spreading across your back. The nausea that came with sensitivity was there, too. You knew you shouldn’t have eaten that last meal, yet you did, and you regretted it so much.

As a child, you were never alone. Your mother could get you through these situations easily by putting you under cold water. No one could make chicken soup better than she did. Her hands would gently stroke your forehead while you lay in bed, repeating the same soothing motion every few seconds. Maybe your mother’s hands were magical because you would always fall asleep when she did that. Truly, loving mothers could never be repaid; they were the ones who deserved all the love in the world.

You were lost in memories of childhood illnesses and your mother when you vaguely sensed Leon sneaking into the room and placing his hand on your forehead. When a fever gets too high, you can barely perceive your surroundings, and even though this usually happens to children (who sometimes see things while sick), you could swear you were hallucinating.

"Baby, hey, it’s me. You’re doin' okay there?"

Maybe Leon thought you had fallen into a coma, judging by your unresponsive state, but the fact that he was here didn’t really surprise you. You didn’t turn toward him; instead, you remained sprawled across the bed and let a few words slip from your lips.

"Leon, I feel like my whole body is on fire. Every limb of mine hurts..."

Your voice was weak, almost on the verge of tears. And Leon—he couldn’t stand seeing you like this. Even though you had never been this bedridden around him before, he still saw you as a part of himself. He couldn’t bear to watch you suffer. He just wanted your beautiful face to smile, your eyes to shine, and for you to hold him tightly and never let go. You were his sunshine.

"I know, babygirl, I know. I'm sorry. I'm here to take care of you, yeah?"

After whispering those words, he pressed a small kiss onto your forehead before gently pulling your blanket away.

"But we have to get rid of this first, little one. This will only make you worse, and you know it well, right, my pretty princess?"

You loved when Leon acted like a romantic lover. Based on your past experiences, if you had to choose between dating a jerk or someone like Leon—handsome, caring, and constantly attentive—you’d definitely pick Leon. In fact, it wasn’t even a choice.

As soon as the blanket was removed, you started shivering. You tried to pull it back, but Leon had already folded it at the foot of the bed, waiting for you to get up.

"Come on, sweetheart, let's take a cold shower."

This was like a nightmare to you, but you knew it was the quickest way to break a fever. It was heartwarming to see Leon using the same method as your mother, but crying over that would have been silly. So, you slowly forced yourself to sit up.

"It’s cold..."

"I know that it’s cold, but you’re burning up, honey."

He then slipped his arms under your body and effortlessly lifted you up like a child. You rested your head against his shoulder—you could fall asleep there instantly.

"Will you let me sleep here for once?"

Leon chuckled at your words and adjusted your slipping body by lifting you slightly from underneath. He wrapped your legs around his waist for support.

"I'm all yours, sweets, but first, let’s get your fever down, shall we?"

You nodded, letting him carry you like a baby into the bathroom attached to your bedroom. He gently set you down before stepping ahead to adjust the water temperature.

But standing was impossible. You felt like you could collapse at any moment.

"Leon…" you called out in a weak voice.

Leon hurried to your side, took your hand, and guided you toward the shower.

"This will sting a bit, but I'm here with you, alright?"

You nodded, allowing him to undress you down to your underwear. He led you under the showerhead and turned on the water he had prepared.

At first, you didn't know what to do. It burned. It burned so much. Pain shot through every inch of your body, making it impossible to stand still.

"Leon, no, please!"

You tried to move away from the stream, but Leon wouldn’t let you. And deep down, you knew it was for your own good—your fever just wouldn’t go down.

"You can hold on to me. Don’t worry ‘bout the clothes, sweetheart."

Doing as he said, you clung to his strong arms, letting the cold water run over you a little longer. After what felt like pure torture, Leon finally turned the water off and wrapped you in a bathrobe. He carefully patted you dry, making sure to be as gentle as possible. He started with your shoulders, then moved to your stomach, and finally, to your lower half.

When he was done, he sat you on the chair in your bedroom and turned on the hairdryer.

You wanted to tell him he didn’t have to do all this, but you loved the way he cared for you. And honestly, you were too weak to protest. So, instead of speaking, you let him pamper you. Occasionally, he would glance down at you, press a wet kiss to your cheek, and then return to drying your hair.

Once he finished, he helped you up and dressed you in one of his oversized blue T-shirts, leaving your lower half bare. Then, he gently placed you on the bed.

You lifted your head and gave him a small smile. He smiled back, kneeling in front of you. Holding both of your hands, he kissed them softly. You giggled at the feeling—his stubble had grown out a lot. But you couldn’t blame him; he had been so busy taking care of you that he had no time for himself.

Looking into your eyes, he pulled you into a tight embrace. You needed this. You needed him. Even this wasn’t enough—you wanted every part of him to touch you. Even though you knew he was yours, you still missed him every second. It was something beyond obsession, but you were grateful that he felt the same way.

He gently stroked your back before pulling away, still holding your hands.

"Now, you're going to be a good girl—which you already are—and lay down for me. And when you wake up, get ready to be poisoned because you’re going to drink the ugliest-looking chicken soup of mine, ha ha."

You playfully made a scared face at his dramatic evil laugh, making him chuckle.

"As much as I love teasing you, I know you’re sensitive, so I won’t push it. But next time, I won’t hesitate, little one."

You nodded and let him tuck you under a thinner blanket this time. Surprisingly, you were no longer freezing, but your headache and nausea lingered. Probably from the sudden cold exposure.

Leon carefully covered you, kissed your forehead, and checked your temperature one last time.

"It’s going to be fine, trust me. You just need your rest."

Your hands searched for his, and when you found them, you pulled him toward you as much as you could. Leon leaned over the bed, raising an eyebrow.

"What is it?"

"...Want you to stay."

Leon chuckled at your childlike pout but quickly composed himself.

"I can't warm you up too much, sweets. If I do, your fever will rise again, and we don’t want that, do we?"

No, definitely not.

You nodded in understanding, closed your eyes, and let sleep take over.

[strangererotica]

EXPLICIT CONTENT | MINORS DNI

DEAD DOVE DO NOT EAT ‼️ ⚠️

* I saw this photo and immediately had a vision from God. Or Satan. Or both. You can decide. *

Dark!Steve Harrington x Reader | Age gap (Steve is in his mid to late 30’s, Reader is 19 or 20) Kidnapping, use of restraints, masturbation, noncon, Steve is messed up af, degrading language used for Reader

𐙚 𓏵𓏵𓏵𓏵𓏵𓏵𓏵𓏵𐙚

Oh this Steve… He’s a bad one. The Steve who knows he peaked in high school, and resents anything that reminds him of it. Especially a pretty young girl like you, who he could easily have had wrapped around his finger (and his dick) back in his ‘King Steve,’ days, but now? You barely even look at him when you take his order at the diner. It’s like he’s just another customer, like he isn’t special. Steve misses being special. He knows he’s the local town failure, the guy so many people believed had a bright and successful future ahead of him, who wound up spending his days and nights renting VHS tapes to locals instead of making deals on Wall Street like he could have. Like Steve should have.

Instead, he shows up at your diner every chance he gets, which is often, since Steve is always alone. He insists on being seated in your section every time in hopes that one day, you’ll finally realize how much he…values you. But Steve’s tired of hoping. He’s given you more than enough hints, more than enough time to come to your senses and invite him into your body. And if you won’t invite him, he’ll invite himself.

Usually Steve drives home straight after finishing his food and beers. Alone, as always. He tries to resist the temptation to play with himself on the drive home (because what kind of fucking loser lets a dumb bimbo waitress get to him like that??) but Steve rarely succeeds. He unzips his fly and massages his cock on the drive home, imagining your lips around its outline instead of his hand. That’s how it should be, how it would be if you weren’t such a goddamn tease. If you actually put out like your mannerisms promised. Your flirty little smiles always give you away to Steve. The way you balance your elbow on your hip while you’re writing down his order, subtly accentuating your breasts… It’s clear to Steve that you want him, even if you’d never admit it even to yourself. It’s why you pretend not to want him, Steve realizes. And maybe you’re just too dumb to know what’s good for you, anyway?

So tonight, he did something different…something he shouldn’t have. Rather than edge himself to you on his drive home, Steve opted for having the real thing. He waited till your shift ended, leaning against his car in the shadows, smoking a cigarette. When he called to you, his voice seemed vaguely familiar. “Oh!” you’d smiled, a bit surprised. “Mister Harrington. You’re…still here?”

Steve’s lips quirked into a grin. “So…you do know me,” he’d said, glancing down at his cigarette before bringing it back to his lips.

“Um…I mean, sure,” you replied, still trying to be friendly. “You’re one of my regular customers, after all.”

Steve’s smile fell, his eyes darkening. “Is that all I am to you?” he’d asked. “A customer?” His expression told you something was very wrong, and you tried to make a quick dash for your car. Steve was quicker.

His hands were around you in seconds, pulling you against him. “Shh, shh,” Steve had whispered, his palm clamped over your mouth. “Everything’s gonna be different from now on, understand? I’m in control. Your job is to serve me, remember? Isn’t that what you do for your customers?”

He’d pulled you into the backseat of his car, the same burgundy BMW from his glory days. Except unlike then, the girl in Steve’s backseat wasn’t there because she wanted to be. She was gagged with a towel stuffed in her mouth and bound at the wrists by duct tape.

Steve positioned you on your side and taped your ankles together as well, completely restraining you in the fetal position, knees pulled into your chest. He’d slammed the door and walked around his car, shaking the tension from his body with a heavy sigh. You watched through the window as Steve opened the driver’s side door and slide behind the wheel. “We’re going for a little drive,” he’d told you, his voice uncomfortably calm. Steve turned his key in the ignition and the engine roared to life. Tears rolled down your cheek and onto the backseat as he pulled onto the main road, and drove you to his home…

𐙚 𓏵𓏵𓏵𓏵𓏵𓏵𓏵𓏵𐙚

Steve’s house was unremarkable, small and sparsely furnished. Empty fast food containers and beer cans littered the first room he led you through, followed by a trip down his hallway. The house was dark, and cold. It was hard to believe anyone would choose to live in such a depressing home, but when Steve pulled you downstairs to his basement, things went from grim to terrifying.

Against the far wall, facing the stairs, two thick metal chains were bolted into the cement floor. A little blanket was sitting in between the thick metal cuffs at the ends of the chains, as if prepared for someone. Prepared for you.

“No-no-no-NO!” you screamed, bucking against Steve as you tried to twist out of his grip. He was much stronger but you put up a considerable fight, bringing your elbow into his ribs with a sharp crack! Steve cursed and threw you forward against the wall, your feet rustling the chains on the ground. You tried to run past him for the stairs but once again, Steve’s movements were too quick for you to evade. He used his size over you to pin you against the wall, your cheek scratching against the rough cement. Behind you, Steve gathered up the metal cuffs and locked them around your wrists. After restraining you, he backed away breathless to the stairs, wiping his hand across his forehead as he sat down on the bottom step. Watching you.

“You didn’t-ahh-,” Steve hissed sharply as he massaged the wound you’d made in his ribs. “-You didn’t have to get so emotional…Could have gone a lot easier, all of this-.”

“FUCK YOU,” you spat at him. The chains attached to your cuffs clinked as you tested them, yanking furiously against their hold. “That’s not gonna work,” Steve informed you, but you couldn’t hear him. You were too focused on ripping those bolts right out of the wall, and for a moment, you really thought you could. But soon enough, reality sank in and you knew it was useless to fight. You needed your strength, and wasting it on these goddamn restraints was foolish.

“You make a pretty victim,” Steve said softly, almost timidly. “It suits you, much better than being a waitress did.” A tear rolled down your cheek and you tried to stop it, not wanting to give Steve the satisfaction of seeing you cry anymore. He stood and walked over to where you were now seated against the wall. Standing over you, Steve looked ten feet tall, the singular light behind him casting a menacing shadow over his features. “But you’re still waiting, aren’t you?” he asked. “Not tables, not anymore. Now, you’re waiting for me…wondering, what is Mister Harrington gonna do next?”

Steve knelt to your level, reaching out to touch your cheek. You flinched when his skin made contact with yours, expecting more violence. But he stroked his fingers along your skin in a way that was gentle, in a way that betrayed his previous aggression. “Maybe you won’t mind waiting on me one last time?” Steve asked, but it wasn’t really a question. He rose back to a standing position, his hands moving to unbuckle his belt. Your eyes followed Steve’s fingers as they unzipped his fly, unable to look him in the eyes. If you had, you would have seen the exact look you feared, the hollow, hungry gaze of a man who had abandoned anything resembling reason in favor of satisfying his own lust. He pulled out his cock and stroked himself over you, his breath once again hitching as it had during your struggle. “There’s only one customer here, honey,” Steve murmured down at you, tugging his cock, his messy hair fallen over his forehead. “Can’t get out of waiting on me this time, can you?” He smirked, a breathy chuckle leaving his throat. “Which really sucks for you,” Steve continued. “Because tonight, I have a big order to place…”

You swallowed as he leaned forward and tilted your chin up, forcing your eyes on his. A bead of precum dripped from the head of Steve’s cock and landed on your chin, making you flinch. “But don’t worry,” he added softly, his voice darkly seductive. “You know I’m a good customer...” Steve dragged the head of his cock across your lips, parting them. “…and tonight, I promise I’m gonna give you the biggest tip you’ve ever had…”

[betterbetty]

Little analysis on Misty and the relationships she has with the yellowjackets and herself, because why not.

Honestly, I think one big reason people don’t understand her character is because they don’t understand fatal loneliness. She has truly been living in her own world for so long that she kind of created her own echo chamber. It isn't just she doesn't have friends, she has absolutely no other input. It is incredibly easy to moralize everything you do when you have no connection to anything that keeps you in check. Because you know who you are on the inside, you know that you don't do things maliciously. This is probably how Misty sees herself. Her mind is in a constant spiral, looping around itself to justify everything she does, because how could she be evil? She knows her intentions aren't. I think this also a big reason, other than the fact that she is young, why she doesn't see and never truly will see a problem with her and Ben "being together". She was turned out by social norms and othered at a very young age and now any rhetoric that society throws at her, even moral values, she can throw away in her mind because she doesn't feel the need to live by a "social standard" in any sort of way. Even if that social standard is something objectively right, she'll be grouping it in with a society that rejected her. Why would she live by that? She's figured out her own set of rules for what's wrong and right and a lot of them just don't hold her accountable.

Another thing is that she has truly only lived as a bystander. It's why the woods seem like a perfect solution to her, why she'd want to stay in them longer. She's lonely, she's found a place that is just as blocked off from the world as her mind has been for years. Here is the place where no words yelled against her hold any real weight. Because she is needed here. There is absolutely no one with the knowledge she can provide, at the end of the day their insults are only for show, because they can't make it without her.

This is why we see her start and end relatively in the same place. She is in no way a static character, but the rest of them have a much more obvious descent than she does. Their disconnect from society does the exact same thing that hers has done her whole life; it justifies them. They will never see themselves as evil, because their brains are now doing the exact same thing, moralizing their actions. Telling them that what they did, what they continue to do, is okay because they have reasons. It's why they're so quick to reject Ben, because he is proof that they never had to abandon morals to survive. And it's why they are so quick to establish a hate against Misty once they get back, because she is someone they can easily pin as "crazier" than them. They see her as the obvious outcast, and now their first step back into society is reestablishing that. It's almost how they "gain back their sensibility". Furthering themselves from what Misty is, even though they all went through the same things, is how they manage to go a little less insane.

Truly what every Yellowjackets monologue has kind of dissolved into is the repeating phrase "I am not a bad person because..."

I hope no one takes this as me pinning Misty as an evil mastermind, it's meant to do the exact opposite. I want people to understand just how much loneliness can affect a person and the way they see things.

Anyway, I'd be super stoked to hear what others think of Misty and what's going on in that noggin of hers :)

[antebunny]

a cuckoo in the nest

(Aka the Fae!Tim fic that I decided not to finish and thus am dumping on Tumblr)

The creature that the Unseelie Queen forces on Bruce is disguised as a human child. Worse, it resembles Bruce’s two current children. Skin on the lighter side, lighter than either of his kids, black hair, blue eyes, and a light sweater and sweatpants combination that either Dick or Jason might wear. It is quite the contrast to the wild fey flashing too-bright teeth at Bruce.

“You will welcome it into your home,” the Unseelie Queen commands. “You will treat it as you would your own son. You will do nothing to indicate that it is anything but a human boy.”

One gnarled claw curls around the creature’s shoulder. The creature’s expression remains eerily blank. Another point in favor of its otherworldliness. A normal human child would show some reaction to the Unseelie Queen’s possessive presence. This creature stays perfectly still.

“In return…” the Unseelie Queen crooks one finger of her free hand in a come here motion and a figure stumbles out of the dark trees surrounding their little clearing. 

It is Jason. Injured beyond belief, blue eyes red and weeping. Bruce’s knee jerks, but he forces himself to remain within the small summoning circle. A thin line of salt and iron protecting him from the Unseelie Queen’s unfathomable powers.  

“You get your son back.” She presents Jason to Bruce like she’s selling a prize horse at an auction. One hand on the back of his neck. “Alive and well. As he was before his death. The memory of his death will remain, but dulled. That is my bargain, Batman.”

Bruce is not fool enough to give the Unseelie Queen his real name, nor is he stupid enough to lie to her. Using his nighttime alter ego presents the perfect compromise. Batman is not his real name, nor is it a lie. So it is Batman’s black gauntlets that curl into fists as Bruce considers the Unseelie Queen’s deal. 

It is the height of stupidity to take a creature he does not know the abilities of into Wayne Manor, and pretend it is his son. Given what he knows of the Unseelie Queen, such a creature could cause unfathomable damage to his family, to Gotham. This is a bet of Bruce’s own intelligence against a fey hundreds of times older than Bruce. He could very well end up losing both of his sons this time. 

“B,” Jason sobs. “Wha’s goin’ on?”

But the alternative is to walk away from a chance to have Jason back. This is not the universe where Bruce is capable of such an act. At least with the Unseelie Queen’s bargain, Bruce has a chance to limit any potential harm. Perhaps he can even outsmart the creature and prevent all damage whatsoever. If she had asked him to kill someone, or something more direct, Bruce wouldn’t stand a chance.

Bruce uncurls his fists slowly. “I accept.”

With those two words, both the creature and Jason are invited into the circle. The creature steps forward calmly, Nike sneakers passing over the salt and iron easily. Its arms are flat by its sides, and its head comes up to Bruce’s chest. If it were human, it would be around the same age that Jason was when Bruce caught him stealing the Batmobile’s tires. A blatant attempt at emotional manipulation on the Unseelie Queen’s part. 

Jason is shoved forwards by the Unseelie Queen. He trips over his own feet, but Bruce is there to catch him this time, to gently fold him in his arms and check him over for injuries.  

“I’m getting you home,” Bruce promises. 

And if he has to bring home the Unseelie Queen’s little spy as well to make it happen, then that is a price Bruce is more than willing to pay to have his family whole again.

~

Tim finally has the chance to be part of a family again, and it is the best family he could have imagined. He can scarcely believe his luck as Mr. Wayne–Batman, for now–leads Tim and Jason (who doesn’t look so good) into the Batcave. Tim is so caught up trying not to gape in awe at everything that he misses the hushed conversation that Mr. Wayne has with his butler, and the slightly louder, much longer conversation he has with his eldest son. The original Robin is standing all of five meters away from Tim! He’s going to be Tim’s older brother!

A lifetime ago, when Tim was still fully human, with parents and the last name Drake, he’d been obsessed with Batman and Robin. Had followed them around pitch black rooftops, through the streets buzzing with neon lights and vices, just to get a glimpse of his heroes. Discovered Robin’s true identity shortly before Bruce Wayne adopted Jason Todd, and a new Robin came to roost in Gotham’s skyscrapers. 

Then Janet and Jack Drake gave their only child to the Unseelie Queen in exchange for money and power, and Tim lost his name, and his home, and his entire world. 

 “What is your name?” Mr. Wayne interrupts Tim’s memories. He looms in front of Tim in an empty Batcave. Mr. Pennyworth and both Robins are long gone. It is only Tim, in his ill-fitting human clothes, and Batman. 

Tim knew this question was coming. Mr. Wayne must think that Tim is a human child, and that asking for his name is a simple exchange of pleasantries. He cannot know that Tim is no longer fully human, and his name is no longer free to give or take, nor his own anymore. Luckily, Tim prepared a response. He does not want to lie to Batman, after all, but as much as he wishes he could trust Mr. Wayne with his name, he knows better.

“What do you want to be called?” Mr. Wayne amends, when Tim fails to answer fast enough.

Carefully, Tim purses his lips and whistles. Hoo-ooh. A sharp ho followed by a lower, longer oo sound. The call of a common cuckoo. Hoo-ooh. Hoo-ooh.

Mr. Wayne frowns in response. Tim panics briefly–did he not get the call right? He practiced so much!–and tries again, a little faster. Hoo-ooh, hoo-ooh, hoo-ooh. Please accept me. I know I’m an unwanted interloper, an imposter. Please accept me anyway.

“Do you have a name in English?” Mr. Wayne asks. He repeats the question in a few more languages. Tim recognizes the Spanish and Russian, but he’s not sure what the others are. “Do you understand what I’m saying?”

Tim nods frantically. He swallows with difficulty, and then whispers: “Tim.” 

It is not a lie, and it is common enough that hopefully Tim can remain anonymous. He is a common cuckoo bird, after all, not even remarkable in his imposition. 

“Well, Tim,” Mr. Wayne says, voice dropping to an ominous growl, “I will uphold my end of the bargain. But do not think for a second that I can be tricked into trusting you. And if you give me even the slightest indication that you intend to hurt a member of my family in any way, I will not hesitate to take you down. Do you understand?”

Tim has not cried in years, not since his parents gave him away. But tonight a peculiar wetness pricks at the corners of his eyes as he nods. “Yes, Mr. Wayne, sir,” he says quickly. “I understand.”

It isn’t as though Mr. Wayne is wrong. Tim is an interloper, here to trick Mr. Wayne and his family into caring about Tim. All Mr. Wayne did was make it clear that he will continue to pretend that Tim is part of his family and that he will not be tricked. There’s no reason for Tim to get emotional about it. 

It’s just that Tim hoped, if just for a moment, that it wouldn’t be pretend.

The Wayne family, aside from Mr. Wayne himself, is very easily tricked. Mr. Pennyworth (“call me Alfred, Master Tim”) lets Tim follow him around even though he won’t let Tim help with chores no matter how much he insists that he can do it. Tim is fine with that, really. For now it is better to be tolerated, if not liked, than not to be tolerated at all. He has noticed that even Mr. Wayne defers to Alfred in household matters, so it is good to have the real head of household somewhat in his corner.

Most days, Tim sits on the kitchen counter while Alfred cooks, and awkwardly attempts to answer questions about his previous life. It is mixed, as far as conversations go. The questions are very stressful for Tim, who is never sure how much he should say, but smelling and eating human food after so long without it still brings tears to his eyes. 

Simmering tomato floats through the air as Alfred adds a pinch of rosemary to his soup. Tim’s mouth waters, and he swallows before talking. 

“I had a really long argument with a rosemary plant, once,” Tim recalls ruefully. “It was dumb. But I was so desperate for human food that I’d’ve said just about anything.”

The rosemary plant refused, in the end. Everyone was too scared of the Unseelie Queen to help Tim. 

Alfred stirs his pot carefully. “You had an argument…with the rosemary plant?” He clarifies neutrally. 

“Yep.” Tim’s legs swing back and forth a bit faster. “I told you, it was really dumb. I would’ve tried with the mushrooms, but they’re mean and scary, really scary. And old.”

Some of the mushrooms are even older than the Unseelie Queen, which makes them even scarier. Except that the Unseelie Queen has Tim’s name, and the mushrooms do not. 

Tim blushes all of a sudden, mindful of his audience. “I didn’t mean being old makes them scary,” he mumbles, furious at himself. He is supposed to be trying to get Alfred to like him, and instead he insults him! What is wrong with him?

“It is quite alright, dear boy,” Alfred says. “I assure you no offense was taken. Now, what is it you were saying about being desperate for human food?”

Mr. Grayson (“call me Dick, everyone else does!”) is the easiest to trick into caring about Tim. He is actually not sure what he did to pull it off. Dick stays at Wayne Manor most weekends, and the first time he comes over, before Tim has a chance to enact any of his thirty-four “Trick Robin Into Liking Me” plans, Dick asks if he wants to get ice cream. Tim accepts eagerly, and Dick smiles so brightly that Tim nearly forgets about Mr. Wayne scowling in the background. After that, Dick always makes a point to seek him out. Tim is pretty sure he makes a bumbling mess of himself every conversation, but somehow Dick keeps laughing it off and taking Tim out for another slightly reckless and exceedingly enjoyable excursion. 

Jason is a bit harder to trick. He is still healing mentally and emotionally from his death, so he’s off-duty as Robin. Since school is out for the summer, this means he spends most of his time curled up in the library. Tim once hovered behind him for hours, trying to work up the courage to start a conversation, when Jason turned and snapped what so aggressively that Tim immediately ran away. 

In general, he is surly, defensive, angry, and reluctant to accept affection from his real family, much less Tim. Eight plans to trick Jason into caring about him are complete failures that end in Tim further earning Jason’s ire. Another fourteen plans are thrown out before Tim can enact them, after the humiliation of the eight failures. 

Eventually, Tim turns to Dick for help. Dick has alluded to a rough start with Jason, which sounds fake to Tim. Dick was Robin, how could anyone not like him? But maybe he can give Tim advice. 

It is a sweltering Saturday in late July when Dick pulls away from Wayne Manor in some type of fancy car with Tim in the co-pilot seat. 

“I need advice,” Tim says nervously as Bristol’s mansions flash by. Tim did his best not to look at the Drakes’ manor. He succeeded in not looking, but he wondered whether his parents started staying in Gotham more often once Tim was gone, and the question won’t leave him alone.

“What’s up?” Dick asks easily. He lazes in the driver’s seat, two fingers on the steering wheel. It is this nonchalance which convinces Tim to go through with his question. 

Tim’s hands tap out some pattern on his forearms and elbows. “How do I get Jason to like me?”

Dick curls his right hand around the wheel and glances at Tim quickly. Tim still struggles reading expressions, so he has absolutely no idea what’s going through Dick’s mind. Maybe he’s thinking that there’s no way that Jason will ever like him. Maybe Dick doesn’t like Tim. Maybe he’s only acting like he cares about Tim because he’s so nice.

“Jason doesn’t…” Dick sighs. “Not like you. He’s just going through a lot right now. On top of the stuff with his birth mother, he also, well, you know.”

“Died,” Tim supplies.

Dick’s shoulders inch towards his ears. Veins in his forearm pop as the hand on the wheel tightens. “Yeah. So, just, give him some time, yeah?” 

But Tim doesn’t have time. He has until the end of the summer, approximately two more months. To the fae the end of summer is not a specific day, but rather a sensation. Decay on the doorsteps, rot in the wind. Hot breezes melting into simmering afternoons. The crisp crackle of a leaf underfoot. 

If he cannot trick every member of the Wayne family into loving him by the end of summer, he must return to the Unseelie Queen, this time forever. That was her bargain. This is Tim’s one chance to escape her. 

Tim looks out his window at the cold, unfeeling mansions and nods miserably. “Okay.”

Jason does not like the new kid. Everything about him is just slightly off. He walks like he’s surprised that his feet come back down. He talks like he’s describing a dream and expects everyone else to understand. He’s constantly watching Jason silently with those eerie, unblinking eyes of his. Despite living in the same house as Batman, Tim is quieter still, always popping up unannounced and thrusting a trinket or a book at Jason. 

This isn’t even getting into the part where Jason knows he died but doesn’t quite remember it and keeps having nightmares he doesn’t understand. He vaguely recalls a forest that wasn’t a forest and a hand that wasn’t a hand, curling around his shoulder. Bruce won’t stop treating Jason like glass and Dick still looks weepy sometimes, but neither will let Jason out as Robin. All three are letting Jason get away with everything except the things he actually wants to do. It’s infuriating. 

In other words, the summer is off to a great start.

“Bets on the new kid,” Jason says. He’s in the middle of making himself peanut butter chocolate chip cookies, because he is the only one that Alfred allows in the kitchen. 

Dick is draped dramatically across the counter, because according to him it’s so tragic how Jason never wants to do anything fun. Jason hit him over the head with a spatula in response. Dick whined about that, so Jason hit him even harder. 

“What are we betting on?” Dick asks.

Jason half-shrugs. “Like…he’s clearly not human. What is he?”

Dick sits up on the counter. “Yeah, he keeps talking about talking to plants.”

“And plants are always a little bigger and shinier after he leaves the room,” Jason adds.

“Maybe he’s got some relation to Ivy,” Dick suggests.

This entire conversation would not be necessary if Bruce would just cough up the answer. But he responds to every question about Tim with some variation of “hmmm” or “I cannot say.” Jason even sucked up his pride and asked Barbara, but she doesn’t know what’s up with the new kid either. Jason suspects that Bruce promised Tim he wouldn’t tell, because–

“Have you seen his reaction to food though?” Jason asks rhetorically. “It’s like he’s so shocked he’s being fed.”

And he lets that hang, because maybe it’s true, and not a joke. 

Dick scratches his chin. “And he says ‘human’ like he’s not one.” 

“Okay.” Jason sets his mixing bowl down on the counter Dick claimed as his seat. “My theory: he’s a metahuman whose parents–or guardians–or whoever was in charge of him–treated as less than human, and he made B promise not to say ‘cause he doesn’t know we ain’t shit like his parents yet.”

“I mean.” Dick scoots off the counter when Jason comes swinging with the baking tray. He attempts to help Jason spread the parchment paper until Jason glares at him. “He thinks you hate him.”

Jason freezes in the middle of scooping a handful of cookie batter into the tray. Guilt curdles, expired milk and broken egg shells, in his stomach. “I don’t.”

“I know.” 

Dick doesn’t mention the part about Jason dying, because he’s ultra sensitive to that sort of thing. Jason has debated making extra jokes about his death just to force Dick to get used to it, but he hasn’t gone through with it. He’s never seen Dick cry like he did when Jason came back. They haven’t talked about it, because Jason is allergic to big emotions and Dick is nothing but an oversized bundle of big emotions. But it lingers in the back of Jason’s mind, everytime Dick pretends that everything is fine. You mourned me. It’s so obvious, said like that. Of course he mourned Jason. But it’s not an experience Jason ever expected to live through.

Not even Jason knows how he came back to life. He suspects Bruce had something to do with it, but Bruce won’t say. The continuous silence from him is driving Jason to insanity where the Joker and dying failed. 

“Fair tidings.” Tim’s head pops up by Jason’s shoulder and he forcibly suppresses a surprised reaction. Another weird-ism of Tim’s: what sort of American kid says fair tidings? “Can I help?”

“No,” Jason snaps immediately, curling one arm around the batter bowl. 

Dick makes a noise, and Jason winces. He didn’t mean to snap at the kid. It’s just that everything about Tim sets off sirens in Jason’s head. And usually by the time Jason is ready to invite the kid in, he’s run off. 

“Fine,” Jason grunts. He shoves the bowl at Tim. “We’re making cookies.” 

 Tim stares at the bowl with owlish eyes, and Jason clamps down on the urge to yell at the kid again. 

“Hey, Timmy,” Dick says faux-casually. “I never asked. You got a last name?”

Tim’s head snaps up. “Why do you want to know?”

Jesus, he sounds one wrong word from breaking into tears. Jason exchanges a glance with Dick, who is taken aback by the uncharacteristic bout of aggression from the weird kid, and reluctantly decides to intervene. 

“It’s ‘cause we wanna get to know the baby bro better,” Jason says gruffly. “Ya know. Bondin’ and shhhh, uh, stuff.” 

Tim’s blue eyes widen into twin moons. “You want to be my big brother?”

The naked hope in his voice is really not helping with Jason’s guilt. 

“Yeah.” Jason throws down a few more lumps of cookie dough a bit more forcefully than required. “Ain’t no way B is returning you to the kid store.”

Actually, he’s only seen Bruce interact with Tim once, and it was super awkward. But he’s pretty confident that Bruce wouldn’t take in a kid if he didn’t want that kid to be his kid. 

Dick is smiling dopily, so Jason is pretty sure he said enough right words in the right order. “So?” Dick prompts. “Got a last name, baby bird?”

Tim’s hands float to his elbows and start tapping out an unknown pattern. “It’s, uh. Drake.”

“Tim Drake,” Jason tests out, and neither he nor Dick miss the way that Tim does his best impression of a wooden plank at the sound of his name. “Why does that sound familiar?”

“Dunno.” Dick snaps his fingers and points at Tim. “Wait! You’re our neighbor!”

Tim gives Dick his weird blank stare, so Dick points at Jason instead. “The Drakes are our neighbors,” he explains. “The parents were always out of the country for vacation or something, but I remember they had a little kid tag along with them once or twice. What happened?”

“Bruh.” Jason shoves the tray in the oven with his bare hands, because he isn’t a wuss and he’s also not stupid enough to touch the burning hot metal with bare hands. “They supervillains or something?”

Tim shakes his head. His hands press flat against his legs. “They sold me.”

He says it so flatly that Jason exchanges another look with Dick just to make sure he heard right. But Dick’s jaw drops in outrage, so clearly they heard the same thing.

“How? When? To who?” Dick’s eyes narrow. He’s dropping into protective big brother mode. Jason has had the dubious pleasure of experiencing it first-hand a few times. “Does B know about this?”

But Tim shakes his head again. “I can’t say.”

“Are they threatening you?” Jason jumps in, pretending his tone isn’t leaning in the same big brother direction as Dick’s is. “You know B has Supes on speed-dial, right? Ain’t no one in the world who can get away with threatening you now that B’s got you.”

Tim shakes his head a third time, and Jason really has no idea if Tim actually means no or if he’s just moving his head. 

Dick and Jason exchange another worried look, but this time Jason isn’t sure what Dick is thinking. Mostly because Tim just gave them about a thousand more questions in the process of answering one. 

[cripplecharacters]

I am writing a story which includes a Deaf character. She is mostly included via text. As the main character is long distance, autistic and nonverbal. So most of their communication up until the point they meet, is text messages. When they meet, both characters use auslan to communicate.

But for the text, how could / would the Deaf character type? Like auslan translated to words directly, something like 'help I want'. Or more traditional English, like 'I want help'. Or a mixture of auslan syntax and English. Or something else.

Thanks. Oh and I am not Deaf myself. I know some auslan and am learning some more. But I am autistic and nonverbal. If any of that is important to your response.

Hi!

My answer is, it depends.

Someone who grew up with auslan as a first language and little exposure to spoken or written English is more likely to type with auslan grammar than someone who grew up speaking.

Some who grow up in Deaf households will specifically learn written English grammar as a second language from a young age. A character like this will likely type in spoken English grammar. (They may still find auslan grammar more natural!)

A character who grew up deaf but language deprived and non-speaking, who then learned sign language at an older age but still as their first or only language, would likely use auslan grammar.

A character whose first or only language is sign will likely feel most comfortable signing, even to chat. It's honestly very frustrating how long some words are when they take just a second to sign. There are plenty of ways to just send a video rather than text messaging!

I would say from my experience with Deaf people of different backgrounds, here are some common grammar markers in writing:

Spelling errors.

When fingerspelling, the first and last letters along with the general shape of the word are more important than every letter in the correct order. Same ends up happening with written words.

There's also sometimes a difficulty remembering names. Personally I remember name signs very easily (helps that they often relate to a person's appearance or personality!) but actually remembering the person's written name? Very hard!

Plurality and verb tense.

[Note: the following examples are true of ASL and I'm fairly certain auslan as well, but I don't know if they're true in every sign language.]

"I want" is signed similar to "he wants" (only difference is pronoun), and "car" is the same sign as "cars" (clarify plurality through context and descriptors).

In written English it can be a struggle to pick the correct form of a word when they're all the same in sign language!

A character who grew up in an oral environment would likely struggle less with this, though it depends on their exposure to written language.

Slang/Translation.

There aren't good translations for a lot of signs, especially slang. It may be difficult to put those into words.

Reactions especially--like how hearing people say "mhm", there are Deaf equivalents, but they can be hard to represent textually.

Another translation problem is when the sign and the written equivalent don't quite match up. For example the ASL sign "for" can be used in the question "for-for?" which is best translated as "for what?" or "what for?" but will often be written out as "for for?" because that is literally the sign.

To recap: it depends on your character's background what grammar they will use, but if they're a native signer, "perfect" English grammar isn't super likely. Of course there are exceptions to everything I've written, these are just some patterns I've observed :) [smile face]

Mod Rock

[babyangelsky]

My Favorite Expressions in Love Sea Ep. 6

Every week I think I cannot possibly be having a better time with this show than I already am and every week I'm proven wrong. I LOVE IT HERE AND I'M HAVING A GREAT TIME!

Well Mut, I suffer from this condition as well. It's called Permanent Heart Eyes and it's incurable.

This is such a universal expression. Anyone who has ever watched someone they love eat something they cooked for them and enjoy it has made this face. Food is the greatest love language of them all.

Also, very pleasantly surprised to learn that Tongrak is a leftovers girly. I didn't expect him to be and now I love him even more.

Peat really has mastered the shift from 🥺 to 🥰. He does it a lot this episode and it barely takes him a full second each time, I love it.

When I tell you I COULD. NOT. LOVE. THIS. MAN. MORE. We only see him in profile when he delivers the last part of this line but this is a delightfully murderous expression. If I don't get a scene of Mahasamut cussing Prin out I'm going to be so disappointed.

The utter shock at hearing that Mut wants to hear about Tongrak from him. The quiet disbelief. The relief. I can't show it in a screenshot but Tongrak breathes out when Mut says this and his shoulders relax. No one has ever given this man the courtesy of asking directly if they want to know something about him and allowing him to decide if he wants to share things and Mut does it so easily.

The way he marvels at Mahasamut as it sinks in that he gets a choice, that he gets to decide if and how much to tell is just... it's lovely and completely fucking heartbreaking at the same time.

And because he was actually given a choice, he had no choice but to open up. Mut has made him feel so safe and respected that opening up becomes easy.

"Even though they have a complete, loving family with a loving father."

Stab me, it would hurt less.

No expression but the vibe is "I didn't say you could hug me but also I'm going to cling to you for dear life and try to burrow inside of your chest".

This is another one of those scenes that could have its own dedicated post and for which I would hit the picture limit immediately because the expressions were phenomenal and numerous so I'm cutting myself off.

Would you look at that. Tongrak opened up and now we're cuddling and taking a nap inside of the bedroom no one has ever been allowed to enter. Phenomenal. I'm so proud of this sleepy kitten.

Quick, someone google "how to tell your buddy that you're his husband's best friend's new sugar baby" for Mut he's asking for a friend it's him he's the friend.

THE CUTE AGGRESSION IS ETERNAL AND RELENTLESS.

Fort does the scolded puppy face so well.

Well aren't WE a jealous little jellyfish, Khun Tongrak? He's so bitchy I love him so much.

Not pictured: him refusing to speak first when he talks to Connor even though he's the one who called and the 30 different emotions he goes through during that call.

I spy with my little eye TWO jealous lil jellyfish. What's a group of jellyfish called?

*looks*

A bloom. There's a bloom of pouty jealous jellyfish in this house. I do love when "fights" are for silly reasons and everyone involved knows they're being ridiculous.

Side note: I covet this wallpaper. I need it on one of my bedroom walls immediately.

Also, I would like to do my clown check in for the week and point out that Vivi has solid-colored textured pillows and patterned pillows on her couch but Tongrak chose to cuddle the patterned ones.

We finally got to meet Tongrak's niece Meena and oh but she's a darling, precocious little thing. I also look at Mahasamut like this but you have no business doing it, miss thing, you're a baby! Same goes for reading your uncle's novels I say as someone who started reading romance novels when I was about her age.

2.7 seconds apart. I timed it. I'm saying it every week at this point but Peat, I love everything you do with your face.

And I am very quickly growing to love everything Nina does with that cute little face, too. It's good for Meena to see her beloved uncle being so loved by the beautiful man living in his house.

I have so much more to say about Meena but that definitely will get its own post because it's not limited to her facial expressions. There's a lot to unpack in this scene and in the cafe scene with her and Mut.

I mean--do I even need to say anything? I can't wait to reblog every single gif I can find of this scene because it had me screaming into a pillow like Tongrak.

I'm reaaaaally starting to hate the 30 image photo limit because it truly is not enough to capture everything I love in this feast of a show. Prepare to be so sick of me because there WILL be more posts about this episode.

Also, if you'd like to be tagged in my weekly ramblings about micro-expressions, let me know! 💖

[mt-oe]

dude i just got into blue eye samurai and i’ve never been so obsessed with a show in my life omg i’ve already rewatched it like twice!!

but i wanted to make a request!! i love the idea of mizu and reader sparring with one another and the playful rough-housing becomes intimate ofc!! along w man handling and impact play, especially is reader is on the same power level, or stronger than Mizu!!

✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧

Hey dears!

Love this request so much and was actually kinda (happily) challenged by this one, especially since I've never written anything like it before. Might be a bit shorter than usual since I've been feeling lethargic. Hopefully I was able to write what was on your mind <3

Hope you enjoy! Mwa mwa :*

note/s: not proofread, cursing, short, she/her he/him for mizu, implied afab reader

Tiny little huffs of air escaped through your nose from the physical exhaustion brought by lugging over stacks of hay. Despite the cool weather and the steady breeze passing through, sweat still lined your forehead, providing a subtle sheen.

"Aren't you going to help me at least?" you muttered in annoyance at the ronin who was calmly sitting on the farm fence, feet against the rough wood in quite a masculine manner.

Mizu raised an eyebrow at your comment. A very faint smirk, almost unseen, tugged up a the corners of her lips. Your annoyance was quite irritating at first, but now she grew to find it amusing how easily riled up you could get even when she was quite literally doing nothing. "I see no reason to do so. I am a guest after all," she quipped in a low voice followed by the sound of harrumph from you.

"Bullshit. You've been staying at our goddamn farm for almost a month now!" you argued, pursing your lips as you straightened your back. God, you could hear your bones cracking. "Can't you at least help around?"

You were a simple person born to a family whose father was an retired samurai. The lord had rewarded him handsomely with a land of his own, placing you and your mother where you currently were. Due to old age as well as the injuries your father had sustained in battles during his prime, your mother had sworn to take care of him.

Well...maybe she was taking care of him a little too much. Due to how attentive she was of him, it often led to you spending days alone and working on the land. Your mornings and afternoons consisted of taking care of the crops, feeding the animals, and carrying around various things.

Over time, your body grew a little too strong for what most men considered as ideal. Your arms were a little bigger than the typical housewife's and the scars from little mishaps around the land were deemed unsightly.

Because of this, finding a husband had become difficult for you. Most would deem you either too manly or would decline saying they would not like to wed to someone with scars like yours.

Honestly, it didn't concern you that much. You liked being alone and despite how difficult it was to manage the land alone, you were content. Waking up to warm sunlight, only having to take care of your parents, the smell of dew on the grass after rain was something you grew to love. You were happy.

Your parents on the other hand, were not. They claim they didn't want to see you grow up alone. That you needed someone who would take care of you as much as you take care of them. Even though you knew they only had the best intentions for you, you couldn't help but feel...irritated. Each man they invited over, each rejection only became an itch developing at your happiest times.

You could only imagine the joy they had when an unnamed samurai crawled into the stables of your father's horses, bloodied with a stab on his right.

While your head ached with irritation, thinking about how laborious of a task it would be to clean the stables, your parents were looking at each other's eyes, twinkling with hope of finding you a husband. They were hoping that maybe, this tall stranger who looked strong yet had a kind face, would be the one at the other end of their daughter's red string of fate.

Bull fucking shit.

You understood where they coming from. You really did. Tall handsome stranger suddenly walks into your farm when you really needed them to blah blah blah... But goddamn, were they serious?

Not only did this person have a permanent frown, they also disappeared all the damn time. Some mornings you'd carry a tray of soup over to the barn where he slept only to find it empty. Some nights you'd wake up to the distressed crowing of the chickens and roosters only to see him back again, clutching his bloodied sides.

This person was a headache on legs!

Always disappearing then coming back at the most inconvenient times. Always spreading his blood around the stables. Always needing medical attention. Always glaring at everyone through those orange-tinted glasses. Always greeting you with an annoyed sounding huff.

Worst of all? He didn't even bother helping around at all! Every time he stayed around, he just...watched you.

And yet, for some reason, your parents LOVED him. They didn't seem to mind the troubles he brought. In fact, they thought your dynamic was quite adorable. Something about opposites attracting.

Your eyes glared at him a few more seconds before you ultimately gave up, rolled your eyes, and continued to carry the hay into the barn. As you worked, Mizu couldn't help but soften at the sight secretly.

Truthfully, she didn't know why she still stayed here. She expected your parents to kick her out, or better yet, she expected herself to never return. Despite a small part of her brain telling her to help around, she didn't. If she helped around, then you'd get used to her help which will become bothersome since she planned to leave anyway. But for some reason, she kept coming back to serene view in your farm.

There was just something about it that drew her in. Maybe it was the cold breeze with the smell of grass. Maybe it was the stench of horse shit and the hint of dried rope fibers. Maybe it was the soft squish of wet soil underneath her feet. Maybe it was you.

Something in that horrible frown of yours just seemed so amusing to her. The way your muscles stretched as you moved things around or tried to keep the animals from going too far just reminded her of her past—just remove the bad parts. A part of her finds it all endearing.

Her thoughts were cut short upon hearing the slam of the barn door and grass crunching beneath your frustrated steps.

"Oh for fuck's sake!" you whined, hand on your hip. "Help me out!" Your hand shot out and gripped her wrist tightly, knuckles tensing as you shifted your weight to one foot and pulled him down.

Dirt and soil smushed underneath Mizu's feet. His eyes widened at your strength before narrowing at the smug victorious smirk on your face. Before he could control himself, his other hand grabbed your opposite hand, putting his weight to his heels and pushing against you.

Your eyes widened at his action but before you could utter out a complain, the upward tug of his lips made all the words on your tongue fall flat. This was the first time you saw him smile. The slight curve made your heart beat a little faster than you would like it to. It drew you in, slightly intrigued and something you just couldn't identify. With a challenging glare, you began pushing back against him.

"If I win, you're going to be mixing chicken shit into the soil until the seventh sunrise," you growled playfully, pushing back a little harder.

Mizu's smile grew at the sight of challenge on your face. His hands interlocked with yours, making sure it was a fair game for both of you, before he leaned closer, pushing all his weight towards you.

He huffed with a hint of amusement at your statement and gave a slight nod of agreement. "Bold words," he breathed out.

Mimicking his technique, you planted your feet harder against the soil before taking a heavy step towards him, forcing him to take a step back. You smirked a bit wider and looked up at him, brain freezing for a moment as your eyes met.

He looked...happy.

Well that was until he suddenly pulled you in instead, grabbing your shoulder with one hand then pushing you to the ground, straddling you.

A soft laugh left her upon hearing your gasp, laugh cut short as you reached up and pulled on his collar, twisting it and pulling it sidewards. Lifting your hips up, you pushed him down to ground. Now it was your turn to laugh.

"How'd you like that?" you mused at him, raising an eyebrow cockily. "Not fun now that you're losing, huh?"

Hearing your laugh, feeling your weight on her. It all made Mizu feel so warm. The heart she trained to grow unyielding felt fuzzy. She was happy.

Mizu laughed at your banter, letting you push down on her. "Not bad," he responded, smile smug. Suddenly, you felt his legs wrap around your abdomen and with one fell twist, he was on top of you once again. His hands gently yet firmly held your wrists down. "Just not quite good enough."

A soft gasp left you as your back collided with the soft grass. Wriggling your wrist, the realization of your defeat dawned on you. Your lips pursed into a pout, eyebrows furrowing, and your eyes narrowed at him. "Not fair. How am I supposed to do that? I can barely move my legs in these clothes," you huffed, pout melting into a snicker.

Mizu laughed at your musings before slowly getting off of you, patting and swiping the dirt off of herself. "Oh don't blame your clothes. It's just a skill issue," he chuckled, helping you up and dusting some of the dirt off.

"As if you'd know." You rolled your eyes at him and groaned. "Men have it easy. Wearing pants and all that."

She chuckled softly, a soft amused breath leaving through her nose. There were definitely some days she had the same thoughts back then. "Trust me. I know."

The statement felt odd to you somehow. It felt as if his words held more than what it seemed. Turning your head towards him, confusion and curiosity came over you. You raised an eyebrow at his words, lips pursed into a straight line. "What do you mean?"

Silence swept over the two of you for a moment before you suddenly felt the weight of his hand gently pat your head. The cool touch of his hand against your warmth soothing you somehow. "I just...know."

[bethanydelleman]

George Wickham isn't bad in that way (which is the best thing I can say about him)

A lot of online discussions label Wickham from Pride & Prejudice as a pedophile because both of his victims, Georgiana Darcy and Lydia Bennet, were 15/16 years old. However, I am very certain this was not Jane Austen's point, and it also papers over the big differences between Georgiana's and Lydia's cases.

(This post isn't graphic but I'll put the rest under the jump)

Firstly, Georgiana's age was about her vulnerability to manipulation, not attraction. If Georgiana was older and out, she probably would have not fallen for Wickham and agreed to run away because she would have had other competing choices and more information about the engagement and marriage process. The time is chosen because she is ignorant, under the care of someone who is willing to betray her, and Wickham wants her money. I'm pretty sure he would have gone for her fortune even if he was adverse to her appearance.

Secondly, Lydia runs away with Wickham because she is following her mother's misguided, "husband at any cost" philosophy, there is no evidence in the book that this was a premeditated plan of his. The plot to elope with Georgiana was premeditated, but from everything in the book, Wickham was running away from debt and brought Lydia along for funsies because she offered. The point of Lydia's elopement is that she was too young, too ignorant, and not well protected. Her parents made a huge error in judgment allowing her to go to a place where she might fall victim to something like this. If it wasn't Wickham, it could have easily have been someone else, like Willoughby, almost the same thing happens to Eliza Williams under nearly the same circumstances.

Thirdly, the age of consent was 14 at the time and Lydia at least was "out". So culturally, he's going for people who would be considered "women" though most people at the time also would have thought they were marrying too early. So many people in the novel say Lydia is too young. (The average age of first marriage was 23.4 (Women's History of Britian, 2005)). Also, I think Jane Austen, who rarely describes anyone in detail, going out of her way to make Lydia the tallest of the sisters and also describing Georgiana as very tall, and describing both of them as fully developed, was her making the point that this wasn't Wickham having an attraction to prepubescent girls. Not that liking barely legal girls is great, but it's more like a modern guy dating 18 year olds when he's 30, more icky than illegal.

It was about how girls who are too young are far more vulnerable to mistakes, empty promises, and manipulation.

So yeah, Wickham is the worst, but he's not that bad. This is the most I will ever say in his defence. I hold out a fond hope that he died in battle and Lydia gets a second chance at life. Or ran like the coward he is and then was court marshalled.

[henrycangelbaby]

In which: “It's not that the amount of love I had changed, but I feel so proud about it now, like that I want to shout from the rooftops and tell everyone of my loved ones how much I love my wife, MY wife, ya know?”

Or

An interview gives unique insight into Pedro Pascal and his vast amount of love for his wife

I make my way through meeting the cast of HBO's unexpected hit “The Last Of Us” rather easily.

Bella Ramsey lives in a far nicer apartment in London than anything I would have been able to afford at the same age. Despite their fame and talent, they remain settled and down to earth, dressed in an outfit a little too cool for me to understand and eager to show me around their lovely apartment that is decorated in a way that I quite liked but I'm sure my baby boomer father would find offensive. I even end up meeting Ramsey's girlfriend, a fellow actor (who I admittedly had never heard of) who is equally as young and pretty as Ramsey is. They are both lovely and down to earth, a sentiment I don't often find relatable working with celebrities.

Kaitlin Denver is in her late 20s and still looks like she could be in high school. She lives in a shared house with her sister, whom she also shares a music career with. Despite the controversy surrounding her character in the show, she seems to remain completely unfazed by the backlash and threats that surround Abby Anderson. Denver merley shrugs when I ask her how she deals with it, leaving me to assume her vices when it comes to dealing with unprecedented hate.

I meet other stars of the show too. Gabriel Luna has all the southern charm of Tommy Miller and more, making me question whether he really does any acting when playing the sweeter, younger Texan brother. Isabela Merced is very beautiful in person and is also far shorter than I had imagined. What she lacks in height she makes up for in personality and charm.

Of course, when you think of the stars of The Last Of Us, there is probably someone else that comes to mind. Securing an interview with Pedro Pascal is probably one of the harder things I have had to do in recent years. It's not that Pacal is hard to come by; in fact, in recent years we haven't been able to escape him. I originally doubted that I would even be able to secure an interview with the internet's "daddy." Pascal has had a busy few years, and this one is no different. With multiple projects coming out this year, including the new season of The Last Of Us and his highly anticipated entry into the MCU as the iconic Richard Reed, it seems that everyone wants a piece of him. While all the other actors on this list do have notable careers outside of the show, the point of this interview series was to be able to interview the main cast members of the show in anticipation for the new season; however, I found that same sentiment hard to carry across when interviewing Pascal. I don't want to spoil the show for anyone, but I will just say that he won't be back next season. Whether that's due to internal conflicts or simply being too booked, we’ll never know.

I was rather ecstatic to receive a phone call from someone on his team letting me know the time and date for our interview. Like normal, I'm given an NDA to sign before receiving any personal information, such as his address (which I did require for the purpose of the interview). But everything else seems to go off without a hitch. 

I was admittedly nervous to meet him. In the best way possible, his reputation definitely proceeds him. Pascal is only ever described as kind, loving, funny, and any other positive synonyms for a massive sweetheart that you can think of. I personally have been a big fan of his work since he played forever thirsted over narcos agent Javier Paner. I know they say you shouldn't meet your idols (and trust me, I've had my fair share of heartbreaking realizations that someone I once admired is actually a piece of shit), but I had high hopes for meeting Pedro. And I am happy to report that it did not disappoint. 

I arrived at his home in Los Angeles ten minutes earlier than I should have. Not that I'm kept waiting, as before I can get a second knock in on the door, a young woman flings it open, smiling at me tightly. She quickly lets me in, introducing herself as Pascal's assistant, offering me tea or coffee, and ushering me to sit down on the comfy-looking couch while I wait for her boss to arrive (which she insists should not be too long). I take a moment to look around the room while I'm waiting. The room is sweet and welcoming, much like the rest of the home, which feels very well... homely (like stepping into your best friend's house and chatting with their parents at the dinner table). It's a hard feeling to describe, such a sense of nostalgia from a place that I had never been in before. It feels fitting though that a man so beloved as Pedro Pascal should have a home that feels so nice. I snoop to get a closer look at the photos that hang up on the walls and sit on cabinets. Most of them seem normal. There are a few faces I recognize within the photos; Oscar Iscac can be spotted alongside a younger-looking Pascal in one of the photos on the wall. I spot John Favro amongst a few people in a photo that looks to have been taken on the set of The Mandelorian, but apart from that, the photos seem normal. They depict family and friends in various places over various years; it appears that Pascal cherishes his relationships with loved ones above all else. 

I'm stopped in my snooping by another face in one of the photos, a face I recognize instantly, a face that has been all over the internet and tabloids for some time now. Pedro's wife. The photo is the first one in which she features prominently, sitting alongside what I can only assume to be one of her husband's sisters. It's a sweet photo, one that I can imagine Pedro was on the other side of, grinning wildly while taking. Y/N Pascal is an elusive figure that the media and her husband's fans have been trying to know better for a few years now. She is what is best described as a "normie," that is to say that she is just like you and me; that is perhaps what makes her so interesting to fans. She doesn't appear to have any ties to the industry; she isn't some big-wig producer's daughter; in fact, despite their insistence, fans have been unable to find anything on her. She has no public social media accounts, no company profiles online, and no one she went to high school with has come forward with a tik tok horror story (yet!). The couple are shrouded in mystery; no one seems to know how they met, where Y/N is from, or even the highly shrouded question of her age. She certainly appears younger than Pascal by a good few years, and I'm sure that I could find thousands of posts online speculating (or being downright nasty) about how young she is. But out of respect for the happy couple, I leave it a mystery. 

The sharp heels of the sensible shoes that Pascal's assistant is wearing suddenly come back into earshot. She warns me to be ready with my stuff as “they” will be home soon. I don't think twice about her words before hauling ass back to the couch and trying to pull myself together. It's not long before I hear the front door open. Amy (Pascal's assistant that I had only just remembered the name of) runs to the door. I walk slower behind awkwardly, not wanting to intrude (despite the fact that I had spent the last ten minutes snooping around what was essentially a stranger's house). I peek round the corner to be greeted with Pascal's broad back. He is facing away from me, talking to his assistant lowly. His assistant finishes speaking and moves past me, wishing me luck in passing. Pascal doesn't turn around to greet me yet; in fact, he drops down onto one knee to reveal to my utmost shock his wife. Neither of them pay me any mind as he begins untying her shoes for her, ever the gentleman everyone believes he is. 

It's not a second later that the man of the hour turns around to greet me. He smiles widely at me, and I find myself blushing slightly at his unwavering eye contact as he introduces himself. He only introduces himself by his first name, not something I find often when meeting famous people; they are often eager to give me the name that everyone knows and loves them by. It seems a bit of a strange phenomenon in Hollywood that has missed Pascal. His wife then steps forward to introduce herself. I hate to be the bearer of bad news to the millions of jealous fans, but Y/N Pascal is strikingly beautiful; even as I meet her in her own home with no makeup, she glows ethereally with a striking smile that looks like it belongs on the cover of a magazine. In that moment meeting her I quickly see why Pascal holds her in such admiration.

Much to my disappointment, that is the first and last time I see her during the interview. Pedro ushers her away somewhere out of sight with a protective arm around her shoulder. I can hear him mutter to her lowly, promising to be quick. Before kissing her goodbye with an "I love you." It makes my heart ache with a longing. Much like the rest of the internet, I wish I had a man like Pedro Pascal. We chat for a while, while exploring his house, he speaks passionately about his career, which he clearly loves. He has a flame behind his eyes as he speaks about his long-winded love for the cinema. He tells me stories of his famous friends that are featured on his walls. We laugh together, and he very much reminds me of an old friend. Even though I should be interviewing him, I let him talk, rambling on about things that I didn't find important enough to put in this interview, but they certainly put a smile on my face. 

The house is beautiful; it's decorated nicely and feels authentic and homely. It's not massive, not overly obnoxious in the way many celebrity houses are; it's still big, the kind of size that screams loving family. I don't mean to make assumptions, but it almost feels like it's been brought with the idea of a growing family in mind. I complement the house easily. Pedro smiles at me. For the first time in the interview, he refers to his wife. He tells me that he hadn't cared where they lived; “anywhere is home when you are with someone that you love,” but insists that she had loved the house the moment they first saw it. "She has better taste than me,” he tells me with a loving glint in his eye. "She did a good job.” I compliment, he nods and smiles, "always thought I was biased 'cause I’m married to her, but glad to know it's not just me." I feel awfully privileged to get an insight into Pedro's fondness of his wife. It's not often that he speaks about her publicly; she gets mentioned in passing during interviews and is often spotted at events with him, safely away from the cameras, but it's clear to the general public that his marriage is a part of his life that he wishes to keep away from public scrutiny. 

Its towards the end of the interview that I do ask him about his marriage. We walk past a wedding photo that depicts him and his lovely bride squashed together on one seat, smiling widely at the camera. He doesn't say anything when he notices me peering at the photo. I ask him carefully if he thinks being a married man has changed him. He ponders for a second. "Probably,” he answers me carefully. It's not the response I had expected from him, so I quickly encourage him to go on. "I suppose it has in a way,” he continues. “It's not that the amount of love I had changed, but I feel so proud about it now, like that I want to shout from the rooftops and tell everyone of my loved ones how much I love my wife, MY wife, ya know?” I smile and nod at his explanation. I understand what he is saying—such a sweet sentiment that it makes my heart warm. 

We don't speak for much longer after that; he briefly mentions a few upcoming projects, which he seems excited for. I ask him what he has planned next, after his next few big projects are done. He hesitates for a second. “Truthfully,” he says, “I plan on taking a step away for a bit.” I ask if he wants to settle down more. “Yeah, that's part of it; I mean, I’m not getting any younger.” He tells me, “Things are changing soon, and I just want to be settled with my family.” He finishes. I wonder for a moment what he is referring to when he mentions these soon changes; I don't ponder on it too long; much like a crazed fan, I have a few theories floating around in my head. 

We wrap up the interview from there; he is as polite and gracious as he has been the entire time, shaking my hand and thanking me for my time. I try to thank him for the interview and for letting me into his house, but he simply shakes his head at me, insisting it was his pleasure. He disappears soon after that, saying he has something to attend to (and speed walking in the direction that his wife disappeared to). I'm left to see myself out; I don’t snoop too much after I’m left alone. I make my way back to the front of the house, peering around as I go. I peek inside one room that appears to be in the middle of some kind of renovation or do-over. There are multiple pieces of yet-to-be put together furniture on the ground as the walls look to be in the middle of being painted a pastel purple color. 

I’m about to leave when something catches my eye—on the table by the front door, which has various bits and bobs scattered over it, but none of these catch my eye. I step closer to get a clearer view of what appears to be a small black and white photo. I quickly realize what it is: tucked beneath the wallet I had seen Pedro place down before our interview began is an ultrasound. I smile knowingly as my theory is proven correct; the Pascal family is about to be adding another member. 

Congratulations to Pedro as his wife on the upcoming addition to their family.

[icequeenoriginal]

The Perks of Immortality

Author’s Note: Hi, it’s been a hot minute since I’ve posted. I have been sitting on this idea for a while now but I now finally have time to write it. Enjoy some Trish content!

~

Trish knew she wasn’t human. Mundus made sure of that. An existential identity crisis would get in the way of the “greater plan” or whatever he called it. It’s the one and only compliment she would ever give him, silently and to herself of course.

That’s not to say that she hated being a demon. Far from it actually. She loves the power, the speed, the agility she has, the fact that she can control lightning!

Best of all, she was nearly immortal. Sure, a more powerful demon with a power weapon or abilities could (in theory) take her out, but otherwise? She cannot die, she doesn’t even age.

Her hair stays the same length as Dante seemingly gets longer by the day. Her face stays the same as it did the moment she opened her eyes while she watches Lady cover laugh lines and wrinkles with makeup. Her body stays the same as she sees Patty and Nero grow and grow.

When did everyone around her get so old?

No, she was not worried that she would ever die, she hardly even thought about it. However…the idea that everyone else could die never crossed her mind either.

This shouldn’t surprise her as much as it did. Everyone she knows is mostly, if not completely, human. Humans die rather easily. She has seen humans die countless times, whether by being ripped apart as demons or their hearts giving out from fear. She’s even killed humans before, rarely on purpose though.

It just never occurred to her that her human, and semi-human, friends could die. That was something that happened to other humans, not them. Why would old age kill them if a giant demon horde could not?

They were special. They are special.

She knew that they would be around for a while. Dante and Lady were spending less time demon hunting and more time on themselves. She knew Dante was planning to hand the shop over to Nero in the next few years. She’d have so much time with them that she would get sick of them.

It would be years, decades even, before they were gone.

And when that happened…

When that happened, she would be there for Nero and Patty. She would be their rock through the pain, helping them anyway.

She would watch them grow.

She would watch them shine.

She would watch them die.

Then after that, she would…she would…Then what would she do?

Is that the price of immortality? To love those only for them to leave? To watch them slowly lose their lives over the years? To walk the earth forever, alone? Waiting until the world itself ended?

She slapped the sides of her face in an attempt to slap the thoughts away. Wallowing wasn’t going to do her any good. It’s why she didn’t do it often.

In these moments, she wished Mundus had also not given her emotions, then she wouldn’t be like this. But then again, without emotions, would she be here or would have Dante and/or Lady killed her just like any other demon? They definitely wouldn’t have befriended her, they wouldn’t have been able to.

She sighed and ran her hands over her face. She hates that she cares so much. She hates that this care is what is going to make her feel so empty when they are gone.

Not to mention, she is going to be so bored.

Luckily, the very much alive and nowhere near death’s door Dante and Lady took a seat across from her the very next moment. If she wasn’t in her head, she would have commented how attached they were to each other lately.

“You alright Trish? Everything okay?” Dante asks, and Trish couldn’t help but look at his gray furrowed eyebrows.

“Unfortunately no, I believe I am having a crisis.” She had no reason to lie to them and she’s learned from watching them that talking out issues is far better than pinning in silence.

“A crisis?” Lady asks “Did something happen?”

“Not quite.” Trish responded with a shrug.

“Did you have one of those moments where you had to like to help a bad person or not be able to save an innocent person?” Dante offered. “Or, or! Did you do something good but no one praised you for it but instead everyone hates you and runs you out of the town?”

Both Trish and Lady turned to him and stared at him in shock and disbelief.

Dante blinked at them, “What? I’m speaking from experience.”

Both women continued to stare at him, growing more and more concerned by the second.

Trish crossed her arms, “Okay, I’m retracting my statement then. I am not having a crisis.”

Dante chuckled “Sorry, didn’t mean to make this situation about me.”

Trish smirked, “Oh, as if that’s not your favorite thing to do.”

The three had a good laugh together. It was nice, hearing them be happy. This is a memory she would hold onto long after they pass.

“So,” Lady asks when she catches her breath “Is there something bothering you then?”

Trish paused, she had forgotten her internal conundrum. “I wouldn’t say that, just thinking about the future.”

“The future?”

“Since I’m clearly going to outlive the both of you by so many years, I was thinking about the renovations that I am going to make to this place. Some paint, new lights of course.” Trish said with a smirk.

This was easier. This is what she knew. This is what was expected of her. There was comfort in Lady’s eye roll and in the way Dante pretended to be offended by her statement.

“Sorry to burst your bubble, Trish, but you’re going to have some stiff competition for the shop.” Dante remarked casually.

“What? Nero? Competition?” She tossed her hair as she spoke. “Please, I doubt it will take much to get that boy to hand over the keys to me.”

“No, not Nero.” he said, uncharacteristically soft.

Trish raised an eyebrow while Dante and Lady shared a knowing smile.

“Don’t just leave me in suspense. Tell me.”

Lady took a deep breath before saying, “I’m pregnant.”

At the same time, Dante shouted, “We’re having a baby!”

Any worries or doubts that were clouding Trish’s mind vanished the second she processed those words. A genuine smile crept onto her lips. Nothing else mattered.

This is what matters.

Trish pulled both of them into a hug, “I’m so happy for you guys. I can’t believe I’m going to be an aunt!”

Dante chuckled, “Aunt, godmother, we’ll work out the details later.”

Truthfully, the title didn’t matter to her. She got something better. She now knew what her future was going to be like.

She would be a protector.

She helped Dante kill Mundus, she helped Nero destroy the Qliphoth Tree and now…

Now she would protect this baby, for their entire life. Until her last breath.

Then that baby’s baby. Even that baby’s baby’s baby.

She would protect the Sparda line and that would never bore her. She could travel the world twice over and it wouldn’t compare to this.

The Sparda family brought chaos, trials and above all, fun into her life.

She loved every minute of it and she can’t wait to see what the newest member of the Sparda clan would bring.

~

DMC Taglist:

@maedousae​ @dxlpartyboat​ @therandornone​ @super-jump​ @mad-hatter-teacups @strawderryst​​ @honor-strength-passion​ @cherryinerror​ @prinxe-nothing​

[bl4ckros3s]

how I feel about gravity falls ships (pines twins edition)!:

younger pines twins:

dipper x pacifica: I love this ship so much!!! They complete each other!!! Practically canon.

mabel x pacifica: they would be the best sugar and salt couple ever!! Love this!!!

mabel x gideon: nope. Gideon is too manipulative and pushy and doesn’t match her, but I am curious about someone that would like gideon and gideon would like them back.

dipper x wendy: if dipper were the same age as wendy then obviously, but if he isn’t, then it’s a no.

dipper x bill: I literally gagged writing that. No way. Even though dipper is like ford in several, he can’t be swayed as easily as him and has a problem trusting people he’s just met. And bill would literally appear out of nowhere in his dreams. He’d call bs to that.

dipper x mabel: 🙅‍♀️🙅‍♀️🙅‍♀️ get the hell away from me. Ur ass don’t deserve this show😡

older pines twins edition:

ford x bill: YESSSSS. A HUNDRED PERCENT YESSSS. NO ONE WILL EVER BE ABLE TO SWAY ME INTO THINKING ANYTHING ELSE. THEY WERE TOGETHER. THEY BELONG TOGETHER. IT IS CANON.

ford x fiddleford: they would be the cutest couple ever. Forehead kisses and holding hands and talking about being nerds together. Such couple goals💕💕

stan x fiddleford: bonded over a egotistical and self centered ford who treated them badly. Can one hundred percent see this happening after ford was thrown into the portal.

stan x bill: it wouldn’t work out. They’re both con artists and can see through each other’s tricks. But that could also be something that they bond over so I kinda don’t know…..

bonus: I’m a fan of toh and gf, so stan x eda. It would be fuckin hilarious if eda was the woman that stan married in Vegas. They would definitely bond platonically now because they both got a chance to be someone’s parental figure. They’re both big softies in the heart and willing to do anything to protect their families. But just me, if I got someone as hot as eda, she won’t be able to get rid of me…. Rose x eda forever…

I felt like writing an essay because well—I’m very bored and enjoy procrastinating.